Today (June 28) is my cancerversary – well, one of them at any rate. As with many major life events, it’s more of a series of moments that are indelibly etched in my memory:
- the first time I knew I wasn’t just “burnt out” and that there was definitely something wrong
- when I went to see my doctor and said the words, “I think I might have breast cancer” out loud for the first time. The speed at which she set up a mammogram and ultrasound was both reassuring and terrifying.
- the mammogram and ultrasound appointment during which, the technician said, “You didn’t mention anything about lumps in your right breast too.” Just one of many “surprise, it’s way worse than you thought” moments to come…
- the Father’s Day where I broke my parents’ hearts by telling them the news
- the biopsies during which I discovered I don’t take to freezing well and felt EVERYTHING
- the hypothetical date in an alternate timeline in which, if I were only stage 1, 2 or 3 and had gone through the “normal” course of treatment (chemo, surgery, radiation), I would have rung the bell and officially been a cancer survivor
But today is one of the big ones: the one year anniversary of getting the phone call from my doctor asking, “How soon can you come in?” And of sitting (and waiting and waiting and waiting) in my doctor’s office (well after closing time because she was running behind) and the nurse kept bringing me tea and looking at me with sad eyes, so I knew it wasn’t good news. And of my doctor confirming that I had invasive malignant breast cancer, not only in both breasts, but in my lymph nodes as well (surprise, it’s way worse than you thought). And of walking out of the office and sitting on a bench under a tree trying to process everything, and being taken aback that the sun was still shining and the rest of the world was carrying on as if nothing had happened.
These past few weeks, as each anniversary has come and gone, I have been doing my best to “write over” the memory by doing something positive – hiking in the mountains surrounded by nature, enjoying ice cream with my entire family, going on long walks with good friends (appropriately socially distanced, of course), eating an excessive amount of baked goods (thanks to my mom and my niece). But I have also been doing a lot of reflecting on the last twelve months.
For the most part, it feels as though the past year is something that happened TO me: I was swept along by the endless tsunami of tests and treatment – waiting, always waiting for appointments, for tests and then for test results; waiting to see what the side effects would be as treatment began, changed and progressed; waiting for my energy to return after every round of chemo. It was a year of uncertainty, not knowing whether I could continue working and at what capacity (still figuring that part out); not knowing which side effects were an expected part of treatment and which were cause for concern; not knowing whether I could still do the things that I loved. It was a year of holding my breath after every scan, hoping for the best but fearing the worst.
Looking back, I don’t know that I could have done things any differently. But I also know that this is not how I want to spend the next year, or the years after that, however many there are. I spent the past year doing my best just to keep my head above water, trying to survive not only physically but mentally, emotionally, spiritually. However, the thought of even one more month of that, let alone twelve is disheartening, to say the least. Moving forward, I want to live with intention. I’m not exactly sure what that looks like yet, but I’m working on it. Hopefully this time next year, the things that are indelibly etched in my memory are countless good times spent with family and friends, exciting new adventures, delicious food (keep the baked goods coming!), a life not quite so consumed by work (as rewarding as it can be), more travel (if it’s ever safe enough to do so), more time reading and gardening and doing puzzles and playing the piano, more walks in parks, more hikes in the mountains, making it through my never-ending to-do list…
I still have a few more cancerversaries to go: my first bone scan, throughout which the technician asked over and over whether I had any bone pain (I just thought she was being thorough); my first CT, during which they kept asking the same question again (I still didn’t take the hint); and the first appointment with my oncologist, where an inexperienced and tactless intern pulled the ultimate “surprise, it’s way worse than you thought” by casually announcing that my treatment plans had changed completely because the extent of my bone metastases meant that surgery, chemo and radiation were obviously pointless (obvious to her, maybe, but until that moment, I had no idea I was stage 4).
However, each of the the coming anniversaries will be yet another reminder that I’m tired of letting life happen TO me. Slowly but surely, I want to take back control of my story.
C is for Colleen 