Lost Art Press

An Unwelcome Diagnosis

Posted on by fitz

Whenever I take our dog, Joey, to the vet, he treats me to an ear-splitting performance of terror and woe. Just getting in the truck prompts panic; although I took him everywhere when he was a pup, he’s spent most of his adult life in the house, yard or shop. As a result, the truck has come to signify just one thing: that terrible destination where he gets poked, palpated and robbed of all agency. We turn from Woodyard Road onto Smith Pike and all hell breaks loose: the angry barks and plaintive cries, the look – part-imploring, part-accusatory. “Mom! NO! You CANNOT take me there! PLEASE! I won’t go! I can’t stand it! Turn around! MOM!!!” – all on repeat.

But I’ve always been struck by what happens as soon as I park the truck. His demeanor instantly shifts from avoidance-at-all-costs to single-minded resolution: OK then, let’s get this over with.

I thought of Joey last Thursday as I contemplated the pint or so of “Mochaccino Smoothie” barium sulfate suspension I was going to choke down between 7:30 and 8 the next morning (it turned out to be just fine, even if it would fall short of the expectations some might have based on the cup of foamy cappuccino and random chunks of chocolate that illustrate the label), followed about a half hour later by another 10 or so ounces, before driving to the local radiological center for a CT scan.

“How is it possible that I am doing this to myself?” I marveled, as I always do when facing a frightening medical procedure. I’m still the person who, as a 6- or 7-year-old kid with an extreme fear of needles, was struck one day at the doctor’s office by the realization that I had the power to walk right out the door. And so I did. As I recall, my mother and one of the nurses ran after me, but for those few moments the sense of agency was potent. It lasted until my mother informed me I’d have to swallow two pills the size of grenades if I wasn’t going to have the shot. (I still chose the pills, which we pulverized.)

Last Thursday, the urgency of my desire to know what was causing my vague but increasing abdominal discomfort shifted me into resolution. I thought of Joey. (It wasn’t the first time I’ve regarded a dog as an exemplar.)

I parked the truck, signed the consent forms and followed the technician through the labyrinth of offices, radiological suites and exam rooms to our destination, where I replaced my jeans with a pair of pants that would have fit John Candy and lay down on the table. The tech stuck an IV in my arm, not without some wincing from me, and described the sensations I should anticipate when the contrast medium went in.

After 42 interminable hours of waiting, my doctor called with the results: there was a mass on my pancreas, and it was likely malignant. The reading didn’t come as a complete surprise; this medical mystery tour had started with an abdominal ultrasound the week before that suggested reason for concern. The next step would be a biopsy.

The biopsy was performed at the Indiana University School of Medicine in Indianapolis, confirming the preliminary diagnosis. I never imagined I would write the words “I had a biopsy this morning (possibly the most pleasant endoscopic experience *anyone* has ever had – the nicest people, most respectful/non-paternalistic doctors, and totally pain-free procedure),” as I wrote to Chris Schwarz later in the day, but there you have it. I have an appointment with an oncologist next week to learn more and discuss where we might go from here.

My maternal grandmother died of pancreatic cancer. I’ve known others personally, as well as followed news of prominent people who have faced this diagnosis. I am well aware of its gravity, so please spare all of us any ominous warnings you may feel moved to share in the comments.

Why this post on a blog devoted to woodworking? For a start, woodworkers are people; all of us face devastating news at one time or another, and I’m not the first person to note that no one gets out of here alive. The more we acknowledge these Instagram-unworthy dimensions of life (despite their dampening effects on the kind of commerce that thrives on implicitly denying so much of what makes our lives truly worth living), the more responsibly we can act, and the better we can savor what life has to offer. Knowing you’re not alone in your experience is golden, whether of breast cancer or back surgery, sudden homelessness in the wake of a hurricane or fire, or having to choose between keeping your home above freezing and being able to purchase the medicine on which your life depends.

There’s also value in sharing honest appraisals of the experience for those who may come behind. As much as I dreaded yesterday’s endoscopy, I faced it with less fear than I would have, had I not heard about a friend’s experience of the same procedure. A frank assessment of how easy “Mochaccino Smoothie” barium sulfate is to swallow is no less valuable to anyone facing a similar procedure than an honest review of the SawStop slider to a woodworker with a relatively small shop.

