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Posts Tagged ‘cancer’

I haven’t posted in a while for several reasons: We were away; I was sick, including while we were in Florida; it’s been crazy busy at work both before I left and since I got back. But I guess the real reason is I haven’t known what to say. Or I should say, I don’t like what I’ve been feeling and hate being negative.

I’ve been having a really hard time with this anniversary. Last Thursday was one year from the day I found the first lump, and this Wednesday is the anniversary of the diagnosis. And I have just been living with this heavy dread, constantly fighting off tears, and in this just dark place. I hate to be that way. I slept till noon yesterday, and only woke up because Nick kissed my forehead to tell me he had great deli sandwiches in the living room. So I moved to the couch, had a few bites, and vegged back out. The only reason I got up at all was because we had a Running for Rare Diseases fundraiser and I try to never miss those. So I rallied for a few hours, but then went home and crashed again.

I woke up in the same funk. It’s been like living that time over and over – only this time it’s actually been worse, because I know the outcome. Last year I was out drinking and having a merry time with my cousin on St. Patrick’s Day, not thinking that the biopsy would actually come back cancer. This year I moped around the apartment. Let me tell you, the emotional scars are so much worse than the physical ones… I’m dwelling and I despise that. So I’m done. I can’t do this until Wednesday or I’ll go crazy.

So what? So what if it’s the anniversary? So what if it was a hell year? So what if my life is completely different? So what if it will never really be over? What is crying over it actually going to do? Nothing. I have to stop thinking about the past and focus on the future. Or at least start living in the present again. I may not really like everything about my current reality, but at least I’m here. I lived through it. I made it through surgery and chemo and radiation. And I’m recovering. My hair is growing back – strangers no longer see me and know I had cancer. In a few months I can have my implant surgery. Eventually I’ll feel like a normal girl again.

It could be so much worse. I am lucky. I know that. Blessed. And I am thankful, so thankful… Speaking of thankful, thanks to all who joined me in Florida last week – even those I only got to see for a few minutes! Nick, Tara, Kevin, Mike, Steve, Kelli, Hudson, Holden, Shannon, Jack, Julian, Janie, Monique, Dad, Maggie, Mom, Mark, Jake and Kacie (and congratulations on your engagement!!!)… it really was a great, relaxing time. And now I’ve done the requisite celebrating and can move on.

I’m going to do my best this week to stay focused on the future, and leave the past behind me. An anniversary is just another day. It is not happening all over again, so no need to keep reliving every moment over and over again in my head. What’s done is done and I have come a long way from then. No more mourning who I was – time to get back to getting comfortable with and accepting the new me. She’s not that bad, and hey, with a little time and attention, I can make her that much better…

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We know all the sayings:

  • Every day is a chance to start fresh.
  • Every day is a new beginning.
  • Today is the first day of the rest of your life.
  • Make every day count.

We hear them, but how often do they resonate? We take days for granted, as if they are a guarantee. We either waste days by rushing through them at the speed of light but not necessarily absorbing or accomplishing any one thing (yup, me) or by simply doing nothing. “After all, tomorrow is another day,” my cousin and I love to quote Scarlett O’Hara.

But today I realized tomorrow may never come. Today I learned of three cancer deaths. None personally close to me, but they all hit home. Particularly looking at pictures of two of the three, both in their late thirties, smiling petite brunettes who had – you guessed it – breast cancer. That could so easily be me. And the third, an older gentleman, but unexpected, sudden cancer-related. It can happen any time, to any one. I am lucky that I am still here.

But for how long? It seems more and more common for people to have a recurrence or develop a new cancer. My fellow breast cancer survivor Janie was lamenting the other day how so many people feel the need to constantly share these stories lately: “I wish some people could understand that telling a cancer survivor that they know someone that had breast cancer too and was a survivor for 5 years then they had a recurrence, lung cancer, liver cancer, brain cancer etc…… and they didn’t survive it…Is sooo incredibly sad!!!! It Breaks my Heart!!!! Also on another note sooooo incredibly stressful as that is our Biggest fear…… We are all Survivors!!!! Whether we just started our fight, are in the middle of our fight, have finished our fight or those who are now Angels watching over us.. We understand what its like to fear what might happen next but we also know what its like to appreciate every minute as life is so very precious!”

She’s right. It’s my biggest fear. (Well, my biggest ‘me’ fear – I worry about my son every time he goes out the door!) I wouldn’t have cut both my breasts off, gone through 24 weeks of chemo, six weeks of radiation and now five years of Tamoxifin and soon reconstructive surgery if I thought I had a choice. I will fight as long as I have to, as hard as I have to, to have more days here with my loved ones.

I am not trying to depress anyone, or bring them down from their optimistic perch – I am usually right there with you. I will never stop planning for the future, never stop looking forward to tomorrow and probably never stop quoting Scarlett. But what I will do is take just a few moments more each day to cherish life. To be thankful for each moment I do have. To make sure that the people around me know I appreciate and love them. I want to make every day, every moment, every breath, count.

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I was called into the Healing Garden at Dana-Farber today. Not literally, but something beckoned me to go through those doors, although I haven’t been since my very first visit to this facility last March. And the second I walked in and felt the peacefulness wash over me, between the lush garden, sweet scent of greenery, subtle lighting and bird musac in the background, the floodgates opened. Clearly I don’t mesh well with relaxing and peacefulness – another thing I need to work on.

I know it was – is, as I’m still sitting here amongst the flowers and the tears writing this blog entry on my iPhone – more than that, though. It is remembering that first time here, how scared and clueless I was about what really lay ahead. It is mourning the person I was before I stepped through these doors. It is the wondering about the different path my life could’ve taken if I hadn’t discovered that lump – and the people that may’ve still been in it – for better or worse. And sitting here, looking through the bamboo branches, out the window at the hospital across the street where we kept vigil for days and then lost my grandfather, in the midst of it all, just 8 months ago. It is the fact that this is the last time I will be here (barring any more lymphedema flair ups) for four whole months. And while that is something to celebrate – as is finally being ‘even’ again after today’s procedure (which really hurts but is worth it) – it is also hard. As change always is, even when it’s for the better.

But I will adjust. I am still struggling to figure out who this post-treatment me is. And I will get there. Maybe I just need a little more time in some healing gardens…

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