It has been two years since my last chemo treatment. Two years since I was
unhooked from tubes of poison...tubes of life...and I signed the completion log
and I walked out of the chemo room for the last time. Two years ago I finished
the second hardest thing I've had to overcome in my life.
I remember the phone call that would change my life forever. That exact moment standing in the break room at work talking to my doctor on the phone and feeling as if I was falling. His words were cryptic, but I knew exactly what meaning they held. I remember hanging up and all I could think of was that I needed to find Adam.
I remember my first chemo. I was scared and I felt cramped in the crowded chemo ward. Everyone was easily triple my age and they looked at me out of curiosity and they looked at me out of pity. I remember Adam asked the nurses to turn my chair to the window and the two of us sat and looked out at the beauty outside instead of the pain within.
I remember the first time I saw my chest. I remember waiting a full week to look and Adam stood beside me in the bathroom and he let me cry and cry as I looked at myself in the mirror. I remember him hugging me and telling me I was beautiful.
I remember the dinner I had with Majah and Fajah the night of my diagnosis. They held my hand across the table and they told Adam and I that everything would be okay.
I remember waiting for the last surgery. I was lying on the table and they were pumping me with a medicine that took away all of my fear and pain. I remember trying to stay awake as long as could before they put me under so I could feel the absence of that quiet fear and pain I tucked away so carefully.
I remember the phone call that would change my life forever. That exact moment standing in the break room at work talking to my doctor on the phone and feeling as if I was falling. His words were cryptic, but I knew exactly what meaning they held. I remember hanging up and all I could think of was that I needed to find Adam.
I remember my first chemo. I was scared and I felt cramped in the crowded chemo ward. Everyone was easily triple my age and they looked at me out of curiosity and they looked at me out of pity. I remember Adam asked the nurses to turn my chair to the window and the two of us sat and looked out at the beauty outside instead of the pain within.
I remember the first time I saw my chest. I remember waiting a full week to look and Adam stood beside me in the bathroom and he let me cry and cry as I looked at myself in the mirror. I remember him hugging me and telling me I was beautiful.
I remember the dinner I had with Majah and Fajah the night of my diagnosis. They held my hand across the table and they told Adam and I that everything would be okay.
I remember waiting for the last surgery. I was lying on the table and they were pumping me with a medicine that took away all of my fear and pain. I remember trying to stay awake as long as could before they put me under so I could feel the absence of that quiet fear and pain I tucked away so carefully.
I remember that I hated chemo. I hated the way it made me look. The way it made me feel. The days of my life it took away from me. And yet I smiled and I went, because I loved it for saving my life.
I remember, our friend Steve being there with his generosity and his concern and his love. I remember how the absence of our friends ached in our hearts when I was too sick to keep up.
I remember an outpouring of love and support and gifts from my family. And by family I do not mean my conventional family. I mean the people in my life who have created a family for a girl who needed one. Both of blood kin and not.
I remember these memories and so many more that have made me who I am today. I walked into the chemo room as a scared and lost girl who wanted only to be strong, but I walked out with more than I ever knew I had.
And it was as I walked out of the medical center on
I remember how scared I was of getting sick again. Every ache or every oddity I found myself on
the verge of tears and barely able to breathe for the fear that constricted my
chest.
I remember feeling lost among even some of my closest and
dearest friends. I realized their lives
had continued on in my absence, as only they should. I found that I had missed major changes and
seven months worth of stories and inside jokes.
I remember having no patience at work with people who were
rude or angry. I felt life was too short
for them to create negativity in my day, and I feared that if I could not learn
to cope I would lose my job.
I remember driving past the place where I was diagnosed
every single day. I would sit at the
stop light and sometimes forget to go once the light turned green, because I
would be drawn back to the day I was diagnosed.
I remember Adam and I decided we needed to move, because our whole town
was connected to cancer memories.
I remember the cruel and heartless things that were said to
me. I worked with the public and most of
the time these painful words were said by customers, but at other times they
were said by people I knew. I realize now
that I was not the only one who was scared and having trouble finding
acceptance in what had happened to me.
I remember Adam and I sitting outside of our new home,
waiting to hear the news back from a recent scare, and crying. I remember how
scared he looked as I told him how unhappy I was, and as I finally admitted to
the major depression that had consumed me.
I remember my doctor prescribing me post traumatic stress
medicine, and with that medicine I was finally able to take my first stable
steps back into my life.
Now two years have passed, and we are celebrating. We are celebrating the fact that I have made
it to the first big milestone in a cancer survivor’s life. But we are also celebrating that I am out of
my depression...that I am here in the world and that I can honestly say I am
happy. We are celebrating the fact that
I have been off of mood altering drugs, and I do not need them any longer to
cope. The memories come at me more
frequently, but I am able to process them and heal in way that I was not able
to do before.
I had planned to have a party. A party to celebrate my journey, Adam’s
journey and all of the people who have been there to support us along the
way. Instead I find myself writing this
blog in the few hours between work shifts, having already celebrated a quiet
dinner with Majah and Fajah a couple of nights ago. I couldn’t have taken off of work, because I
just started an amazing new job. I
couldn’t have taken off of work, because I wanted to make sure I was free to be
involved in the wedding plans of two of my closest friends. I couldn't have taken off of work, because I needed to make sure I could still get off for my five year wedding aniversary next month. And I think that perhaps this says more about
my healing than anything else could.
How my two year anniversary is spent feels poetic to the
nature of how life should be…I could have thrown a party to celebrate getting
my life back…but instead I am too busy to throw a party, because I’m out living
the life I worked so hard to have. And even better yet, I'm living it with contentment and peace and am finally watching my wounds slowly heal.
I wish there was a way I could thank the people who have helped me reach where I am today. I carry so much gratitude and love for the people in my life. I do not know that I will ever have the right words to express to some of you, but what I can say is this....
Cancer, both during and after, has taught me pain. It has taught me to feel desperation. Fear. Anger, and loss. But it has also taught me strength. It has taught me determination. Acceptance. Happiness and love. It has given me the tools to find what is important to me. My doctors in all of their ability and skill have saved my life...but in all of you I have found what it truly means to live.