Mostly, though, I would love the company of any readers who might like to be my companions in this adventure, which I would obviously have preferred not to have thrown in my path. (You can follow by subscribing here.)  Many readers of this blog have become friends in real life; I also appreciate the back-and-forth I’ve enjoyed with some of you I haven’t yet met. Lost Art Press is home to thoughtful and intelligent readers from a variety of backgrounds, and I’m honored to be in your company.

It’s important to emphasize that despite the diagnosis, and apart from the abdominal discomfort, I feel fine. I seem to have no other symptoms – I have plenty of energy, even if the endless waiting and existential upheaval of the past two weeks has made it hard to focus on getting “real work” done. I plan to keep up the series of profiles categorized under “Little Acorns,” and I have a few design jobs, along with a wall of built-ins I have underway in the shop. We’ll go from there.

— Nancy Hiller

Coping.

94 thoughts on “An Unwelcome Diagnosis”

  2. Thoughts and prayers to you. FWIW, my mother in law was diagnosed with the same and given 5 years. This was 8 years ago, and we have taken a cruise each of these past years to celebrate her being with us (actually had one booked for next week but of course its cancelled this year), we are currently planning next years cruise. Stay strong!

  3. Take care Nancy. I’m 5 years out now on my own cancer battle. Surgery and chemo and so many scans I lost count. The best advice I can give anyone heading into that kind of scenario is stay positive. I know how hard it but trust me it helps! Everything is a bump in the road, just keep your eyes on the horizon on the next thing.

    We’re all here for you!

    Please feel free to reach out if you want to discuss the finer points of contrasting solution flavors (I prefer banana) or just want to complain about scans and doctors.

    My very best wishes,
    Mike

  4. I read your very personal blog just now and I wish you the best. I also want to thank you because it made me decide to get that colonoscopy that is 4 years overdue and determine if the issues I’ve had for the past 18 months are related.

  6. Nancy, I’ve only known you from afar – pretty much just your fine writings. I admire your style, energy and pretty much everything about you. But this post was certainly not good news. All my best to you on this new chapter in your life even though it is one I’m sure you would rather skip.

  8. I hated and loved to read this all at once. Thank you for sharing your gift with words and wood. And look forward to enjoying them for many years to come. Courage, Ms. Hiller, to you and yours. On my mind this evening.

  9. Is Joey an Aussie Blue Dog ? Commonly called a Blue Healer ? Best kind of dog I’ve ever met . Good luck .

    1. He seems to be part Blue Heeler. He showed up as a stray when he was about four months old, so we know nothing about his origins. He’s a bit tall for a Blue Heeler and has a longer tail, too, so I suspect he may be the son of a Blue Heeler and an Alsation/German Shepherd.

  12. Wishing you all the best. I don’t know when your gran past away but I’m willing to bet medicine has made strides since then. Also that cancer is not hereditary.

  15. Nancy, the previous comments have said it all so I’ll just pray for you and continue to enjoy your writing for as long as possible.

  17. Nancy – So sorry to hear about your diagnosis. Thank you for sharing it with us. I will pray for you as you journey through this and for a full recovery.

  18. Nancy, I have never met you but you have enriched my life. That’s pretty powerful. I join with this crowd of well wishers and trust that you will always remain hopeful and enjoy each day that comes your way.

  19. Stay strong. I’m an Occupational Therapist supporting a woodworking Jones. Contact me if you need any advise or just need a shoulder

  21. Hi Nancy. I do not you personally but I have been enjoying reading your posts for the past few years and have two of your books. I can relate to many of your stories of onsite installations having been a residential contractor in the past. All of my thoughts are with you, and I sincerely hope the best of outcomes for you.

    Pascal.

  23. Having followed you for a while now, it comes as no surprise that you think of others when you face uncertainty, and that you use the beauty of your words to send comfort and encouragement. I admire you and aspire to your humanity. I wish the best for you.

