Gut Feeling

The doctors thought it was appendicitis. My instincts told me it was something else.

Call It Instinct, Call It Fear

On a crisp autumn afternoon, Monday, November 17, 1997, I was admitted to New York City's Mount Sinai Medical Center and prepped for surgery. The dagger-like pain to my gut on the lower right side had left me gasping. Doctors thought it was appendicitis.

En route to my room, I asked a direct question, something I've done for years as a reporter and journalist: "Is there any chance it's cancer?"

Call it instinct. Call it fear. Or maybe resignation, since I had lost almost everyone close to me to cancer, including Larry, my husband, who died of non-Hodgkin's lymphoma in '92. He was part of every single thing I cared about. I still wasn't over his death. (You're never really over it.)

The surgeon replied, "I don't think what you have is cancer. Very small chance. It looks like appendicitis."

The rest of that day is a blur. I know I got to my hospital room around 5 p.m., that I called my sister Lois for my toothbrush and that I contacted Andy, my middle stepson, to pass the word to family and friends that I was going under the knife but that they shouldn't worry. Next thing I remember, I was waking up in intensive care at 5:30 a.m. -- the next day, Tuesday. My gut felt taut, and I was flat on my back, with tubes snaking everywhere.

I asked one of the ICU nurses, "Was it appendicitis?"

"I'll get the resident," she replied.

First clue: When they don't answer your questions, the news isn't good.

A young resident arrived momentarily. When I asked him the same question, he looked away and said, "I wasn't there. I'm just the resident. You'll have to talk to the surgeon."

Uh-oh. Answers, I wanted answers.

I've always thrived on answers in my professional life. But in this immobile state, pinned down by medical equipment, I had no leverage.

I decided to take matters into my own hands. I picked up a phone and called Lois. "They won't tell me anything," I said to my sister. "What happened?"

Pause. "How do you feel?"

"Okay. But you have to tell me."

"You were in surgery for about five hours," she said. "It went fine." My sister is not a very good liar.

"What was it?" I said.

She sighed. "I'm not supposed to talk to you until the surgeon gets there. He'll give you the rundown."

"Lois," I said.

"Okay," she said. "It's colon cancer. But he thinks they got it all and that you'll be just fine."

Silence.

Colon cancer had never appeared on my radar screen. I knew about lymphoma and leukemia, about ovarian cancer and breast cancer. But I didn't know that colorectal cancer, which affects the colon or rectum, was the second most common cancer killer in the United States. Didn't know that women were susceptible and that you could get it before you were 50 (I was 55 when diagnosed). All of which may have explained my initial reaction. I didn't feel shocked or panicked, didn't see my life flash before my eyes. Maybe I'd used up my terror allotment when Larry first got sick in 1986.

I latched onto Lois's last words -- "You'll be just fine" -- and went from there. I started learning everything I could about this assault on my life.

Coming to Terms With Colon Cancer

Colon cancer is a malignant growth that starts in the lining of the large intestine. Most tumors begin as polyps -- tiny, abnormal bumps. Some are precancerous, and the longer they last and the larger they grow, the greater the danger they could turn into cancer. As the cancerous mass enlarges, it can press against the colon walls and burst through layers of tissue -- invading other organs via the bloodstream or lymphatic system. That's metastatic colon cancer.

In 1997, over 130,000 Americans, including me, were diagnosed with colorectal cancer. Some 56,700 people died from it.

My surgeon told me he'd removed a reasonably large tumor from part of my large intestine. He'd also removed about a foot and a half of the colon itself and stitched the raw ends back together. (I started signing my e-mails with a tiny punctuation mark: ; That's "semicolon." Get it?)

The doctor said the tumor had started to burst through the wall of the colon -- not good. Cancer cells could have spread through my blood or lymphatic system. So the tumor, plus samples of other colon tissue and neighboring lymph nodes, were sent to the pathology lab for analysis. We'd have the results a week later.

Within a day or two nearly everyone I knew checked in. A tape editor from the 20/20 office wrote, "Get well soon -- work's not the same without you. P.S. Keep your eye out for a cute doctor for me."

Then my cancer became an item in Liz Smith's column. "She has a clean bill of health now," the report concluded, "and will be back at work in a few weeks. Her friends are rejoicing." (I developed new respect for Liz's sources when she turned out to be right on target, as usual.)

