'What a terrible time to have cancer': falling ill during the coronavirus crisis

It’s been almost 24 hours since my surgery, and the sedation has finally worn off. I’m feeling sore, and I can’t seem to shake the feeling that there’s a stick running up the side of my neck. But I’ve heard that fades in a couple days.

I’m sitting in my backyard in Bellevue, Washington, soaking up the rare bit of Pacific north-west sunshine. I’m thinking about taking my 15-year-old son and 20-year-old daughter to the game store tonight, to pick up a copy of Animal Crossing. It’s a no-contact pickup, so we’ll be observing the distancing rules, but at least driving in the car will give us a little break from the house.

We’ve all been homebound for the past week, except for the occasional walk and doctor’s appointment. I know people in my community are still shopping at the grocery store and until recently kids had been playing together outside. But with my cancer, my son’s asthma and my husband’s artificial heart valve, we’re being very careful.

When I stepped through the doors of Overlake hospital in Bellevue to have the surgery, I knew instantly that this visit would be very different from the previous ones.

I have become a fairly regular visitor recently. The first sign that something was wrong with me came suddenly, when I was rushed to the emergency room for bad vaginal bleeding and given three blood transfusions.

A week later, I was diagnosed with stage 2 cervical cancer on 26 February. I was terrified. I felt all sorts of waves of, am I going to die? Are my two kids now going to be left with a lifetime of depression and questions about why their mom isn’t there for them?

It was a week before the first person died from coronavirus in the US, just a few miles away from me in Kirkland. The virus was on my radar, but no one was really thinking about it locally yet. In just a few weeks, it has overwhelmed the state.

I know this diagnosis would be difficult under any circumstances. I’m 49, and still have so many plans. But now, there is also this virus that can be deadly for people who are immunocompromised, like I will be soon.

Between new regulations about social distancing and announcements about closures, day-to-day life seems to be changing from moment to moment. Sometimes it feels like there’s a cruel race being run to see what will kill me first – cancer, coronavirus or stress.

When I was in hospital for this latest visit, the scene outside the elevator was now strangely unfamiliar. A security guard was waiting as the doors opened. Hospital staff quizzed me and my husband, Eric, about where we had travelled recently and our coughing history. They took our temperatures. We were given badges detailing exactly which parts of the hospital we were allowed to walk through, before being sent to another screening point.

I’ve been reading all about the rising coronavirus case numbers in Washington. But suddenly it felt so real. As I sat with an intake staff member, the scene around me seemed to slow. I nervously scanned the room for anyone coughing or wearing a mask. Questions shot into my head: have I touched anything? Did I use hand sanitizer when I walked through the second checkpoint?

I had come to get my chemotherapy port put in, the first big step on my nine-week cancer treatment journey. Medication can be delivered into the port rather than into a vein, which means fewer needles. After this, I’ve been told to expect weeks of near-daily radiation and once-a-week intravenous chemo, followed by brachytherapy, a type of internal radiation.

Inside a small room with a bed and glass doors covered in curtains, I changed into a gown and settled in for my six-hour stay for the surgery. Nurses streamed in and out. They were attentive and compassionate, but I could sense something frantic happening in the halls.

I met with my doctor and talked with an anesthesiologist, who expressed surely what others were thinking: what a terrible time to have to have cancer.

They led me back to the operating room, where they took an X-ray to find the right place for the port. I was sedated for about an hour and by the time I woke up, the device had been safely inserted on the right side of my chest, just under my clavicle. I was offered food and told to take Tylenol if I felt uncomfortable at home. But my husband wasn’t there.

We’ve been married for 22 years, and, although he doesn’t get to be the caretaker much, he’s really good at it. I wanted him at my bed, reassuring me as I woke up that it was all finished and everything had gone well.

I learned later that when he’d returned to the hospital, security hadn’t let him past the main doors, but no one would tell him why.

I’m worried about how my kids are handling all of this isolation while also facing my diagnosis. My son is out of school and can’t see his friends in person. My daughter has autism and Marfan syndrome, and I’ve always been the one she can rely on. She won’t let anyone else do her hair.

I’m not sleeping much these days. I just can’t seem to get all of this out of my head. My doctor told me that if I have a fever of 100.5 or higher, they won’t be able to continue with treatment. And if I get coronavirus, that could mean weeks without radiation or chemo.

If we pause treatment, who knows how the cancer will have progressed by then or even what the healthcare system in this state or country will look like at that point. I’ve heard from close friends who are nurses about a shortage of gloves and masks. Will there be enough protective equipment for my treatments to carry on?

My doctor tells me by week two or three of chemo and radiation, I’m going to be immunocompromised, so I’ve prepared for not being able to leave the house except for hospital appointments. My husband is working from home. I filled everyone’s prescriptions and stocked up on food I know my kids will eat.

Luckily, my years-long love of hotel and airline amenities has finally paid off. I have a giant bag of little hand sanitizers and soaps, so I didn’t have to go out for any of that. My daughter is transgender and I have to wear surgical gloves when I give her hormone therapy, so I ordered some extra from Amazon.

It’s scary staring out at a future filled with unknowns. But at least there’s one thing I know for sure. I’m as prepared as I can be.

Heather Chaney, 49, is a stay-at-home mom from Bellevue, Washington. Follow her treatment journey in her weekly column