People keep asking me how I’m doing. I’m embarrassed to even entertain the question, I hardly feel like it’s worth our conversation. Because I feel like we’re rehashing a van repair we made last year. It was all the way back last year, after all. And because I feel better than most people who are sniffling through a cold, certainly way better than those dealing with stomach flu.
You all know how fast the weeks go, especially as you get further and further from the event. Time has been my most treasured friend. First I seemed to go from night to night. Then to each doctor appointment, surely drains coming out was progressive. I looked forward to week three, a vague time assigned when I’d feel Better. But after about week eight I started losing track. Days are spinning so fast that I hardly remember what week we’re on now. Totally helping to relegate an intense month to a distant corner of my memory.
The only lingerings seem to be the pills I take each night (tamoxifen). Ignoring what the potential side effects might be. But that’s my new normal for the next 5-10 years. That and my continuing appointments with my plastic surgeon. And of course my scars. Which I also try to ignore.
I tried to donate blood last week. Who knew you needed to be cancer-free for at least a year? I think it will be kind of funny to answer affirmatively to having had skin grafts and tattoos next time.
I’d give myself a 98% back to normal. Still a tight band feeling around my back and chest, like I’m a Chinese infant girl’s foot. But it’s so part of how I always feel I hardly pay attention any more. Unless someone asks. I guess a little discomfort is the best I can offer. Mostly it’s when I’m turning around in my sleep that it’s even an issue. Been sleeping on my side for weeks now, even my stomach. But it hurts to lift up and turn to another side from my chest. Really sore. Surprises me because I’m not pain-filled any more any other time. This kind wakes me up. But other than that I really do feel pretty regular. Been doing push-ups for the past two weeks. I’m weak at them because I skipped out for eight weeks. The scars on my back are still very prominent, but it’s not summer yet. And I don’t really care anyway. Mostly it’s nothing anyone even notices, so there’s really not much of a conversation. Like they told me, I’m able to do all my normal activities.
To be honest, I not-so-secretly-now feel like this was a little blessing in disguise. A treat I’d always wanted but never dared hope aloud for. I know how that sounds. I know cancer just happens. It’s not God’s way of presenting us with a new hairdo or altered body. But I guess I just feel, if I have to go through a little surgery, why not be grateful for the silver lining? I think of it along the lines of being able to take home a newborn at the end of a short hospital stay. Worth the pain. Unlike having a child, I don’t know that I would ever really opt to take this kind of drastic measure, but I have been nonetheless happy for the opportunity presented me in a round-about way.
I also can’t help but be grateful for the medical and surgical advances I’ve benefitted from. I can’t get over my male doctors being so careful and concerned—even though it makes surgery that much more difficult—about what I, a female patient, would be dealing with for the rest of my life. I have thanked them. Believe me. But I just don’t know if they know how much I appreciate the delicate care they took. Because I’m touched that they would take my feelings into consideration when it’s of such little consequence in the grand scheme of things.
So I’m asking myself a hard question these days. Am I any different because of it? And since I’m being completely honest, I have to say that I really don’t know. I don’t think I look different. People don’t really say much. I don’t know that I act any different. Life is pretty normal these days, so I don’t know how else I’d be. I can’t even tell if I think or pray any differently. That sort of concerns me. Because what good is a little teaching moment if I didn’t assimilate the take-home message? I’m embarrassed to have to admit this. And I honestly wonder how I could not be changed.
But maybe it’s because change normally occurs in slight waves across the years. Not always—sometimes life-altering moments come in the blink of an eye—but often it’s almost imperceptible. Like when you compare yourself in junior high and as a college grad. Or as a son of a father and now as a father of a son. Some years have slipped in, making all the difference, easier to tell that some things have changed. So maybe that’s it; it’s still too soon to tell. Maybe it’s still too fresh. Maybe I will look back on this time in my early forties as a pivotal time. I can’t imagine that, but perhaps. You’d just think something with a title like this would do something more to me. I’m ashamed to admit I haven’t noticed much difference, but I also want to be frank.
