Sometimes, I think I'm capable of being a lot stronger mentally than I actually am. I wish I could say that I no longer think about cancer on a daily basis, but that's absolutely not true. What I can say is that I think about my life much differently after having had cancer. I am happy and alive and breathing, and every day that I wake up is a gift that I don't plan on wasting. That counts for a whole hell of a lot in my book. So, yeah, I still think about cancer daily, but it's in a much more positive way than it previously has been. I will never be one of those people who says that cancer was the best thing that ever happened to them, because I wouldn't wish that hell on anyone. But it's made me stronger. Happier. More open to new opportunities. My whole life has been reshaped in an incredibly positive way because of the experiences I've had. I used to be incredibly angry at cancer. Now, I'm at peace with it. It happened. It's part of my story. But it's definitely not the entire book.
Yesterday morning as I was typing away about my bowel movements, I had my tv on, which is a rare occasion these days. I don't watch it much, preferring to read or be outside or at the gym in my spare time. But, I've been waking up a lot earlier before work lately, so as I typed, I decided to put on a movie. And I'm not entirely sure why, but I settled on "50/50". If you've never watched that movie, it stars Joseph Gordon Levitt and Seth Rogen (
IMDB page here). It's about a 27 year old who gets diagnosed with a sarcoma on his spine. He goes through the awkwardness of counseling, the chemotherapy, the relentless side effects, the pain of someone he cares about walking away from him in the middle of his treatment, his best friend doing what he could to hold it together, and his family struggling with how to deal. Literally all things that I experienced, including the heartbreak. Especially the heartbreak. Honestly, I thought that the heartbreak aspect of it was going to be what stood out most to me and would tug at my heartstrings, but it actually didn't bother me.
I've watched this movie before and enjoyed it, but that was before my own cancer experience. I literally only put it on for background noise as I clicked away on my keyboard, but after I posted the last blog post, I went downstairs, made myself breakfast, and then came back upstairs to finish the movie before having to get ready for work. And then, a scene came up that caused one of the most intense flashbacks I've had regarding my cancer. There are spoilers below, so if you haven't seen the movie, I don't recommend continuing to read on.
Near the end of the movie, Levitt's character goes in for surgery. He's in a hospital gown, laying on the gurney, and has an IV hooked up to a portacath in his chest, and at one point signs a waiver for being an organ donor. All things that I remember incredibly vividly. I was looking at the tv, and I knew it was Levitt's character that was on the screen, but all I was seeing was my face. All over again, it was me on that gurney. Me in the hospital gown. Me with an IV hooked up to fluids. Me signing the medical releases. A nurse and an anesthesiologist come up to him and start to administer the anesthesia, explaining that they were going to be wheeling him into surgery. And Levitt breaks down. He starts to panic, asking how long it's going to take, whether they're giving him enough anesthesia to keep him asleep, what would happen if he woke up during the procedure... All while his mom is by his side and trying to reassure him the best she could that things were going to be okay. That she would see him in a few hours. That it would all be over soon. They embrace in a hug and start crying, and I just lost my shit. I started bawling, unable to control my tears, and the feelings of fear rushing back practically knocked the wind out of me. I couldn't stop crying or gasping for air.
