Survivorship

I have the privilege of having a new friend. Jalesa had been on my mind so heavily lately. But, we finally got to officially meet. It was one of those rare, magical moments, where you sit down- wriggle around in your seat a little, and then by the time you look up, three hours has passed and not one moment has been wasted. We talked about every single thing. But, I can think about about another dozen subjects I need to bring up next time. I got the results of my first CT scan yesterday. Jalesa had told me to look at MyChart because it usually comes in faster than they call. Sure enough, it showed up around 1pm. And I hadn’t heard anything from the doctor yet. I made it into a pdf and promptly sent it to Jalesa for careful scrutiny. With google in hand, I looked up each thing. I saw things that I expected and things that I didn’t. We looked over everything together. I seemed I might be okay. My lungs, as I expected, have suffered quite a bit. There’s a 4x2 cm soft tissue structure in there- probably rebound thymus. Scarring and fibrosis. Groundglass nodules in both lungs. Radiation takes its toll. Someone noticed my ovaries and uterus were missing... Shocker there. But, then I see the phrase “otherwise no evidence of metastatic disease within the chest, abdomen, or pelvis.” So, I wait. I can’t share anything until I know exactly what the plan is. But, somehow, seeing these words and talking to Jalesa makes me calm down. Finally, I check my email- there it was- “CT is good, no evidence of metastatic disease within the chest, abdomen or pelvis. Since the CT is good, you can have your port removed so I’ll send orders to Harris and they will call you to schedule the appt. Have a great weekend!” I am actually talking to Lacy when I see this. I immediately copy and paste what I see. She calls me and is not even saying anything. She’s crying and smiling and trying to talk but not being able to. After I get off the phone with her, I call my mom. And I say, “I can get my port removed.” It takes a skip for her to realize what I am actually saying. Then, she starts cheering and is ecstatic. She says, “Are you so happy?!” I said, feeling completely lost, “I don’t know.” I make a long text explaining the results, repeating the nurse’s words. I send it to my closest and I sit there and cry.

I tell Jalesa that I’m not even happy. And she says that’s completely normal. It’s something called Survivorship. I have steeled myself against this disease. And not only the disease, but against the treatments. The side effects. The same responses. Dying. I have steeled myself to continue to move forward. I have not refused anything, stopped or called uncle. All I ever wanted, from the time someone told me I had cancer, was for someone to tell me I didn’t. It’s been about a year and a half. And I’m still taking treatments for at least another year. I’ve lost my hair. My boobs. The mobility in my left arm. I’ve gained and lost at least 30-40 pounds. I’ve been swollen and bloated and thin without muscle mass. I’ve never told every single part of how I felt. I’ve felt bad and I’ve been uncomfortable for a year and half. I have had to remake every part of me to continue to do this. I’m not celebrating. Everyone I texted seemed to be so excited. And I don’t blame them. It’s been such a long journey. They’ve been beside me and praying for me for so long. I’ve been on church bulletins. Prayer group lists. And that’s great. And I have appreciated every single bit of everything.

I have absolutely no idea how soldiers feel. I cannot imagine what it must be like to lose your closest compadres right beside you. So, please don’t take my analogy the wrong way.

I feel like I’ve come back from a difficult war. I’ve just walked back home and everyone is throwing me a party. But, I don’t quite know how to rejoin.

I have so many emotions swirling around inside of me. Of course, I’m incredibly relieved. But, I do not trust cancer. Like some onery toddler you’re babysitting for the day in a room full of China. I’m watching that kid like crazy. It will not ever take me by surprise again. I couldn’t even say the word “cancer” for about a month. I was completely devastated. I will not be devastated again.

And then, there’s “Why me?” Why do I get to be cancer free? And, my dear friends don’t. Why do I get to come home? I did nothing to deserve coming home from this war.

I would so quickly take others’ struggles. I would go back to war if they could come home. I so wish I could. But I can’t.

I will forever be changed by this. I am not the same as I was at all. I’ve been through so much and looked my death right in the face. That’s what I had steeled myself all the way to – my death.

I won’t live like I’m about to have cancer. I won’t let it do that to me. I’ll always be aware of it, but I feel like I’ve been given a gift, however long it might be. And I’ll not waste it. I will live and live well, helping as many people as I possibly can. Being approachable. Lending my ears to listen. Being kind. Gentle. Seeing beautiful things.

To my dear ones who have had or have this disease. Who are still at war. I do this for you. I won’t waste a single moment. There is more to us than our cancer. Than our symptoms. We are more and we are incredibly special. We are some of the few who truly know what this is really like.

Survivorship.