It's been a long six and a half months since the day I found the lump in my breast. I've gone through an intense roller coaster ride that is by no means over yet. But a significant portion of it is in its home stretch. In just two weeks I will be done with chemotherapy. That's huge. And it's time to celebrate and be happy. In my climb to the top of Mt. Cancer-Free, it's time to stop for a second and survey how far I've come.
It's been hard. The hardest stretch of life I've ever overcome. I was just saying to Dennis last night that I still remember clearly the afternoon I heard the news that it was cancer. And as my Dad's third death anniversary approaches on Saturday, I can say that hearing I had cancer was about as devastating as the night my Dad died as I held his hand. My only consolation at my Dad not being alive now is that he didn't have to see me go through this. Having had non-Hodgkins lymphoma, my diagnosis would have broken his heart. On the other hand, having had my Mom with me and Dennis when I heard the news and as I went through the hardest part of waiting for more information, surgery, and the first, hardest round of chemo, was my saving grace. And yes, it broke her heart to watch me go through this, but as mothers' hearts go they are extremely resilient and strong, and so full of faith that for the longest time, she carried me with her and helped to strengthen mine.
Your best friend is the one person in the world that you run to when you hear the best news in the world, and the person you need to be with you when you hear the worst. Dennis, as always, has been my rock. He is my fixed object in the distance, guiding me so I don't get lost and drown when I'm in murky waters. Once again, I thank my in-laws - Bella and Anatoly - for having raised such an amazing person. I'm the direct beneficiary of their hard work.
And there have been murky waters for sure. I've heard this often in the last half year: every cancer patient's experience is different. From their diagnosis and treatment, to how they approach battling the disease. My approach has been to kick ass. I have refused to let breast cancer take over my life. Every day I wake up and I'm alive is a day not to be wasted. Getting treated is just one more thing I have to do. Yes - it's changed my schedule, but it's just another appointment I have had to fit in to my crazy life. And as many bright moments I've had - which I will of course end this post with - I've had the down moments. I've had my doubts and I've had my times when I wanted to curl up into a ball and cry my heart out. And I have. I haven't written about it much because I don't like to dwell. But when I'm looking back to see how far I've come, it's only fair to recognize the places where I almost fell.
Everyone that knows what I'm going through and has seen me has said I look great. Bless your souls. And for the most part, I feel great. In fact, truth be told, this is the healthiest I've felt in my life- ironically. I've changed my diet, cut out as much sugar as I can on a daily basis, I'm exercising more - I've actually dropped a dress size! But (there's always a but), I also lost my hair. I have no eyebrows, no eyelashes, and my fingernails are blue, brittle, and ugly thick. I have a mad scar across my chest where my right breast used to be. My toes are numb and tingly all the time. And since my surgery didn't just remove my right breast, it also took out all my lymph nodes, for the rest of my life I can never carry anything over five pounds using my right arm. It's very much a handicap. When I look in the mirror early in the morning sans wig, make up, and prosthetic boob, I'm not the same person I was a year ago. There are times I want to cry. There have been many times I have. But these are all cosmetic. I've been told every day after the last day of chemo that I will feel better and better, and more like my old self. I believe that.
The scariest moments for me have been when I'm feeling vulnerable, I'm feeling off and tired and stressed and tested. And that's when the worst fearful thoughts rear their ugly heads. It's when I start asking why did I get cancer? Why me? It's when I'm paralyzed by the thought of "what if?" What if I don't survive this? Last year I couldn't have known this would be my next year. What if I die next year? What if I die the year after that? And the worst what if thought... What if I die and Alyssa grows up not remembering me? That is the worst thought for a young mother, and when it crosses my mind, I know I've sunk to the depths and I'm letting cancer get the better of me.
And then it's time to snap out of it and think of how blessed I am. Time to look at the glass half full. That is frequently the biggest challenge to me, and yet, when I succeed it's the best prize. People around me have been the silver lining to my dark and stormy clouds. It's been family, friends who have supported me, Dennis and Alyssa. It's been Alyssa with her innocence and smiles, and "I laffs u!" that have lifted my spirits like nothing else can. It's been my doctors, nurses and physical therapist who have made the tediousness of hospital visits bearable... and even fun. Ironically, I will miss them and yet also would be happy to never have to see them again - at least where they work! They are the heroes - especially my nurses - in my battle to survive. You are amazing.
I'm not anywhere near the top of my mountain, but I can see the summit from where I stand now. And all the faces of my friends and family at the top who have survived cancer. There are many sad stories out there, and equally there are many happy ones. I still remember my family doctor saying this to me shortly after my diagnosis: "Frances, there is no reason to believe you can't live to be 97 and die in your sleep. You're just going to have to work a little harder at it than the rest of us." She is so right.