Maybe I didn’t get a big enough dose of a trial. I think this is it more than anything. I feel like a fraud, on the fringes of a club, not completely part of it, having cheated a bit. I really didn’t have to look death in the eye. Except in the beginning as I waited for test results for days and wondered if this would be it. I imagined how humbling it would be to have chemo. I wondered how I’d take it. If I’d get grumpy and irritable. If I’d curl up in a ball. I was curious about how it would affect me. So I still feel untested. And not sure if I’d even pass the real test.
I wonder what the point’s been. But, like I said, I’m not sure God just gives us cancer. I think He allows nature to be natural, to run its course. Including body malfunctions of course. But I hate to think of wasting an experience, even a natural one. I was given a glimpse—albeit a very tiny glimpse—into what other people deal with all the time. What good was it?
I can tell you that I know Heavenly Father is very close. And so is our Savior. But don’t we all know that? Don’t we know that from everything we do and see and feel? It’s obvious. We don’t need cancer to know that. I’ve always known He listens to and answers prayers. I’m not great at understanding or recognizing all the answers, and I sure wish He’d give it to me a little more straight-forward, but I know that not a single sincere prayer is offered without Him taking note. I can’t remember if I felt that differently four months ago or not. I can’t imagine I wouldn’t have known that. I feel it with everything I am.
I have also learned, as I’ve learned in other ways, to try to align my will with God’s will as quickly as I can get there. His way is the best way. Why on earth would I try to tell an omnipotent, all-loving God of the universe what it best? He knows. He wants me to be happy. As He does all of us. So why would I not trust that? And trust Him? I felt that early on. That even if I hated His decision, I knew it would make us stronger and happier as a family. Maybe not in the short-term, but in the long-run. And I know that obviously every bad thing is not an act of God trying to teach us something; He respects agency and laws of nature. Yet I felt that if leaving my family would be our trial, then there is no reason to curse Him or push Him away. I would lean on Him like we do in all of our struggles. I can’t imagine someone needing cancer to learn that. I think just a million hours and days of regular life teaches us that.
I can tell you that I’ve been not necessarily surprised, but overcome, witnessing the goodness and generosity of people. And yes, now I’m remembering this is what I’ve learned and how I want to be different. I think we all try to serve how and where we can. We feel to do that instinctively. But having to slow down for a bit, I see clearly the efforts people went to for me. They taught me how to creatively serve and help in unique ways. I saw their personalities reflected in the ways they showed love. I saw them using their resources to bless my family—whether it was cleaning, visiting, shopping, cooking, driving, sitting with me, writing, entertaining my kids, or making me laugh. I want to pay that all forward. I want to be less complacent and more engaged. To really take note of what people are struggling with, to be genuinely helpful. Maybe—hopefully—this is part of how I will be different because of a rough couple of weeks.
I think it’s humbled me to have to be on this end of things. I don’t know how it can’t be humbling to have your 9 year-old help you bathe, a stranger help you walk to the bathroom, to wear that useless hospital garb around the hospital halls, to need help taking pills or draining the bulbs. I hated not being able to cook or clean very well for awhile. I was embarrassed to notice tears out of nowhere so many mornings when it was so painful. Or when I’d be lying still, I’d feel their hot burning on the sides of my eyes. I still hate looking at myself. It’s hard to know this is my new normal. That things will never, ever be the same. I feel broken in a way, and yet I remind myself that it’s just my shell, not who I really am. It’s so humbling to accept that people have altered their lives for me. It’s made me want to keep my house clean. Just in case of an emergency. It’s made me want to keep the connections open. With Heavenly Father and with my friends and family. It’s made me realize how life can change in an instant. That we have control over our attitudes. That we can serve from a bed. That we need each other. That our bodies are gifts, not to complain about and compare and loathe but to embrace! They are miracles in all their sizes and forms. They are to help us enjoy life and to serve. I’m convinced again and again that it’s all about love and how we treat each other in this life.
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