Opinion: Capitol dome prompts memories of cancers past

Talk about it

From our bedroom window, we have a decent view of the dome of the state Capitol building.

The view is better after the leaves drop in the fall, but it isn’t bad right now. It would be perfect if I could lop off one huge branch from an elm tree in the yard across the street. I’ve been tempted to sneak over some night and do that. So far, I haven’t given in to that foolish act of vandalism, and for the moment I accept the tree and its place in my view of the Capitol dome.

My evening routine includes a stop at the west window to look at the dome just before I go to bed. The dome is lighted at night, and I find the view striking. Maybe that’s just because I spent so much of my professional life covering legislative sessions. I prefer to think it’s because of what the Capitol symbolizes about South Dakota history and governance. Whatever the reason, the view is worth the pause.

During the past weekend, I made my stop, but the view was anything but routine. The dome was a soft pink, the result of special lighting installed for the month of October as part of Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

The pastel pink Capitol dome made me pause that night for more than just a reflection on the significance of the building. I had forgotten all about Breast Cancer Awareness, which just goes to show how well my wife, Nancy, has responded to treatments for her cancer. The disease that was such a terrifying thing when she received the diagnosis nearly six and onehalf years ago has become something to be monitored with regular medical checkups and, I must confess, nearly forgotten for long stretches of time.

Boy, it wasn’t that way when she got the formal report on the breast biopsy early in June of 2004. I never really got a good handle on how shook she was by the diagnosis. She tends to take medical news pretty matter-of-factly, accepting the first report, then almost immediately asking the basic questions about staging, options, timing and likely outcomes.

That makes us a good couple, medical-crisis wise. I tend to shake and shout when some medical problem or emergency arises. (You should have been around when the kids were growing up and watched my reaction when one of them would come home with blood dripping from a jaw or forearm after a bicycle crash) I nearly passed out on the floor as I listened to Nancy’s diagnosis. The doctor went to great pains to assure me that I would be all right.

The only time I’ve ever been calm in a medical crisis was when I got my cancer diagnosis back in 1995. Perhaps I was in shock. I finished the work day, went home, had supper, went to bed and fell into an incredibly deep sleep. I slept so soundly that first night that Nancy had to wake me up about 4 a.m. to see how hard I was taking the news. Once I came around, then I was frightened.

My cancer, prostate, was pretty simple. The diagnosis came early, the cancer was contained and surgery seems to have taken care of things. Nancy had surgery and radiation, a week of high-dose treatments that have gotten her this far. She had a more difficult treatment than did I. I believe the radiation was extremely fatiguing, although she didn’t complain about it and she’s much fitter than I am today.

What we share as a result of our diagnoses and treatments is a belief in the value of early detection and early treatment. I have no medical training whatsoever, but simple observation of other cancer victims has shown me that early treatment greatly boosts the odds of “a favorable outcome,” which is medical talk for being alive.

This is all a long-winded way of saying that, the other night as I paused to gaze at the Capitol dome with its pink lighting, I thought to myself, “So far, so good.”

Terry Woster’s column appears Wednesdays and Saturdays in The Daily Republic.

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