anniversary

My cancerversary is on Friday.  It’s been a year since my diagnosis, and it feels both much longer and much shorter than that.

I was sure when I started chemo that it would never end.  I went into one session sure I had at least three more, and when a nurse told me I had only one more, I was surprised.  Radiation went by so quickly that I can barely remember it now.  Mostly I remember one of my radiation techs, Deedee, and Leilani, a fellow patient, who made everyone in the clinic laugh.

When I think of how much time I’ve spent worrying about the future, though, that year seems like a decade.  It hasn’t been until recently that I’ve truly come to understand that if I have a recurrence, there’s nothing I can do about it.  I can try to prevent it by eating healthy and taking care of myself, but that’s all I can do.  It’s both frightening and liberating to come to that conclusion.

I know I’ve said it before, but it’s still true: cancer has taught me what love is.  It’s taught me that love is not flowers and a ring and a church; it’s my husband changing my bandages.  Love is being near my kids; cherishing all the little moments.  Maybe it’s no coincidence that the cancer happened the same year Katie started high school.  In only a few years she’ll be starting her own life away from us.  Every day with her is more precious.

Spiritually, though, I don’t know where I am.  We’ve continued to go to church as a family all through my treatment, as we always have, but instead of feeling closer to my higher power, I don’t feel its presence like I used to.  It feels like I’ve been dropped off in the wilderness with only a map and pocket change, left to sort out my survival on my own.  I might get eaten by something, but I might not.  This uncertainty has led me to seek out help in my church, which has helped, I guess.

In a month or so, I’ll be able to talk to a plastic surgeon about reconstruction.  I didn’t think I wanted to go through another surgery, but I think it’ll help me a lot, mentally.