  24. We don’t know each other, but I feel as if a friend just told me this news. I’m sorry you have to go through it, but I wish you strength in the difficult times, smiles as often you can find them and a successful outcome.

  25. Hi Nancy, I rarely comment here but read alot of posts.
    I’ve been in battle with Lyme disease for years.
    One of the best tools to kill the bastards i found was a device made by True Rife. Its a wave device that uses sound/light waves to target various organizms and even cancers.
    While I don’t have personal experience using it for cancer there are many success stories.
    I think these devices can work well with chemotherapy and some studies confirm that.
    I lost a good Friend to pancreatic cancer, and I kept telling him to try my device. He never did.
    Point is, don’t let any doctor tell you you can’t use this or that along with standard therapy.
    Also, herbs can help alot. The simple use of dandelion root has helped many.
    I wish you a good fight and longevity.
    Rick

  27. I’m in the third year of my cancer journey and can only say, one day at a time, stay positive, go to the best cancer hospital you can. You and your husband will be in my wife and I’s thoughts and prayers. -Mike

  28. Two thoughts on the emotional side of things. Years ago, when my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, a coworker of mine who was a world class immunologist at a big pharma company gave me two pieces of advice from her own experience with cancer. The first was that there would be times when your thoughts will be in a whirl from the whole experience. When that happens, stop and think of your favorite vacation spot or some place that you like to be. The second was that it is a good idea not to try and go on the internet and do a lot of researching on cancer in general. Most people who write about it for a general audience focus on stories of survivorship which can become depressing when you see the same thing written for the fifth or ninth time. Mom told me that the first bit of advice was really useful for her and helped her to calm her thoughts. She also followed the second bit of advice and left the passing on of medical details to her oncologist whom she had a lot of trust in. Don’t know if these will help you your journey or not, but I wish you the best as you deal with it.

  30. Not the path we wanted to take with you. We are sure you will navigate it with grace and verve, and can only say, just let us know if any help would be useful. Our fondest wishes to you and yours.

  31. Nancy, I am north of the 49th, but it is of little consequence. I read your blog, and LAP posts. I read your ‘gram, and always look forward to the Tony stories. I see glimpses of your life with Mark, and watch your projects take on their own life. I see a hard working lady doing what she loves, being with those that love her. I see parallels to my own wishes…. the well written word, the creation of form from wood, the hard satisfying work, and it all “feels good”. I have your book “Making Things Work” and it was a joy to read. It is one of my favourite reads. This year “2020” blows. But we try to “Make Things Work”. I have no doubt the road ahead will be hard. I have no words of wisdom, other than those of Dr. Bonnie Henry; “Be kind, be calm, be safe”

    Bill Edwards

  32. A heavy story to hear. Stay strong, positive and do everything you can to beat this..

  33. Nancy, I am delighted 😃 to walk with you! Your woodworking has inspired me so my offer is given to a woodworking friend. My first cancer was 26 years ago and I currently have cancer in my bile ducts so I know the road well. I wish you good 😌 health, great courage, good friends, and definitely keep me updated.

  34. Five years ago I was diagnosed with stage 4 MBC (bladder not breast). Fortunately I have been treated at possibly the best facilities in the country, Mass General Hospital.
    When diagnosed I determined to increase my list of furniture project’s deciding that for every project I added to the list I added the time to build them. Now cancer free for over 3 years I keep adding to the list. Once I finish my current project, an 18th century Lonnie Bird designed drop lid desk, I’ll move on to a set of queen anne chairs.
    Be positive and optimistic Nancy today’s medicine, including immune therapy’s are amazing.
    I wish you long life.

  35. Nancy, thank you for sharing. I too am willing to join you on your journey as a Stage IV stomach cancer survivor who’s CT scans for 6 1/2 years have shown no evidence of disease – NED. Let’s make NED your buddy as well!

  38. Nancy,
    Don’t know you, never met you….but I’m praying for you. Leading with ‘A Dog’s Story’ started me reading, your story kept me reading and reminded me of strong people who’d gone before me.

