Friday, August 25, 2017

The Darkness is Only Ever Temporary

Just when I think I've sorted through all of my emotions about my cancer experience, a song comes on Pandora and I ugly cry in front of my six-year-old. And it's a song from Twilight, no less:

But it's also a song Quinn and I danced to at a wedding when I was still in the throes of chemo and scared out of my mind. Hearing it brought me immediately back to that time, and my emotions erupted before I knew what had hit me.

This song interrupted our Scrabble game last week, because that's what we do now, when he's not asking me who will run on the Democratic ticket in 2020 or reading Harry Potter to me or trying to listen to his baby sister's heartbeat through my belly. So much has changed in the last eighteen months, especially, and words often escape me when I'm trying to reflect on it all. I did think I was past the ugly tears.

Clearly, a favorite activity of ours.
This past Saturday marked six years since my diagnosis. Six years of terror, relief, anxiety, grief, hope, and far too much chemo to count. Five years of wondering whether I would live long enough for this little wonder child of mine to remember me. Four (and a half) years receiving chemotherapy, an infusion at least every three weeks. Three years writing a memoir about the whole experience. Two years in chemically-induced menopause. One year since everything changed.

But who's counting?

Last Saturday also happened to be the day ushering me into my third trimester of this pregnancy. I have so many mixed emotions about this particular cancerversary milestone. Six years is obviously something to celebrate, but so is every day. So is a new life growing inside of me, rolling and kicking and hiccuping almost as much as Quinn did in utero. And while I celebrate my own milestones, I am still so angry that so many of my friends are facing this stupid disease. 

Last week, one of my closest friends had a bilateral mastectomy because they found what appears to be early-stage cancer in her left breast two days before her 37th birthday. I naively thought I'd taken one for the team, so to speak, with my group of friends, and that no one else in my immediate circle would have to deal with this shit-storm until we were all at least post-menopausal. I don't know why my brain tries to play tricks on me like that. I should know by now that is not how cancer works. 

I am mad that it is good news when another of my friends, Beth, only has to contend with lung mets that make her cough so hard she vomits and brain mets that send her into seizures. It is good news because at least she is not facing hospice right this minute. At least we have her voice and her brilliant advocacy efforts for a bit longer. And I celebrate because I got to hug her when I was in Seattle last month.

I am terrified about when the other shoe is going to drop, for me, for Beth, for so many of my friends. I worry that I got out of this too unscathed, despite my scars, my lack of breasts, my lack of eyebrows. So I celebrate, yes, but I also cry loud, body-rocking sobs in front of my six-year-old every once in awhile. 

Then a phenomenon like the eclipse occurs, and we pulled Quinn out of school to make a pinhole cereal box viewer and watch the events from a lawn at ASU. The whole country, it seemed, came outside to watch, and I am reminded that the darkness in our lives is only ever temporary. That these moments are magical, and worth celebrating. Here's to the light.

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