�Without the dark there isn�t light. Without the pain there is no relief. And I remind myself that I�m lucky to be able to feel such great sorrow, and also such great happiness. I can grab on to each moment of joy and live in those moments because I have seen the bright contrast from dark to light and back again. I am privileged to be able to recognize that the sound of laughter is a blessing and a song, and to realize that the bright hours spent with my family and friends are extraordinary treasures to be saved, because those same moments are a medicine, a balm. Those moments are a promise that life is worth fighting for, and that promise is what pulls me through when depression distorts reality and tries to convince me otherwise.�
- Jenny Lawson: author, blogger, mental illness sufferer, lovable oddball
***
A year ago today I got probably the
least fun phone call ever from my Ob/Gyn.
I knew what was coming, and I thought I was prepared to hear it. But like who�s ok with hearing they have cancer? Nobody. I�m guessing.
I don�t normally get caught up in dates or anniversaries (�cancerversary� as some would call it). But when I think about how much my life has changed in the last 365 days, I�m still stunned. I still can�t believe I have (had? Can I use the past tense yet?) CANCER. It doesn�t compute. It�s too bizzaro. Until I look down at my chest and then I�m like �Oh, right. THAT happened.�
Getting diagnosed with cancer was lousy.
The two weeks following my diagnosis were lousy X a billion.
Cancer is one thing. But it�s all the unanswered questions that come after a diagnosis that will turn you into a sleepless zombie at 3 AM. Questions like: �What stage am I?� and �Did it spread?� and �Am I going to go bankrupt?� and �What if my skull has a weird shape?�
I remember asking my brand-new surgical oncologist if he could give me something to calm my nerves. �My brain won�t turn off. I sleep for 1 hour at night. GIVE ME DRUGS I NEED THEM OR MY BRAIN AND HEART WILL EXPLODE FROM ALL OF THESE WORST-CASE SCENARIOS PLAYING OUT IN HEAD PLEASE THANKS.�
The last year looked something like this:
- 16 rounds of chemo
- 1 ER visit, following a freak reaction to my meds (in hindsight, kind of a funny story. I�ll tell it to you, sometime.)
- 2 mastectomy operations (because one is never enough)
- 2 implants in. 1 implant out.
- Physical therapy to prevent lymphedema (I�d rather skip the compression sleeve if I can help it.)
- 36 rounds of radiation
- Daily tamoxifen pills
- Monthly Zoladex injections. IN MY BELLY.
- Scars, burns, weight loss, hair loss, fatigue, nausea, anxiety, consolatory hot fudge sundaes. A lot of those.
And that was just me. Add Paul�s stuff to the list and you�ve got a full-blown dissertation on your hands.
People tell me things like I�m a tough little cookie all the time. A lot of cancer patients have issues with compliments like this, and I totally get it. Because anyone in their situation would do the same thing, and are we really that brave for just doing what it takes to stay alive?
Buuuut: you know what? 2017 was a total stinker. And maybe I don�t give myself enough credit for kind of keeping it together and sort of carrying on in less-than-favorable circumstances. Maybe I AM strong, and whatever - I
like when people tell me I am. SO SUE ME.
And anyway, if we�re handing out Tough Cookie Awards, Paul is so clearly the top contender.
I know in my last post I said he wasn�t optimistic about future treatments. But after discussing things with his oncologist, he�s considering giving chemo another shot. This time, at a lower and less frequent dose.
In the meantime, we�re enjoying the heck out of life and each other.
Like last week we took Ingrid to Disney on Ice. We voluntarily spent 2 hours dodging rogue glow sticks and listening to toddlers howl. Because that�s what families do.
It was the best.
Love and Happiness,Liz
