Little Reminders

I'm currently sitting in bed, drinking my coffee, with some murder mystery show on TV playing in the background, and it feels like a normal day. I've done this exact same thing, this exact same way, hundreds of times before. Not much in those past instances differ from this very moment.

Except.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Penny the Port sticking out of my chest. An unwanted, but welcome, intrusion on my body. Most of the time, I forget she's there. I've long since stopped covering her up when I leave the house, because I figured it's not worth my energy to constantly hide her. And, if anyone is curious enough to ask about her, I feel comfortable enough to give an honest answer to whomever that person might be (stranger or friend or new date) without full breaking down into tears. Today, though, I notice the little mountain she makes on my skin, right below my collar bone. My neck has been sore on that side for a few days, and so of course, my worry is back, thinking, "Shit, what if the cancer spread? What if it's in my neck now?" I know that this is highly unlikely, but I think for a few years to come, every ache and pain I experience is going to lead to that very thought. Penny is this physical reminder that I am still very much a cancer patient, and my body does not belong to me.

It is not easy being a cancer patient out of treatment. Well, out of the worst of treatment, since Herceptin still counts as active treatment. It's hard to feel like we (my doctors and I) are no longer doing everything possible to fight the cancer, therefore what if some microscopic bits of it escaped free and are still attacking my insides? I've hardly ever liked my body, and now I feel like I can't even trust it.

Not only is the sight of Penny slightly bothersome, my breast hurts. It's been 10 months since my surgery, and I still get shooting pains in my left breast, which is the side my tumor was on. The back of my arm from shoulder to elbow is still numb from nerve damage when they took out lymph nodes, making certain weightlifting movements at the gym difficult, and also frustrating.

This limbo of being between cancer treatment phases is difficult for me. I feel so incredibly far removed from the woman I was just 4 months ago going through chemo, but not yet entirely the me I want to be beyond cancer. Every time I get a little distance from my cancer, some part of it pulls me back in, to the reality that I'm still very much fighting this cancer, if you can call it fighting. Every little ache and pain is a reminder of what I went through. And even though I still rarely look in the mirror, my scars are proof that it happened.

I know that time will continue to move forward. I will eventually be done with Herceptin, and will be able to check that off of my treatment plan. Penny will be removed from my chest at some point next year, and then all I'll be left with are the physical (and mental) scars of my cancer. I'm trying to help myself heal as I go along, so that way when this final chapter does come to an end, I'm not completely terrified and anxious, but I can only do so much in the here and now. I plan on living in the moment. Smiling and laughing. Making plans for my future (next year's bucket list is growing: Costa Rica, skydiving, Half Dome...). Being grateful to be alive. Being excited to get to know someone new who sees me for more than my cancer.

These little reminders about cancer are hard. But I am so happy to be alive to tell my story and inspire others.

Roller Coaster

I wish I could better describe the roller coaster of emotions that come with cancer. One moment to the next is uncertain. I could be happy, or at the very least content, and then burst into tears. And I know that people without cancer experience these same mood swings, so it's not all inclusive to my experience. But, the cancer makes it different.

I know I could attribute the mood swings to a variety of things - the possibility that my period is about to come back, the fact that I'm still in a state of medically induced menopause, or simply that I'm a 27 year old female. But I know that it's deeper than that. I have anxiety and fear regarding the end of my various phases of treatment, and those attribute to a lot of my wavering emotions. I had an insane amount of anxiety at the end of chemo. I didn't allow myself to get excited about it because my thought was "well, now what? What are we going to be doing to actively treat the cancer after this?" Then came radiation, and that quieted the anxiety for a few weeks. But now the end of radiation is near, and that question has resurfaced. There's a lot of fear associated with "survivorship" that people fail to realize. Cancer is this all-encompasing thing for however long you have to deal with it, and then treatment is over, and you're left in a fog.

What comes next? Who am I without cancer? 

It's bittersweet to me that I still have to go in for Herceptin. On one hand, I want my cancer experience to be over. But on the other hand, I'm grateful that I'm not being thrown out to the wolves and forgotten about. Instead, my gradual decline of cancer appointments is giving me a little bit more time to accept the end of treatment, and what it means to live after cancer.

That concept is something I'm struggling with. I feel inadequate in life. I don't think I'm smart. Even before cancer happened, I felt as though I wasn't doing enough with my time. And now, after cancer, everyone expects you to become this amazing, strong, proactive person with a zest for life, and that's a hard expectation to fulfill. I'm putting all this pressure on myself to do something or be someone important, when in reality, I should be more gentle with myself considering what I, and my body, have been through. I really do want to make a difference somehow, but I need to stop thinking that I have to figure it out right now.

Earlier today, I let myself get lost in this fear of not having my life figured out to the point where I made myself feel physically sick. I ugly cried in my car while on my way to support group, hiding behind my sunglasses. My car is my sanctuary, and I just let it out. I had tried to suppress all of these fears I had about not "finding myself" after cancer, but today I let myself feel my feelings. It helped to be honest with myself and realize that I needed to let the tears happen, and then going to support group helped. Because the other women that were there don't have their shit figured out, either. We're all young, and still in the midst of fighting for our lives, so we don't have to have anything figured out just yet. I need to give myself permission to believe that and accept it.

I'm now drugged up on Ativan, because the looming panic returned after the group ended and I was walking towards my car, and I decided that being in a fog was better than being in a panic. Today was a high dose cancer day - radiation, doctor appointment, Herceptin, and support group, and it fell on a day where I really didn't want to do any of it, but had to. I'm hoping that the Ativan works its wonders and puts me at ease, and helps me sleep.

Tomorrow is a new day. Hopefully I'll be on a happier roller coaster by then.