I’ve had breast cancer for four years, well, four and a half. I’m pretty sure, just like little kid years, you can add the halves and three-quarters in your time.
I was diagnosed on May 5, Cinco de Mayo, 2020, smack in the middle of pandemic panic.
The pandemic, a divorce, money, and a new commission-only job delayed my seeking a regular mammogram. It had only been two years since my last normal one, so I felt pretty “safe.” Besides, as you have read from me before, cancer was never on my radar.
When I finally got my diagnosis, after thinking it was anything BUT cancer, it was stage III. I did chemo, double mastectomy- remaining flat, radiation, and more chemo. After about a year and a half, I was declared clear, but my doctor’s voice remained in my ears, “You’ll probably never be cancer-free.” So, I tentatively started my life. However, I had a cloud hanging over me.
When would it return? How bad would it be when it does? Where is it now?
I didn’t buy a funky, wonderful yellow puffy jacket one year at the end of jacket season because I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to wear it the following year.
I had decided it was best to keep an eye on that sucker. Never let it sneak up on me again. Ever. So I guarded myself. Steeled myself against it. Sat and waited for its return.
A year and a half later, it was back, in my neck. And it had crossed the midline resulting in a Stage IV diagnosis. To me, an almost immediate death sentence. After all that guarding, I was still utterly devastated.
In my chart I read the dreaded word “metastatic.” That is not the word you want to read. And I found solace in my friends who busted out the F-word when describing my cancer which was exactly how I was feeling.
My medication changed to a treatment for metastatic breast cancer patients – strong meds daily and shots monthly. I did stout radiation treatment on the lymph node that had so dutifully lit up during a PET scan. And once again, after that treatment, I was in the clear.
Yet this time, “clear” didn’t have the same meaning as it did before. Clear means, you’ve got some down time. Time to live loud and strong. Time to love hard. Time for authenticity. Time for moving, dancing, singing, crying, pouting, being bored, being productive, pity parties, moments of sheer joy.
Time for living.
I have blood work every three months – see my doctor every three months. I have a PET scan every six months. My doctor doesn’t trust my cancer, so I’m living hard and loud during the time my cancer is in remission.
Many of you know, I’m finishing up my master’s degree in clinical mental health counseling. I’ve been working on this degree through treatments. It’s been about three years in the making. I couldn’t be more freaking proud of myself.
But the reason I’m writing this morning is because of an unexpected gift I have received throughout my internship. I had been asked to start a cancer support group at Willow Mark Therapy, where I am doing my internship. I thought I had dealt with my cancer to the extent I could, safely tucked into my back pocket, yet never trusting its spot there.
I was sufficiently ignoring its existence until it got closer to the scan. As things get close to the scan, everything, as I’ve said before, tightens up and slows way down. I never know what a scan will bring. Once I get the clear, I know I have six more months to do what I want. To live. To be alive for another season.
I started the group because who better to lead a group of cancer patients than one herself? And besides, I’m good, right? Totally dealt with my cancer as best as I could… So, I began researching and planning.
The first time the group happened, it took me three days to get over it. I was absolutely devastated in so many ways. Deeply saddened. Thrown off kilter by it. And overall, not okay at all.
The second group, it took two days.
The third, one full day.
By the fourth, I was okay. I just did my 7th, and I am fine. But that’s because of them, not me.
How did I need that as much as them?
I have come away from these weeks with these wonderful ladies with such a sense of peace, love, and determination. That room is filled with love, bravery, and overall bad-assery. I think I needed them even more than they might have needed me. It makes me cry just to think about it.
Now, I can look straight at my cancer. I can buy a coat and wear it and enjoy it so much today. (well, not today, ‘cause it’s hot…) I can live with permission. I have it chronically and know it’s a part of my life. I can not waste time. We don’t have time to waste.
God always knows what He is doing. He moves pieces all the time to help each and every person in such a layering, we could never understand. He knew I needed this group of women.
My mom’s best friend recently lost her beloved husband. In the midst of her grief she said something to me I won’t ever forget.
“Thank you for fighting so hard and living so big. It’s hard.”
That’s my hope and wish for each of you today. In my opinion, there’s not a lot of fight in my cancer journey. You either live or die. Our bodies aren’t meant to last, and they can only put up with so much disease, injury, illness, or trauma.
Living so big. That takes bravery. I see these women living big, and I want to be like them.
Living is the fight. If you’re dealing with cancer, you know what this is like. If you’ve had cancer, you know.
Fight hard and live big.
Much love to you all.
Commenti