It was like I was back in that hospital. The four walls of my room transformed into the one wall and three privacy curtains of the hospital where I waited for my table time for surgery. I easily remembered my mom and I sitting there, waiting and waiting, and me trying not to move because I was in pain. I had a wire sticking out of my left breast, and an IV in my right hand. I knew my blood pressure was over the roof. I had brought a book to read, but I couldn't focus on anything, so I turned on the small tv at my bedside table while my mom and I made small talk. I had started crying in the car on the drive over, telling her I was afraid. She put on her brave face, and told me everything would be okay. That we were in it together. So, while we waited in that room for the surgeon to come up, I held back the tears, and reminded myself that everything would be okay. It had to be. I was strong enough to make it through this. I didn't exactly believe it, but I had to keep repeating it. Eventually, my surgeon came into my little "room" and marked my left breast with his initials, a precaution to make sure they operated on the correct side. How they could possibly get it wrong since I had a wire sticking out of the breast, I had no idea. But better safe than sorry. Not too long later, my nurse came by asking if I needed to use the bathroom before I went in. I said yes, so she and my mom helped me unplug my monitor that had me hooked up to the IV, and the nurse followed me to the bathroom and waited outside the door. I was still trying not to move too much because of the IV and my grave dislike for needles, so it was difficult getting my underwear down. It took me longer than it should have to go pee, but I was taking my time, still trying to stay calm. When I came out of the room, the nurse informed me it was time to go. I went back to the area my mom was sitting, and sat back down on the gurney. My mom took my belongings, and followed us partway down the hall. It was when the nurse told my mom that she had to stay behind that I absolutely broke down and started crying hysterically. I didn't want my mom to see me cry like that. I didn't want her to see me so broken. I wanted to be strong for her. She had been so strong for me in the month of doctor's appointments and biopsies and consultations prior to that moment. But, at that moment, I couldn't help myself. I needed her at that moment more than I ever have. Just like in the movie, my mom hugged me tight as I cried, no longer holding back the fear and panic I was feeling. She told me she loved me and that she'd see me soon. Eventually, we separated, either because she pulled away, or the nurse told her we had to go, I'm not really sure. I cried the rest of the way into the operating room, and had to choke back the tears as the anesthesiologist administered my drugs and the surgeon did the walk-through, asking me my name, date of birth, what surgery I was in for... And all I could think about was my mom sitting alone in the waiting room. Other family members had wanted to come to sit there with her and be there for me, but I asked them not to. Not just because I didn't want anyone else there, but because my mom was the only one I needed.
My mom and I have had our differences, but I can say she has been the most amazing support system through all of this. I remember her sitting on my bed after I casually told her about my diagnosis, telling me we would figure it out. I can only imagine how devastating it was hearing that her daughter had cancer. I know that she would've happily taken my place if possible, but I would never have let her. Despite being in school and working a full time job that had her traveling on an almost weekly basis, my mom was there for every single doctor's appointment that I wanted her there for. Every test result she wanted to know about. She was there as I agonized over whether or not I should save eggs through IVF, telling me in the most heartbreaking way that she didn't need to be a grandmother and that the choice was mine alone to make. She came to every single chemotherapy appointment, and helped me carry in the 100 lb cooler of dry ice and cold caps, which was quite a feat for my small framed mother. She helped me change the bandages on my wounds when I practically passed out in the shower from pain. And on one of the days where I had a huge panic attack regarding the IVF, she injected me with hormones when I couldn't bring myself to do it.
So, this less than 5 minute scene of this movie had this effect on me. It opened the floodgates of memories, and I couldn't shake it for a few hours. It wasn't the best start to my day. In the midst of my tears, I texted my mom to tell her I loved her. Not only because she needs to hear it more often, but because I just really needed to say it. And, as moms do, she asked if everything was okay. My mom always knows when something is wrong, which is something I love about her. The fear and anxiety that had built up regarding these memories lasted for a few hours, causing me to randomly break out in tears while getting ready for work, and while at work. Eventually, my day got busy enough to where the feeling passed. But it served as a reminder that at any given moment, the walls I've built up to protect myself from these memories could come crashing down. Most often when I least expect it. Granted, I should've known better than to watch a movie about cancer, but I honestly didn't think it would have any effect on me. I thought that I was far enough removed from my cancer that I could hold those memories at arm's length. Today, I learned that's definitely not the case. Just as I wrote a few days ago, I'm always going to be living in these moments of hesitation. Of being wary of living too much for fear that something might knock me back down.
I refuse to live in fear. I let the feelings come, because they deserved space and recognition. I couldn't stop them, so there was no point in trying to push them back into the recesses of my heart. I allowed myself to feel my feelings, and then, slowly as the day passed, I was able to move forward. It didn't ruin the rest of my day. It just made me realize that much more how much life I have left to live.
My text to my mom.
Joseph Gordon Levitt as Adam in 50/50 - the scene that made me lose it.
