On October 2nd 2020, I went for a routine mammogram. It was the culmination of a few months of getting up-to-date with family medical appointments, the last in a series that included physicals, pap smears, kids physicals and dentists, all of which had been neglected because of CoVid and the general craziness of living the good life. We were all shown to be strong and in perfect health. But, by the end of that day, after emergency sonograms and biopsies, it was clear from the look in the eye and the level of concern in the voices of my doctors, that I was going to be in for a long ride.
A few days later, I was formally diagnosed with Stage II breast cancer. I had surgery in October to successfully remove the tumor, but then came the hard part: aggressive treatment to ensure that not even one cancer cell, with it’s dark intentions, can lurk in an unseen corner of my body. We know that with this treatment I will be cured and that my chances of recurrence will be at baseline. This is fantastic, and has meant that at no point along this journey have I worried that I will die from this thing. Instead, I just have to endure the best that medical science can throw at me. And throw it at me, it does.
I am currently on week 8 of a 20 week chemotherapy journey. I am at the end four cycles of what is largely known to be one of THE most aggressive cancer drug combinations. I have done this treatment at an accelerated pace, every two weeks, due to my comparative youth and health. This has been incredibly tough on my body. I am now headed into a 12 week stretch of a different drug regime. I am praying that this will be a bit easier. Following Chemo will be a month of daily radiation therapy and then years of hormonal treatment. So I am sort of right in the middle of a six to eight month journey.
This of course comes almost exactly four years after an almost fatal motorcycle accident that took me two years to recover from.
I have wanted to write, but have found it almost impossible. This has been due to combination of disbelief of what is happening, and because, frankly, I have felt so crappy. I have terrible concentration and a neuro-inflamatory (brain) response left over from head injury that makes screen work hard. But the other day, this sort of poem thing came out. So, here are some thoughts so far. In short, the cancer journey ain’t fun. Sorry this isn’t an uplifting, inspiring kind of thing, but thought it more helpful to share the unvarnished truth of this disease.
Cancer is numbness. It’s a shock to the system. It’s stopping everything in a hurry. It’s long phone calls to tell family and friends, repeating the story over and over again. Cancer is helping other people understand you are going to be ok. It’s learning a new language by reading just enough but not too much. It’s holding hands and walking with your children while you explain the science and the numbers and that they shouldn’t worry. It’s disassociating from what is going on. It’s crying with friends and colleagues because they are crying, but not really because you can understand that your body is trying to kill you.
Cancer is getting your ass kicked by chemo. It’s letting the toxins attack the bad cells, but not quite realizing how many good ones get in the way in the process. It’s preparing your children for what’s to come, while not really knowing what’s to come. It’s quarantining inside your own house, from your own family, while other family members are quarantining from exposure to the other disease of our time. It’s knowing that now you really can’t get that disease. It’s riding the wave of treatment cycles where for 10 days in every two weeks all the energy is sucked out of you so that you feel like a completely different human being.
Cancer is giving in to the assault, but with an illogical shame that you are not the strong fighter that cancer patients are supposed to be. It’s learning that the bravest move is to give-up, knowing that at the end of this, all will be well.
Cancer is waking up in the middle of the night to change your clothes because night sweats have drenched you from head to toe. It’s living in glue, where a complete thought seems like too much. It’s long text streams with dear friends. It’s buying 3 different strengths of drug store reading glasses because your eyes don’t work so well, but some days are better than others. Cancer is amazing oncology nurses that remember your kids names and that you got a new puppy and that don’t mind when you use the F word. It’s white bread and chicken soup and the constant taste of soap. It’s a bucket by the side of the bed. It’s not remembering which pills you have taken today and which ones are still to come.
Cancer is preparing the best you can for your hair falling out, but when it comes still being traumatized by the big clumps in your hands, on your clothes and in the shower drain. It’s sobbing into your face mask as you walk down the street the day it starts and surprise at the pain that continues for a week while your hair pulls itself out at the roots. It’s binge shopping for hats and turbans and wigs and ending up wearing just one. It’s seeing the horror on your children’s faces when you turn up for dinner with your newly shaved head.
Cancer is gratitude at a community who shower you with brownies and WonderWoman socks and shower spas and friends that show up to plant bulbs to remind you that by the spring you will be well. It’s a meal train that means you don’t need to cook on the days you can hardly stand, and that makes you feel cared for and supported, even though we are all separated from each other. It’s zoom calls and morning walks with friends, because by the afternoon, you cannot move. It’s your children learning to read how you are feeling by the size of your raccoon eye shadows. It’s you looking back into their eyes trying to gauge if they are ok.
Cancer is being irritated that someone, someday designated pink to be the color to represent this disease. It’s knowing that it’s really a sort of murky brown, black, greyish-green, with long shadows.
Cancer is stopping everything in your life but still getting up everyday. It’s putting on your shoes and taking a walk. It’s gratitude for the few good days where you feel like yourself. The days when you can cook and laugh and even run a few hundred steps. On these days you are reminded that this too shall pass. Cancer is messy and difficult and tiring and confusing. Getting through it means putting it all aside, leaning into the defeat and taking it one day, one hour and sometimes even one breath at at time.
