A Cancerversary Post, Because.

“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 advocate, lovable oddball

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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? 

As a rule, I don’t get too caught up in dates or anniversaries (“cancerversary,” 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? Is past tense allowed yet?) CANCER. It doesn’t compute. It can't be real. Until I look down at my chest and I’m like “Oh, right. THAT happened.”

Getting diagnosed with cancer was lousy.

The two weeks following my diagnosis were lousy X A BILLION.

Because everything in my world was a big fat question mark. “What stage am I?” “Did it spread?” “Am I going to go bankrupt?” “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 PLEASE I NEED THEM OR MY BRAIN AND HEART WILL EXPLODE FROM ALL OF THESE WORST-CASE SCENARIOS PLAYING OUT IN MY HEAD.”

The last year has looked something like this: 

• 16 rounds of chemo. 
• 1 ER visit, following a freak reaction to my meds (in hindsight, an almost funny story) 
• 2 mastectomy operations (because one is never enough) 
• 2 implants in. 1 implant out. 
• Physical therapy 
• 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. (lots 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 also: 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 top contender.

I know in my last post I said he wasn’t optimistic about future treatments. But now 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 two hours dodging rogue glow sticks and listening to toddlers howl. Because that’s what families do. 

It was the best.

Love and Happiness,Liz