    Chris Schwarz, Met you years ago in Cincinnati, you gave me your Pop Ww’ing cap while having a beer. Keep’m coming. I become more human(e) with every post.

    Bernie

  39. I’m presently building a hayrake table from your book. It’s been my favorite book and your other writings and Instagram have been incredible inspiration as I fix up and furnish my craftsman home. The little acorns might be my favorite part of this blog. You are an incredible voice for woodworking and my prayers are with you

  40. Oh no, not good news to hear and I’m so sorry. After dealing with my disquiet and reading the comments of others, I want to say how privileged I feel to have heard from you about your situation. I look forward to disquiet changing into relief as we all hear optimistic news soon.

    I also want to say how much I value your personal example, your writing and your role in shining a light on other woodworkers, wonderful people that they are too.

    All strength to you Nancy.

  41. Life is a journey and only God knows which road we will take. As you walk this path he has chosen for you, be yourself and continue the fight. We are all rooting for you. Joe

  42. Dear Nancy, I am sorry to hear about your diagnosis. But I will pray that God will keep you
    in His loving care as you work your way through the treatments.
    Wishing you all the best.

  43. Agh. I’m sorry. Thanks for the open and honest and level-headed post. And for the invitation to join you on your journey. I’ll be reading. Strength and gentleness in equal measure to you and yours, from across the Atlantic.

  44. No words can be said other than best wishes, please remain positive and like many others here, I will offer prayers.

  45. Nancy, I’m pulling for you big time!

    Please keep writing! It’s a stupid thing to say to a brilliant writer, but I’ll risk the goof anyway.
    My own ride with the cancer creep is 13 years past and nothing could have been more therapeutic and more eye opening than to write for myself and my friends. So many people love you, your words, and your work. We will be here with you the whole way.

    With love,
    Thom

  46. I appreciate you sharing your story, and am praying for you to have healing, but also peace, a calm spirit, and closeness to God throughout your journey.

  47. I wish I had something wise or inspirational, or helpful to say, but from what I’ve learned about you in your writing you don’t need it. It seems you have more than ample fortitude and will to keep up this fight. Best wishes to you and many years from now I hope to read about all the things you’ve learned an achieved after you beat this!

  48. Nancy: another “north of 49th” person here, again as a distant fan with appreciation for your work. Thank you for sharing this news with all of us. At the risk of being a bit ruthlessly pragmatic I would hope that you would also share with us if your medical coverage is insufficient. I would hope that with the large community who cares for your work, we could all provide some ‘gofundme’ support to make sure you get the care you need.

    1. Thanks, Jonathan — for your expression of appreciation and for your thoughtful allusion to the financial dimensions of medical care.

  49. Nancy,
    Thanks for the tough but honest disclosure. Your community surrounds you, demonstrating that when it matters we can be united. Trust in God’s goodness and hope like the little acorn. We walk with you in prayer for healing.

  51. I am so sorry to hear about your diagnosis and hope you will recover. I enjoy reading your acorns.

  52. I am so sorry for your diagnosis. Be of good cheer, I have a good friend who was at stage four eleven years ago and she is cured and living a full rich life. God Bless!

  53. Nancy,
    Thank you for the wonderful stories. I have loved reading your work and I feel like you are a friend, even though you don’t know me.

    One of my favorite parts of doing custom furniture was meeting the buyers. Years ago, I delivered some work to a customer in Connecticut. I read a quote on her refrigerator; I told her, “That sounds like Bernie Siegel.” (an oncologist in New Haven who studied patients who didn’t die.) She replied, “Yes! It is Bernie Siegel! I’m in his first book. I was supposed to die 8 years ago.”

    “What did you change?” I asked.

    “I’m through with pretense,” she told me. “I live my life and I do what I enjoy.”

    You are not alone. Thank you for writing.

  55. It takes a special kind of person to reach out and share with grace, honesty and generosity at such a difficult and deeply personal time. I’m here, and I’ll come with you on the journey. Sending all the love from the other side of the world. X

    1. Vintage “ctregan”: “Well, this is no fun.” Thank you, Craig. I may print this out and put it on the shop wall. (Seriously.)

