Yes, I still think about cancer every day!
If you know, you know. If you don't, hear me out.
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If you’re lucky, years come and go following a cancer diagnosis, but that doesn’t mean cancer is over after ‘X’ number of years have passed. Much like other traumas, the cancer experience doesn’t have a neat and tidy end point either. This is the case for me and my family anyway.
If you’ve survived a trauma of any kind, I can’t wait to find out your thoughts on this. So be sure to share in the comments. I promise to read AND reply.
Let’s have this conversation.
Yes, I still think about cancer every day!
If you know, you know. If you don’t, hear me out.
The other day I did a somewhat scary thing. I canceled my annual appointment with my oncologist. Gulp.
When I called to cancel my already scheduled appointment, the receptionist asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to reschedule?” Even after I replied, “No,” she followed up with, “So, you don’t want one?”
Admittedly, her asking those two questions made me hesitate and second guess.
Am I jinxing things?
I hope not. No, I don’t believe in that sort of thing.
But still…
It feels weird to cut those strings. I’ve been thinking about doing it for the past couple years. My oncologist mentioned last year that these annual appointments were now optional. Up to me. Come in. Don’t come in.
(Wait, don’t you care anymore? That thought might’ve flashed through my mind.)
The thing is, I feel like I’m wasting his time. Time he needs for attending to other cancer patients. The newly diagnosed ones. The in-the-thick-of treatment ones. The metastatic ones. And yes, the dying ones. Because they just keep coming. Cancer is relentless that way. Plus, he’s out there. If and when I need him again, he’s a phone call away. I’m also fortunate to have a primary care doctor I’ve been seeing for years — a cancer survivor herself. I’m in good hands with her experience and expertise. She’s been helping me deal with cancer fallout for over a decade now. No small task.
To be clear, this in no way means cancer is over for me. Uh-uh. Nope.
And yes, I do still think about cancer every. single. day.
How could I not?
Whenever I’m in front of a mirror before or after showering, or even when looking down while getting dressed, I’m reminded; oh yeah, that happened.
Going further, even if I overlook the glaringly obvious and numerous scars from DIEP flap surgery, keep in mind, I have no nipples. (TMI? Apologies.)
(If you’d like to read more about nipple envy (yeah, that’s a thing), click here. Or not. Up to you.)
Sure, the things those scars and no nipples “say to me” vary from day to day. But they are “speaking,” nonetheless. Silent loudspeakers seems a fitting name.
The point is, the physcial reminders are always there. Sometimes I see them. Sometimes I don’t. And the emotional scars; well, they lurk quietly in the background.
For instance, I’m well aware that recurrence is possible and always will be. A dear friend was diagnosed with metatatic breast cancer 15 years out from her diagnosis — which is where I’m now at.
And we all remember Olivia Newton John, right?
Her metatatic breast cancer diagnosis was 20 years after her initial, early-stage diagnosis. Yeah, cancer loves to lurk, alright.
And let’s not forget, or at least I can’t forget, cancer is in my mutated DNA (BRCA2+ here). Literally. It’s in there. Not happy about that, but it’s my reality. Hereditary cancer sucks. All cancer sucks. Not a gift. No way.
(I still hear this cancer is a gift nonsense from time to time, and it still bugs the crap out of me. So much so, I even titled my memoir, Cancer Was Not a Gift & It Didn’t Make Me a Better Person.)
Like most traumas, cancer brings and leaves baggage. It just does. Everyone’s baggage and impact of said baggage is a bit different. But it’s there, nonetheless. Ask any cancer patient.
As I’ve mentioned before, the trick is to incorporate the experience, including the baggage, into who you are or want to become.
Cancer treatment is hard. Life when active treatment ends can be harder. In other words, the work continues. We all do this work and incorporating differently.
Even after 15 years, it’s not over; and yes, I still think about cancer every day. You bet I do. Not in a dwelling on it sort of way, but rather, in a this is my reality now, sort of way.
Cancer may not define me, but like it or not, it is part of “my definition” now. I’m not as angry about this as I used to be. I guess I’ve incoportated things more than I realized. Or I’ve mellowed. Or something.
Don’t get me wrong, anger still bubbles up, and anger is NOT a forbidden emotion. In fact, you need a little anger now and then. After all, anger fuels advocacy. Anger fuels change. Anger is a great motivator. Read more on that here.
