Cancer (almost) one year later

The photo, at left, was taken of Ariel and I the weekend before my first surgery, last August.

I haven’t felt much like writing on my blog lately. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I’m in a strange “cancer aftermath” stage. I’m noticing things about life (and my life) that sadden me more than normal. I’m approaching the one-year anniversary (my husband’s birthday, actually), of the day I was told I had cancer. I look back over the last year and I think, “What was THAT all about?” I feel grateful to be alive.

I’m going through almost identical activities as I was a year ago at this time (at work and at home). I think, ‘Last year, I didn’t know that the shoe was about to drop.’ Now I have this strange sensation that I can’t relax fully—after all, the other shoe might drop.

When I let the dog out this a.m., I stood outside taking a deep breath of the morning air and thanked God for my life and our beautiful surroundings. I ran my fingers through my hair and felt thankful to have it growing back. I listened to the birds and reveled in their chirping. I gave my dog a smooch on the top of her nose and was thankful for her companionship.

I struggle with more anger than I thought I would. I lose my patience with people who don’t pay attention to what I’m saying. I wonder if I’m going to be around in a few years and if they’ll feel bad about ignoring me (the martyr complex is very unattractive).

To them, I’m fine now and it’s “back to normal.” To me, nothing is the same anymore. Not a day goes by that I don’t wonder if cancer is going to be discovered later in my body.

Every pain I have, I wonder if it signals something more serious. And every time, I remind myself that I have to live today, enjoy life today, be thankful for what I’ve been given and a second chance to live. Whatever happens in the future, I have no real control over. Sure, I can try to exercise, eat well, take my supplements, and keep my stress levels down, but every cancer survivor knows deep within that there are things you simply cannot control. That’s life.

I get mad at myself for wasting time with fear. I want to stay positive, motivated, and looking ahead to the future. But sometimes—if I’m really being honest—I feel there’s a joy, maybe an abandonment to life, that I don’t have anymore. That makes me sad. It’s as if the veil has been drawn back and I know too much now. I know that it could all change in one day, one moment.

There’s a certain amount of loss I’ve experienced. Maybe even the death of a dream—the illusion that I was healthy and that I would live to old age. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t.

I feel like my body has let me down and I can’t trust it anymore. That makes me sad. Part of me yearns for the obliviousness of adolescence. I feel a certain detachment from my body. You almost have to when you have so many doctor visits with strangers poking, prodding, squashing, and burning you. You whistle a snappy tune and go to a happy place (just kidding). I imagine it takes awhile to make peace with your body again. Other cancer survivors tell me it gets better with time.

I ran into an old family friend this week. I haven’t seen her for several years. When I told her about going through breast cancer treatment, she responded with a wave of her hand, “Oh, yeah. . . . I went through all of that 15 years ago.” I had forgotten she had experienced it herself. Her whole attitude about having had cancer was dismissive and casual. I asked if she had chemo treatments. She said that she had, but that she was looking at her watch during the treatments, wanting to know when she could go home and do other things.

In some respects, I admired her attitude, although I admit that I felt a little put down in some way—as if I were making much too big a deal out of it. In another way, it struck me that hers was a way of dealing with it that involved a certain amount of denial. It seemed that she never did spend much time reflecting on her experience or wanting to live her life in any improved manner after having her brush with death (maybe she didn’t consider it a brush with death at all).

It was a weird conversation. I felt heartened to meet someone who has put the whole thing 15 years behind her, hoping that will be me someday. At the same time, I felt a little chastened, as in, “Get over yourself. You’re much too introspective about the whole thing. It is what it is.”

I suppose it doesn’t help that I went to my nurse practitioner a couple of weeks ago and she detected an abnormal  heart beat. I have been noticing that my heart is pounding harder than normal, so I called my oncologist to ask if it could be a side effect of the Tamoxifen. Nope. So I have an appointment with a new primary care doctor next week (also on my husband’s birthday and the first anniversary of my cancer diagnosis), to get my heart checked and for a referral for my first colonoscopy. The fun never ends!

I’m glad for things like my blog, other cancer survivors, and the breast cancer forums on the Internet. They all contribute toward healing. I rarely visit the breastcancer.org forum these days, but I decided to check it this morning. I believe it’s a fantastic tool for women to share information and just VENT when they have nowhere else to go. I’m amazed at some of the women’s situations. Some of them have no support system whatsoever. So the forum women become their support group. Some of their stories are heartbreaking. It makes me realize how blessed and fortunate I have been to have had all the support.

One thread in particular caught my attention. The topic headline was, “I’m fine, but 6 months later, I am SO sad.” So I clicked on the thread to read the responses. Here’s what one woman wrote:

“It sucks, it totally does. And there's no 'answer'. The answer I want is an impossibility - to have healthy breasts with no risk of breast cancer. Impossible. Family history wasn't going to have it any other way, and as it turned out, those breasts were doin' their thing, like it or not. Sometimes I feel almost infantile in my perspective on this. Give me my breasts! It's all  too raw and horrid and, frankly, absurd.  Sigh.

I tried to talk to my therapist about it - I only see her a couple of times a year - and she just sort of looked at me puzzled. I think she really wants me to focus on the good stuff, and maybe she's right, maybe the only way through is to hold on to the thought that I did what I had to do and it was worth it, and I AM lucky. But maybe it's also like (and I don't want to minimize anybody else’s horrific experience here, but it seems sort of analogous to me...), being raped or beaten up and being happy that you lived, or that you survived. What you really want is to not have been raped or beaten in the first place and for everything to feel safe again.”

I thought she put it very well.

There’s a feeling I have that I’m at a crossroads in my life. I’m re-examining the way I’ve lived up to this point, how I relate to others, where do I go from here. Almost as if I’ve been granted a reprieve, for who knows how long, and I’d better make the most of it.

Even if I’m doing the same things I did a year ago, none of it is with the same feeling. And lest you think I’m feeling sorry for myself, think again. I feel that I’ve been given a tremendous gift. I’m not sure how to articulate it . . . it’s as if I am looking at my entire life from the end back . . . and I have a chance to go back and correct some things. Does that make sense?

Maybe that’s why I’ve always liked biographies (books and movies). I love to have the birdseye view of a person’s life, to view it in its totality. Reading about people who had great tribulations in their life and ended up overcoming them—gives me hope.

I’ve always had a fascination with Abraham Lincoln. He had so many failures in his life, yet achieved so much. Halfway through--if he would have thrown in the towel--well, it’s unthinkable. I suppose reading biographies is a way for me to learn my lessons the easy way—from someone else’s life. :~)

So I’m working through all of these feelings and thoughts and you, dear reader, get to come along for the ride. This way, I get to write my autobiography. I’m struck by the fact that it all seems so self-serving (this blog), yet if someone else can glean a nugget from something I’ve shared, it’s worth it.

I’ll leave you with a very well-written article by Tony Snow, ex-White House press secretary, who died of colon cancer last year. It’s titled, “Cancer’s Unexpected Blessings.”