Months ago, I didn't want to talk about my cancer. At all. It was hard to reconcile with, and I hoped that the less I talked about it, maybe the less real it would be. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case. There was no magic wand in the world to reverse my diagnosis, or make it un-true. All I could do was accept it, and move forward. So, that's what I've tried my best to do. I still have days where my anger prevails, and the "why me?" feelings gnaw at my head and heart, but I try not to revel in them. With this sort of zen-like acceptance, and going through the motions of treatment, and "coming out" to the public, it's become much easier to talk about my cancer, the treatment I'm going through, and the doubt that I sometimes experience. The candid approach I've taken with talking about my cancer simultaneously helps me accept it, and come to terms with it a little bit more.
I've started to talk openly with strangers about my diagnosis, which seems to be a really common thread in cancer. At the radiation center, I've met several people in the waiting room, and introductions come with an identifier of why you're there. It's like prison scenes from movies. "So, what are you in for?" "Breast cancer, how about you?" "Liver cancer." And then the conversation spirals into where you're at in treatment, what type of surgery you've had, or will have. It's hard not to let it, but cancer becomes a part of your identity.
The other day, I had an intriguing conversation about various radiation techniques with one of my radiation techs. I was curious about why I didn't need to hold my breath, when in the forum I frequent, some women report having to do that. I was informed me of a technique called "caging" in which breath control is required, but that it's not a common practice, and hasn't shown to have any added benefit. These types of differences in care fascinate me. It's amazing to me that treatment styles and techniques vary from clinic to clinic, patient to patient, and doctor to doctor.
Did I mention that I had this conversation while I was on the radiation table, with my breast hanging out, while I was being put into position? Oh, and the radiation tech that I was having this conversation with was a guy. His name is Bob. I couldn't help but laugh on my way out the door about how strange that conversation would have seemed to an outsider. My modesty has gone almost completely out the window.
Today, I had a conversation with my radiation oncologist about my fears regarding not having any scans done, and trying to rid myself of the anxiety of the unanswered question - how do we KNOW that the cancer is gone for sure? I asked him his opinions on the risk involved, and what he would do were he in my shoes. That's when he told me he's also had cancer. My faith in him swelled at that moment, because who better to understand what it's like to have these questions floating around in your head, giving you uncertainty, than someone who's had those same feelings? I mentioned that I haven't been able to mentally distinguish between whether I have or had cancer, and when I'll be able to be considered in remission. Medically billing speaking, they use "have" for radiation treatment, even though the cancer is technically gone, so he feels that after radiation is when I could potentially say had. But then again, I still have to go in for protein infusions, and then do 10 years of hormonal therapy. He assured me that he doesn't think I have any cancer, and that at the end of radiation, I could transition to had. I think I like that idea, but I'm probably going to consult my oncologist to see if he agrees.
I never thought I'd be so concerned with the tense of a verb, but in this case, it holds a lot of meaning. And I think for me, it signals a moment when I can start to move forward, and start to distance myself from active treatment. Right now, I feel in limbo. I'm not really living, just sort of surviving. And I desperately want to start living again.
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