My cancer journey

Part One

July 12, 2026.

That date forever changed my assumptions about the future and flipped my priorities.

A couple of months before, a nagging pain started in my abdomen. Was this just the aches and pains that come with advancing age? When it persisted, I took it seriously. I looked at an anatomy diagram of abdominal organs. Ah, yes, it has to be my gallbladder. My sister had to have hers removed a few years ago. I could live without my gallbladder too, like so many other people do. I am seventy years old. But an aggressive thought came to me while I was eager to accept that relatively common ailment—No it’s the pancreas and it’s cancer. It was a thought outside of myself, and somehow from deep within myself. I have heard the Holy Spirit speak before. I knew in my heart it was true. I would soon feel that same deep-inside-me thought that wherever this journey led, it would glorify God. I was at peace, with no fear. But there was the thought that in order to glorify God, this journey would be lengthier than I might like. Many people would have to know. I would have preferred to be more private about this news.

I have always declared that I am not afraid of dying; it is the getting dead part that concerns me, the part that might include suffering. But wherever that journey would lead me, I knew I would never be alone. Jesus had always been with me. He was there again, and He was gathering an army of friends and helpers who would stand beside me now.

Earlier, on Wednesday, July 8, I made a same-day appointment with my primary care doctor’s office. She poked around in my abdomen and pronounced that there were no masses, and I probably had acid reflux, and to try some over-the-counter products. And if it persisted, she would order a scan. I didn’t tell her I had already determined my diagnosis, probably from fear of sounding like an extreme hypochondriac to jump to such a drastic conclusion. So, I just asked a few trusted friends to pray for me, not telling them more than that I had a pain, probably for the same reason I didn’t tell the doctor.

On that July 12 morning, a friend stopped by after church with a piece of paper in her hand. She said she had some words from God for me. She told me I needed to go to the emergency room and request a scan. Now. She read words from her note to which I continue to cling. “There’s something in there that needs to be cut out, and then you will be fine.” So with Corynn’s confident words, Bruce and I headed to the ER.

Sunday afternoons at the ER are not very busy at the small hospital in Oakland, MD, 30 minutes away. A doctor saw me quickly. He examined my abdomen, pressing gently in every direction. He said that when most people experience pain in their abdomen, they immediately assume it’s cancer. “It is not cancer,” he assured me. “I don’t feel any masses. But we’ll do a CAT scan to see what’s going on.”

When he returned 15-20 minutes later, his whole demeanor had changed. “Well,” he began as he stood beside me. “There are no blockages or diverticulosis, no infections, but there is a mass on your pancreas. It could be cancer or a cyst. I’ve emailed your doctor, and you’ll need to get an MRI as soon as possible. Tomorrow. When they read ‘pancreas,’ they will put you at the front of the line.”

I didn’t bat an eye, thanking God for His mercy in warning me. This news was not unexpected, so it was not earthshattering. I don’t know how Bruce took it, since I had not shared with him the diagnosis of which I was certain. Bruce is a rock, so he showed no fear. We were in this next phase together, for better or worse.

The next day, July 13, I assumed my doctor’s office would be calling me in for that urgent MRI appointment. After waiting to hear until noon, I called the office. They didn’t seem to know about my news. I explained that the ER doctor said the MRI needed to be done ASAP. They said they would call me back. I heard nothing for the rest of the day. Or the next morning. I called again. They said they would call me back when they had me on their schedule. They called back and very nonchalantly told me I was scheduled for mid-August, a month away. Uncharacteristic for me, I told them that was unacceptable, and I needed one immediately, to call around to neighboring hospitals, that we were willing to drive for an appointment.

An hour later they called back. They had called hospitals in Morgantown and Cumberland, MD, both at least an hour away, and they had no earlier appointments. I shared my frustration and urgent prayer with a few from my Bible Study. Nancy E told me to call Bridgeport, a hospital an hour and twenty minutes away. I called my doctor, in case I needed a referral and told them to call Bridgeport. They called back and said to head out; they had me scheduled in an hour and a half. Bruce and I headed over, finally encouraged that the ball was rolling.

On our way home from Bridgeport, I got an update on My Chart. My scan had already been read and updated in my record. Not surprising was the note of “highly suspicious for a pancreatic adenocarcinoma.”

The next day, Thursday, July 15, we researched oncologists and hospitals. Bruce and I were not the only ones. Friends sent us recommendations from their ChatGPT searches and other sources. Highly recommended: Johns Hopkins Skip Viragh Pancreatic Cancer Clinic, only 3.5-4 hours away. I called for information and an appointment. I had an appointment with Dr. Jin He the following Wednesday, July 22, with a scan appointment in Baltimore the day before. No time was wasted.

My MRI on July 21 showed the tumor is operable and no other organ or lymph node involvement. My blood work was good. After looking at my chart, my no prescription medications, my history of no surgeries or diagnosed problems, my history of long walks and hours of pickleball play, and my dedication to a clean diet, Dr. He asked how someone as healthy as me could have this nasty disease. It certainly came as a surprise to me after decades of trying to protect this Temple of God. I’m sure people have thought I am a bit obsessive about my healthy eating and label-reading compulsion.

There was an urgency about Dr He’s attitude. “I wish we could operate tomorrow,” he said wistfully.

“We’re leaving on Friday for our annual family vacation,” I eased his quilt about his inability to schedule my surgery sooner. 

He agreed to schedule my preop appointment in early August.

That Friday, July 24, Bruce and I packed up and drove eight hours to meet the kids and grandkids for a week on the shores of Lake Michigan. We stayed in a big beach house the kids had selected, knowing Bruce and I were going to pay all expenses. They chose a beautiful house, with its own pool, to accommodate 16. Two grandchildren could sadly not join us.

They spent a glorious week of blissful ignorance, because we chose not to tell them my news until everyone was safely home after a fun-filled week. We did not want the memory of our family vacation to be marred with any concerning news.

We called them a few days after returning home on July 31, and they took it like the strong, hope-filled adults they are, worried about their mom, but at peace because Bruce and I were.

Dr He scheduled my preop appointment on August 4 in Baltimore. I appreciated the speed at which everything moved. My surgery was set for August 10, which happened to be Roma’s 32^nd birthday. I was hoping that held special significance.