The news from the lab a week after my surgery was excellent. There was no lymph node involvement, no signs of metastasis. I had passed a big test.

I was soon allowed to eat soft food, then real food, and finally to go home. I then chose to switch to a cancer hospital -- Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center, the same place my husband had been treated. There I faced another choice: whether or not to have chemotherapy.

Dr. David Kelsen told me that, in addition to penetrating the bowel wall, the tumor had also partially obstructed my intestine. The pain I felt probably saved my life -- colon cancer is often referred to as a silent killer. Without the pain, I wouldn't have reacted and the tumor would have had a chance to occupy other organs.

I was, in a word, lucky.

"The chances of cure are good," Dr. Kelsen said. "But there may be a 30 to 35 percent risk of recurrence. So we do system-wide treatment."

I would start chemo in three weeks.

Cancer -- the Great Leveler

By now it was early December, and I'd gone back to work. Like most people I know who have faced their own mortality, I wanted to turn back the clock, to make everything the way it was before. I just wanted to be a normal person living a normal life.

I started chemotherapy the day after Christmas. With Lois at my side, I proceeded to the chemo floor of Memorial Sloan-Kettering, where dozens of people showed up for their own infusion of the toxins that might save them. In the three hours I waited, I saw something that still sustains me.

There were men and women with and without hair, limbs, or someone to talk to. No one complained; no one disturbed the peace. They were, as I have learned about cancer patients everywhere, incredibly nice. And patient. Everyone smiled -- not the brave little smile of the doomed, not the fake smile of the partygoer -- but the tolerant and knowing smile of experience. Cancer is a great leveler, and I was proud to be in their midst. I went for chemo about once a week.

I also had regular blood tests to check my white blood cell count. Yes, I got fatigued at times and very sick at one point -- vomiting, diarrhea, chills and fever. After I was treated for an infection, my chemo resumed. All in all, it lasted seven months.

On the morning of July 24, 1998, I arrived for my final treatment. My vital signs were "all perfect," according to the nurse. I'd gone alone, telling family and friends that I wanted no ceremonies, no celebration. I just wanted it over.

As the nurse removed the IV and said good-bye, I gathered up my belongings. And as I walked along the corridors of the hospital, I burst into tears.

"The highest risk for recurrence is within three years from surgery," Dr. Kelsen told me. "Then the curve flattens. Your risk of recurrence is small, but it's there. You'll have CT scans every six months, chest x-rays at least annually. We'll take your blood every two or three months the first year." Unfortunately, he said, there's no reliable blood test to determine the presence of colon cancer.

For a time I didn't want to talk about cancer anymore, didn't want to be the poster girl for survival. But I decided to tell my story to warn others that, with proper screening, they might not have to endure the same discomfort (and scare) I did. Then came a story I could not resist.

In the fall of 1998, Darryl Strawberry, at the time a star slugger with the New York Yankees (formerly with the New York Mets), was diagnosed with colon cancer. In an eerie coincidence, he was following in the footsteps of his oldest baseball rival -- Baltimore Orioles outfielder Eric Davis, his boyhood pal from South Central Los Angeles. Davis had been diagnosed in the spring of 1997, after a headline-making surge when he batted .560 and was named American League player of the week.

My producer and I traveled to Florida for spring training to interview the two players; the story aired on 20/20 on April 12, 1999. As I wrote in our online ABC chat room, "All three of us acknowledged the way this brush with death changes your perceptions of the world. For these two superstars, life isn't just about baseball anymore. It's about being alive."

On-camera Eric Davis said, "My job is to create the awareness that screening is so, so important. It's not a black disease. It's not a white disease."

"It's not male or female," I added.

"And it's something," Eric went on, "that, if you get detected early enough, can save your life."

Americans ages 50 and older should be tested regularly. Check with your doctor about the best options for you. Most of all, don't shy away from screening because you think you're too healthy or because you're not in a risk group.

In November 2002 I passed the five-year mark. In March 2005 Dr. Kelsen kicked me out of his office. "The risk of recurrence after eight years is low," he told me. "Get blood work, chest x-rays and a mammogram. See you in a year." It felt great to be considered normal again.