Cancer Cure
By Bill Bell
The early morning sun cast a warm glow across Maple Ridge as I drove Dorothy to the BC Cancer Research building. Today was not just another day; it was the day Dorothy would take part in a significant medical study. The focus was on metformin, typically used for diabetes, and its potential in preventing lung cancer.
As they approached the building, I could sense Dorothy’s mixture of excitement and nerves. “You’re doing something amazing,” I reassured her as they parked. Dorothy smiled, her resolve clear. “It’s important, not just for us but potentially for many others,” she responded. Afterall her mother had died of lung cancer as did many of her aunts and uncles. “I am doing it for my mom,” Dorothy said.
At the reception, Dorothy was greeted warmly by the lead researcher, who appreciated her participation in the study. As Dorothy went in for the bronchoscopy—a procedure that would help researchers understand the preventive effects of metformin on lung health—I took a nervous drive and walk to False Creek..
The hours of waiting began. I brought along a camera, but found myself watching the clouds drift over the city more than shooting the four women frolicking in the still frigid waters. My thoughts were with Dorothy, inside, undergoing a procedure that could contribute to a monumental shift in cancer prevention.
I felt a blend of pride and helplessness. Proud of Dorothy’s bravery and commitment, yet helpless as I sat outside, waiting, hoping everything went smoothly. Every now and then, I would walk down the beach past the Maritime Museum, grab a coffee from a nearby café, and return to my car.
The procedure itself was a minor part of a much larger study, but to me, it felt immense. It represented hope, a chance to make a difference in the battle against a formidable enemy like cancer. Each minute felt prolonged, filled with anticipation and reflection on the impact of this day.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Dorothy emerged from the building. Her smile was tired and drugged from anesticia but triumphant. I hurried over, my relief immediate and overwhelming. “How did it go?” I asked as we embraced.
“It went well,” Dorothy replied, her voice a mix of fatigue and satisfaction. “I’m glad it’s done, but I’m glad I did it.”
As we drove home, Dorothy shared details about the procedure and the care the medical team had provided. I listened intently, grateful for her safe return and inspired by her courage.
Our journey home that day was quiet, contemplative. We knew something significant had happened, something that might one day lead to a world with less cancer. I felt a deep, resonant pride in Dorothy’s selflessness and bravery—qualities that, on this day, shone as brightly as the morning sun that had started our journey.