By Peter DeBona

 
It was late April 1994 when I was diagnosed with a glioblastoma multiforme IV brain tumor. Surgery took place on May 17 at a hospital in New Haven, Connecticut, and was followed by radiation and chemotherapy. Because I was given only 13 to 26 weeks to live, I wasn't too interested in support groups. I wasn't supposed to be around for very long.

I thought I had plenty of support. My family and friends were with me, and people from the office always dropped by to see how I was doing. It didn't take long for most of them to tire of my illness, however, and my support group dwindled down to my family and some occasional calls, mainly wanting to know when I would return to work. I guess I looked too healthy to be dying.

I knew no one with cancer, much less someone with a brain tumor. But questions kept gnawing at me and so, against my better judgment, I attended my first support group meeting. I left thinking I had been right – they were just a bunch of whiners and complainers. With my shaved and scarred head I fit in physically, but with my positive spirit I definitely did not fit in mentally. I was afraid that the group would tear down my optimism if I spent time with them.

I was about halfway through the chemotherapy routine when the bottom dropped out. All my blood counts and platelets hit bottom, and I became very weak, fatigued, and generally miserable. I decided that I needed to talk with people who had experienced the same things I was going through, regardless of how different from me they seemed to be.

By the second meeting, I realized that my first judgment had been inaccurate. The group understood and offered not just sympathy but also help on how to cope. I was able to discuss how I felt and what I was going through. I became a regular member and an avid participant and found myself offering help to others joining the group. Our co-facilitators, an oncology nurse and a social worker, were able to answer technical questions for us. So many of us had the same concerns.

It was easy to make friends. We share the same problems and are looking for the same solutions. We play together, pray together, and get to know each other and each other's families. We attend functions together, and people in the group have parties for any excuse they can think of. We even look alike with our scars, scarves, hats, and chemotherapy fatigue.

The people in my support group have a zest for life, a contagious need to laugh, and a desire to have fun. No one feels out of place. We are all alike – normal people enjoying life the best we can every day. The support group is the place where we can feel normal.

I've learned so much in this group. I know what it means to live life one day at a time and to make sure you do something for yourself every day. I know that what people look like or how they talk has nothing to do with who they are. We all share the hope of a day without pain, an hour without feeling lousy, or a minute of joy when a joke is told or we get a good scan result. I have been part of my group for several years, and we have faced many losses together. Somehow, the losses we have endured have become a reinforcement to us to continue and not let the beast of cancer get us without a fight. The group together is truly stronger than its parts.

The members of the group have learned how to feed off each other. We share what works for us and what doesn't. We advise, suggest, and recommend, so that our friends don't have to repeat the same mistakes we made. We reduce anxiety by understanding and sharing what to expect while going through treatment. We offer each other suggestions on coping with specific treatments. Like a family, we support and love each other.

My life is completely different now, for, with the help of my support group, I am a survivor.

Reprinted by permission of COPING Magazine.