Survivor Story: Lynn Lentscher

I thought about it for a moment and asked about my chances of survival.  If you do everything on the plan, you have less than a 40% chance to survive 5 years.  If you do nothing, 0%. I argued, but I’m strong, I work out, I eat well and I have no cancer in my family!

I sat up in bed and said I get it.  I have a 40% chance to live and I’m going to be the best sick person you have ever seen, which I believed, but as he walked out of the room I turned to my daughter and said…I’m going to eat pizza and chocolate every day; I’ll never exercise again and I’m going to say the mother of all swear words at least once a day.

I did set goals for myself so that I was as healthy as I could be to get chemo every three weeks.  I dreamed of being totally healthy within the year, I exercised daily even when some days I could hardly hold onto the stationary bike. I ate when I wasn’t hungry, and I slept when I wasn’t tired.  I surrounded myself with positive energy.  I discouraged sympathy and tears and refused to let anyone say I had cancer.  The cancer was removed during surgery and I was undergoing treatments to save my life.  I have always been a competitive person who tried to be the best.  I remember my parents always saying any job worth doing is worth doing well and this was the biggest, most important job I would ever undertake.

December 4 was my birthday and my gift was my first chemo.  My parents were going home the next day and when I awoke, I mourned the fact that I might not see them again.  As I cried, I felt the presence of the white robe before I saw it….a beautiful robe, tied at the waist.  I couldn’t see the face, but there was no question when he spoke in his deep, comforting voice.  He said you will be ok, but your journey will not be without pain and suffering.  Be at peace and trust in me.  There was no denying I was cloaked in His strength and mercy.  I recognized that I was not in control.  I would live every day in gratitude and choose to live until I died.  I’ve always had a positive attitude and looked for the best in each day and in each person, but never had I come from such a place of love and acceptance.

After 6 months of chemo and a second surgery, my doctor had to tell me I still had cancer and had to have the rest of my treatments and yes, he did know what I could do but now my chances were significantly less than 40% and the next three months would push me to my limits.

It was June 4, just 7 months after my diagnosis and I was trying to stand after having the first round of this second chemo.  There was no way I could have prepared for this overwhelming experience.   As I padded out of the doctor’s office with my throw up basin in one hand and my husband in the other, each step required a stop and unfortunately use of the basin.  The attentive man in the short white valet jacket helped me struggle into the car.  He smiled at me and said God Bless You.  Three simple words spoken so softly that meant the world to me.  Have you ever heard to the world you may be one person, but to one person you are the world?   And suddenly, the golden rule that I had tried to live my life with, became more important than ever.  I realized how words can hurt or help; how I should say what I’m thinking or feeling today to encourage or compliment or thank or show love.  I recognized how the way I treat people can help them grow or cower and I prayed at that moment that if I survived, I would know my mission in life so that my experience was not wasted on just one life.  I knew that today was my gift and I should always treat others as I want to be treated.

It was November 3, 1999.  As I registered for my last day of radiation with the familiar nurse in her friendly white scrubs, she had a smile as if she knew a secret.  Twenty straight days of radiation and the end of my year long journey.  I met many people in this radiation room, both men and women in various stages of treatment and survival, most with bald heads covered with hats or wigs.  My hair was beginning to grow back, only about 1 inch long, platinum and very fine, but I had hair!  Men and women asked about my choice to be bald and I really didn’t have an answer.  It was me and my hair, or lack there of, and it didn’t define me, but my smile and my humor and positive attitude did.  I felt I had a purpose each time I walked in that room.  As I walked in this last day, everyone greeted me with a smile and a bald head and I was beginning to see perhaps why I was allowed to live.

It’s my birthday, December 4, and I’m 55 years old.  The now familiar freshly starched white coat walks into my waiting room, hugs and kisses me and says I saved your life.  I confirm, yes, you and the big God did.    He tells me he will see me in three months with blood tests and cat scans, gives me another hug and sends me on my way.  A cold chill runs down my spine as I feel all alone.  I no longer have cancer.  Phone calls and messages and visits are decreasing as people get on with their normal lives.  I believe I’m healed, but I still have chemo brain.  Walking and talking is difficult.  I can’t go back to working out yet.  Everyone is smarter, quicker, better than I am.  It will take years to determine my new normal, but I look at people differently now, knowing that everyone I meet could be going through their own journey or challenge.  And I’m proud when I think back on one of my favorite lessons in life:

Somebody said that it couldn’t be done, but he with a chuckle replied

That maybe it couldn’t but he would be one who wouldn’t say so till he tried

So he buckled right in with a trace of a grin on his face if he worried he hid it And he started to sing as he tackled the thing that couldn’t be done, and he did it. 

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