  57. I’m one of many who knows you through your words, and who cares about you. Your dog can teach us all.

  58. Well, let me take this moment to say I loved Kitchen Think. It is a wonderful book and resource. Thank you for your hard work, wit, and honesty. We are pulling for you.

  59. Hi Nancy,

    I’m a fan of your work and of your approach to your work. I think you’re going to bea t this. I’ll be rooting for you. Best regards, John.

  61. Nancy,
    I have enjoyed reading and learned from your books and blog posts. I hope to read a lot more of your writing, and to continued to be inspired, in the years to come. Thank you for all of that.

    I hope your path forward is spectacularly devoid of worry and discomfort, and is filled with love, laughter and peace.

  62. Thank you for sharing! Too many thoughts to express, but know you have some outstanding friends to rely on. All the best and godspeed on your treatment!

  63. Nancy – I certainly am sorry to hear this news, but I’m so glad that you decided to share it with all of us. You’re an absolute treasure and we all love your writing. I’m sure that you sharing your journey will give amazing perspective to the rest of us. Keep writing and working!

  64. 2020, man, 2020. I don’t have any words except the ones that try to say how my heart breaks for you and for Mark. His side of the “hospital bed” is a hard place of maddening helplessness. Please take care of (both) your health, heart, mind and soul.

    1. Thanks, Lex. And I know what you mean about being on the other side, as last year I was. It is so hard to see someone you love feeling miserable and to feel unable to do much of anything to help.

  65. Nancy,

    I’m usually not lost for words, but this time I’ve found it difficult to herd them together to come across as heartfelt and honest but not over the top. Please forgive me if what follows doesn’t stack up to much.

    You are a person whose work and thinking I very much appreciate and respect, and whose (I hesitate to say slight … may I call it initial?) acquaintance I’ve been delighted to make in a mild and e-distant (another “if I may” expression) but agreeable way.

    One phrase in particular in the blogpost above resonated very strongly with me: “no one gets out of here alive”. For me, that knowledge is the salt and pepper that makes life flavoursome. It is also almost uncomprehensible scary when I start to think about it properly, but – again, for me – not half as scary as the idea of there being no end at all: the relative rarity of my days is what makes them precious.

    I have not (yet) had to struggle myself with anything on a comparable level, but like so many of us, I have been confronted with cancer and other serious illnesses in both my most immediate family and further afield, and with both happy and sorrowful outcomes. For what little it may be worth, I would like to say, if I may, that from that experience, I think the attitude you express is just the right one, and also that it is a very good thing that you do, for yourself and for others, to stand up and tell us and be counted. I admire and honour you for it.

    I wish you and Mark and everyone else around you all the best possible, and wish you strength and courage and love and warmth and light in dark days and darker nights. My thoughts and sympathy are and will be with you.

    Mattias

  66. Oh so beautifully written, Nancy. My heart ached. You are strong, wise, courageous and resilient, and will handle this challenge better than most people. Sending love and good juju your way. Joann Biondi. And Lorenzo sends healing purrs also.

  67. Thank you for this. People are real and face real struggles. We often forget this in the digital world we live in. Best of luck. We’re all pulling for you.

  68. I will be here with you as you go through this process. I’ll be a close or as far as you wish, but with you just the same. God speed.

  71. Nancy check out this link: https://www.whec.com/rochester-new-york-news/donuts-delite-selling-purple-donuts-for-pancreatic-cancer-awareness-month/5929526/

    A local donut shop is spreading pancreatic cancer awareness with a special donut. Although a sugary treat is not the healthiest choice, it certainly can help lift the spirits.

    Several years ago my wife and I attended your presentation at the Rochester Woodworkers Society. I have followed and marveled at your work as well as your wit!

    My father-in-law received the same diagnosis in 1989. Fortunately medicine has come a long way since then.

    With COVID and my officially reaching retirement years my mortality is certainly part of my everyday. I have vowed to wake up every morning being thankful for another day, not wasting the time I’m given, and not taking this time for granted.

    Thank you for sharing your inmost thoughts. I think more sharing and caring are needed now more than ever.

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