I write about my cancer experience in this space (and in my books) because today, or next week, or next month, or next year someone else heard, or will hear those words, you have cancer.
Maybe my words can help someone who hears those other awful words feel seen and less alone.
Here's what the brilliant wrote about surviving her trauma (not cancer) in a recent article addressing this very thing:
There is wisdom in survival. There is wisdom in grief, in forgiveness, in having lived through things that could have broken me. That wisdom doesn’t belong in a drawer. It belongs in the world, where it might do some good.
Don’t you just love that?
This is why I share my story, including the cancery parts, and why I encourage you to share yours. Maybe cancer isn’t part of your story, but you have a story. YOU have wisdom to share with the world. We all do.
Let’s not keep our wisdom hidden away in a drawer. Let’s share it with the world to do some good — and this caring community is a great place to start!
And so, Dear Reader, I invite you to share a piece of your story. Share about a difficult experience you’ve been through. Any kind. Perhaps an illness or injury. Loss of a loved one or beloved pet. A job loss or divorce. A setback or disappointment of some kind. Whatever it is/was, you’re invited to share about it. This community is here to witness and support you.
Let’s have a conversation about hard things. Because your hard matters, too.
What is a hard thing you’ve been through?
What sort of baggage do you carry from your experience?
Do you hesitate to share your story and your wisdom with others?
Do you think about cancer (or other trauma you’ve experienced) every day?
Thank you for reading and being part of this conversation. I appreciate you.
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If you’d like to read a sample of my memoir, Cancer Was Not a Gift & It Didn’t Make Me a Better Person, click here to download the first chapter. To purchase, click on the image below.
Visit my author website to learn more about all my books.
As always, I see you. I hear you, and I care about what you have to say.
Until next time…
Take care of yourself, be kind to someone, and be a light.
With much gratitude,
Nancy
Your pieces are so thought provoking and today's especially so. Maybe because you say, we've all been through difficult things. When I hear that, I think "but my difficult thing wasn't as bad as other people's, so I don't need to speak it." Talk about stuffing it in a drawer. First time public confession: I was raped when I was twenty-one. I didn't tell anyone, because I knew the guy. The term "date rape" had not yet entered the lexicon.
I'd been taken out to dinner by a cute, successful young man and I was smitten. After dinner, we went to his house for a drink -- such a grown up thing it felt like at twenty-one. And it was during the sipping of my adult cocktail, feeling on top of the world, that he pushed me back on the couch and pinned my hands down and went from cute guy to rough guy. It hurt. I said no. I was afraid and afterward, I tried my best to straighten my skirt and top and walk out the door. My panties were still on the floor, but I couldn't even stop to pick them up. I just wanted to get home. Home, where I did everything I shouldn't have - didn't report the crime, took the longest shower in the world, cried alone and vowed never to tell anyone.
A few days later, I went to Planned Parenthood, afraid that I might be pregnant. Too early to tell, of course. The kind doctor who examined me said she could tell that I'd been raped because I was torn. Yes, I still hurt. She tried to get me to talk about it, but I couldn't. I wouldn't. I felt like it was my fault. I carried what I thought was a shameful story most of my life and only in my mid-sixties did I review it, and cry for that young woman that was me. I tell my stories now without worry of shame or blame -- rape stories never leave us, a lot like cancer stories I imagine.
On that note, I thank you for opening the door and inviting us to share a difficult time, a difficult passage. Some passages just take longer than others as the center pointe still lingers nearby. Thank you for this and biggest of hugs.
I had two lumpectomies two years ago, one on each breast. The left breast in which the larger tumor resided is now smaller than the right breast and also higher up. When I look down at my breasts I can see the nipple on my right breast, but not on my left. I have a friend who had a similar situation and had surgery to make her breasts match. That is beyond me, but to your point, I notice every day. The other noticing I do is my left breast collects lymph because the nodes under my left arm were removed so I have this Lump of lymph that I need to massage out of my breast every day. Will this ever go away? Probably not. My mother died of breast cancer at the age of 50. I miss her every day and particularly miss the fact that she never got to see her granddaughters. I’ve written a book of poetry to honor both her journey and mine, which will be released in June. I’m hoping to read from the book in the breast cancer recovery community.
I think the most important thing I can do is to recognize that each woman’s journey is different and and the impact of breast cancer varies, but no matter where you are, it helps to know you’re not alone.