Anniversary

It was six months ago today that I was given my cancer diagnosis. I remember the day clearly – I took the 8 year old to the dentist, with the twins in tow. She got her teeth cleaned; they had their first glimpse of the dentist routine. I bundled them all home again, was dishing up lunch. It was one of the last weeks of summer, a day of vacation. The phone rang. My doctor wanted to see me – in 45 minutes. I pretty much knew right there it wasn’t going to be good news.

And here I am, six months later.

It has definitely been a weird ride. As I’ve noted before, one thing about cancer is its instant rise to top priority. This is a bit clarifying, actually, for those of us who live between aspirations and activities, daydreams and must-dos, somewhere in the half-light of a life you want to live intentionally but ultimate accept as messy, real, and at least partially outside your control. (Remember, I do have three kids. I suspect there are people out there who actually can pursue a deliberate path. But they don’t live in my house.) So when the cancer diagnosis hits, and you know you really need to focus and make good on this one, it knocks stuff off the “might be nice” list, a bit like cleaning old lint out of a corner of your brain.

For those of you kind enough to have been following how life is going for me along this journey, I feel rather guilty about not posting much lately. But this is why: life is okay. It really was a scary time after that diagnosis; I wish I had thought to write, or been able, because it has faded a bit with time. I imagined my life as a series of “battles,” every couple years, each worse than the previous, each with less likelihood of success. I imagined that cancer might already be all through me, although to be honest I was lucky in this regard since the technicians who handled my case (well actually, my breast) since the beginning were frank in telling me that it did not look like a worst case scenario. I trust that these folks don’t play lightly with such assurances, and indeed, they were right. Still, there was much unknown, and there was the reality too, as I wrote about often, of finding myself in a territory that evokes fear in others. So I was not only dealing with my own worry, but managing through the uncertain and uneven reactions of other people, those close to me and those I had to tell who I did not know as well. Nobody wants to sign up for the big “cancer patient” label. It sets you apart from the pack.

I’m easier with all that now. I just this week had to step down from a volunteer commitment that was clearly one thing too many (at a time when I’m trying to recoup lost time and revenue from last fall). I was frank with the committee – I have been experiencing side effects from cancer treatment that put some of my work deadlines in chaos, and made me realize I can’t offer any more time right now. It’s funny; not one of them has emailed back. I didn’t know them well; I didn’t have “permission” to lay my situation at their door, like you do implicitly with a good friend. But I didn’t feel like making up a white lie and sounding really lame about why I was dropping out of a commitment – I have a good, understandable reason for marshalling my resources carefully. I was also tired of sidestepping and worrying if folks will be unnerved by the word cancer – that’s their problem, not mine. I’m fine: living proof that yes, treatment has come a long way. The spook, the spectre of “the Big C” has been dispelled in part for me. It’s still a reality that it is a life-threatening disease. But it’s also just some of the crap you live with in life, and I got off lucky.

Despite surgery, radiation and drugs, six months later I don’t feel too much changed. My parents were visiting this past week – spry 70-somethings who travel the world and still downhill ski. This is good for reminding you that, despite forced menopause, you are really not “old.” Meanwhile, the kids keep the world fresh, if rather constantly frazzled. I’ve had a lot of interesting work come in, we took the family on a snow getaway last weekend, I’m in pretty good shape and I eat more healthily (and make myself sleep more) than ever. My oncologist said if breast cancer recurs, it usually comes back around in 5-6 years – so this, she said, is the “honeymoon period” – a time to just enjoy life, and not second-guess every aching bone or lump. Which is about how I’ve approached things.

Six months in, there’s much to be grateful for. I wish all folks facing a cancer diagnosis could be where I am at this point. Sure, it could come back, and yes, there are a lot of pills and mammograms ahead. But the horizons have stretched out again – I imagine, if I do have battles ahead, that I will take them on and survive them, for whatever time I’m able (which is true for all of us, facing the unforeseen). And life will go on, again, in its sweet muddled way.

Losing it

Today I felt twinges in my chest. Not terribly sharp pains, but little tweaks that just don’t feel right. Obviously, not quite enough to feel like I had to go back to the hospital, or I wouldn’t be sitting here writing. Not quite. But not so easy to ignore, and certainly enough to make me worry.

Meanwhile, the landslide of kids in this house is a blessing, there’s no doubt. But there is a constant grind to it, to twin two year olds and an eight year old who feels like she’ll grow up and blow away before I get a chance to get my feet back under me. The little ones are adorable and rambunctious and also testing us at every turn; there are fights and complaints and pushing and nerve-jangling crying. And an ear infection, a snotty nose, and a partner with strep throat. In other words, there is never really a moment to catch your breath – even when your heart isn’t doing weird flip flops and causing you to wonder if it’s forgotten its rhythm.

Today, with the tumult and the twinges, I’ve just about had it. I’m so pissed off to be sitting here wondering if my heart is okay. I can’t believe a year ago I was a plain ordinary healthy person and now I feel like a husk – invaded by cancer, eviscerated by the removal of hormones, destabilized and made fearful by drugs. I won’t apologize, as I usually do, for complaining; I do know other folks still have it way worse. But I am still going to complain, because this sucks.

I have always prided myself on resilience, the ability to get back up and just keep going, no matter what the circumstance. To look around, even when the going is tough, to measure the landscape, learn what there is to learn, put my head down and get through. This is a part of myself I have always known deep down and been able to count on no matter what – I am strong, both physically and mentally, in a crisis.

Which is why this latest phase is particularly hard. Less and less I feel like me; I feel uncertain, physically out of tune, more tentative than I ever have, shrunken. I’ve had moments where I’ve doubted that person who could always get up and keep going. But if she’s not there, then who am I?

 

Smack in the face, again

Bam!

Just when you think maybe you have it figured out (but then, why did I ever think that anyway???), this crappy thing leaps up and reminds you that you are not in charge. And oh, no you don’t: you are not getting away so easily.

I went to see my surgeon today; she’s pleased with how I’ve healed up despite the removal of a few grams of tissue (reading the pathology is sort of yucky and funny – tidbits of my breast are in about four different little vials, all weighed and sorted and numbered. Eww!).

Accustomed to reading these reports, she then said matter of factly that it was hard to predict if the oncologist will refer me for chemotherapy or not. Phew, deep breath. For some reason we were thinking that no presence in the lymph equalled no chemo, end of story. Well, maybe, she said, but every one of my indicators is sort of “in the middle” – the aggressiveness of my particular cancer, how big (the not very happy news is that while it’s still considered small, it turned out to be bigger in real life than the ultrasound measured – to my mind, a LOT bigger – 1.8 cm), its particular nature, spread, and appearance. Not the worst case scenario, but not the best either.

In other words, very real. REAL cancer. No joke, no passing matter. Perhaps something that requires chemo, even. Certainly nothing that’s going away soon, or easily.

That’s when the “bam” of reality hits again; here I am, dragged back here again, into this place of being a person-with-cancer. Back to uncertainty and fear, back to wondering if five- and ten-year horizons are actually my world now. Except I’m writing this sitting at an energy conservation conference where I’m slated to go on as a session moderator in a half hour: normal, normal, normal. It’s good to write; I do need to get this off my chest.

Anyway, it wasn’t great news today. And I fear that chemo is either going to be recommended, or left up to me as a personal choice, which seems very hard to get my head around. But there’s no sense worrying about it until I get more information at my oncology consult on Wednesday.

No sense worrying, but no option either.