Bittersweet

One of the most common things you hear after cancer treatment is people trying to find their "new normal". It's a kick in the ass, really. I remember all through chemo I was desperately wishing for things to go back to normal, but only with the vague realization that the normal I was imagining was no longer going to be within my grasp. My old life that I had cultivated was out of reach. But here I am, two years later, after thinking my life was perfect. I'm standing. I'm breathing. I would argue that I'm the happiest and most content and most comfortable I've ever been. I see beauty in the small things, like waking up to the sun shining and feeling the warm air on my skin. And it's not that I didn't see or appreciate those things before, it's that now they carry new meaning. Each and every day I'm grateful to be alive. And even if I'm having a bad day, I know that tomorrow is a chance to start over. Occasionally struggling is part of the process of life, and that in itself holds beauty.

But then the reality of what my "new normal" is sets in, and I remember that some things can't, or won't, come as easy as they used to. Such as..

I'm finalizing my trip to Costa Rica in September, and it dawned on me the other day that I should contact my oncologist to make sure all of my vaccinations were up to date and make sure it's safe for me to travel out of the country. So, cue me sending off an email to good ol' Dr. Shek, following his instructions, and setting up an appointment with a travel nurse to make sure my vaccinations are up to date (dear god, I really hope they are. Nearly two years closely associated with needles has not gotten me over my grave fear and dislike of them).

I've been having this pretty significant chest pain for almost four months. After a month of it persisting, I finally conceded to seeing my oncologist. We agreed on a chest X-ray, me taking Prilosec, and an EKG. It wasn't until the results came back clear that we discussed a CT scan. My doctor has been adamant that my screenings won't include scans because he doesn't want to expose me to any more radiation. So for him to suggest the CT scan, I knew where he was headed, but I didn't believe it until the words came out of his mouth. "We have to rule out the possibility of recurrence." And my thought was, "Holy fuck. What if it's back? What if they didn't get it all the first time? What if I have to go through this all over again even though it just ended?" What if, what if, what if... I went to the hospital the next day for the scan, and of course I had to go to the same department where I went for my lumpectomy. Anxiety and fear set in as I waited. I tried to stay calm, but that rarely works when it comes to me and hospitals. I got an IV put in, and then the CT was relatively quick and painless. The results came in the next day - everything looked normal. No recurrence. No heart abnormality. Just some scar tissue buildup. I breathed a huge sigh of relief. But only for a moment. Because it's still happening. I've now seen my general practitioner, and she doesn't believe anything is wrong - just scar tissue breaking down, and inflammation from my workouts. I'm not convinced, so I'm keeping a close eye on it.

My memory isn't what it used to be. Now, I know that people say as you get older, your memory doesn't hold up to the test of time. But, let's be realistic here, I'm only 28 (at least for three more weeks). I shouldn't be struggling to remember simple things, like a conversation I had two days before. Or a word that I've used in everyday jargon for years, but suddenly forgetting what that word was. I can't tell you how many conversations I've just given up on because I've gotten so frustrated at myself for not being able to spit out a simple sentence. Luckily, this has improved since chemo has ended, but it still happens occasionally.

I'm more fatigued than I used to be. I'm always tired since I pretty much don't sleep, but it's a general lingering exhaustion that holds steady through most days. It's incredibly frustrating, because when I actually attempt to sleep, I don't. This one, I can't entirely blame on after effects of chemo, because the poor sleep has been an ongoing issue for years.

I know that healing and recovery aren't linear. There are going to be highs and lows, and I'm doing my best to accept that and deal with each new issue as it comes. At least it's making life a little more interesting....

Hesitation

I live in these moments of hesitation. As if maybe I shouldn't be enjoying life so much, because at any given moment my world could come crashing down around me. That's the thing about life after cancer.. you're left living constantly on your toes. Wondering when will all of those feelings resurface. Wondering when your next meltdown will be. Wondering when all of the horrors you faced will come flooding back in without an invitation and with absolutely no warning. It's the space between remaining stagnant and being propelled ahead, with endless forward motion. There have been so many days where seemingly out of nowhere, my anxiety has peaked and my heart is pounding just because a simple building holds horrible memories. Or my thoughts race back to getting my heart broken in the midst of all of that trauma, making the whole experience that much more unbearable. I'm much more guarded now. With my life and especially my heart. I'm continuing to walk forward in life, but it feels as though I always have one eye over my shoulder. Watching. Waiting. 

Making a comeback

It's been months since I've updated here, and I regret my drop off in commitment to this blog, especially since SO MUCH has happened since my last entry in October. I'm not even sure I can remember it all. Finishing training for my new job, finishing Herceptin, starting Tamoxifen, Penny the Port's excavation, starting a new relationship, going to Atlanta for the Young Survival Coaltion Conference and meeting the founder and CEO of Barbells for Boobs and getting to stay with her and teach CrossFit classes with her, going to Disneyland (again), going to Maui with an organization called Athletes for Cancer and surfing for the first time ever, watching two of my best friends get married, passing my CrossFit Level-1 trainer course, and ending said new relationship. Well, to name a few things... Hopefully I can eventually back track and update about them all.

I've honestly only recently thought of this blog again due to the "memories" feature on Facebook. Otherwise, it has been pretty far removed from my thoughts. It appears that the further removed I get from my cancer treatment, the less associated with it I want to be, which makes sense, right? Why would I want to keep thinking about it? Who wants to constantly be reminded of the worst thing that's ever happened to them? But the reality is, this blog was my saving grace during treatment. It was an outlet. A place to vent, to update people on what was happening in my life, and outlet for me at a time when it felt like no one really understood me. Since Herceptin ended, I've really struggled with the thought that maybe I'm spending too much time looking backwards at what my life with cancer was like and not enough time moving forward in my life beyond cancer. I've found myself constantly using that memories feature on Facebook to see what I posted on that day last year, and how I was feeling, what was said, or who commented on my status updates. And not that that's a bad thing. It has filled me with so much love for all of the amazing people that have commented and helped me through this hell. It seriously fills my heart to the brim knowing how many people have been supporting me whether I've been aware of it or not. I'm just afraid that I'm not living in the now enough. Trying to find the balance is hard. Now that I feel almost normal again, especially with the now empty space on my chest that Penny the Port once occupied, the reality of my cancer almost shocks me. That actually happened. I had cancer. And not even that long ago, either. I feel better than I did pre-cancer. My body has become incredibly strong, I'm starting to love my reflection again, my scars are fading and I am doing my best to accept them, my hair is growing back in, and I have this genuine love and appreciation for life every. single. day. I'm not kidding when I say that sometimes it feels like my heart might burst with happiness (I know, I know - how cheesy am I?)

I guess my biggest concern with continuing to look back at this chapter is that I so very adamantly don't want it to define me. I don't want to constantly be saying "Well, when I had cancer..." I suppose this struggle is part of the "new normal" that us cancer patients hear so much about. My whole identity was wrapped up in my cancer treatment for a year and a half. It's hard to figure out who to be after that identity gets changed. What I do know is that I love myself a whole hell of a lot more than I did even two years ago. I have so much more respect for life and the people around me. And I'm just constantly grateful to be alive.

I hope to keep updating this. And I'll try to make posts about my adventures from recent months, as well as write about what's to come in the upcoming months!

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.

Constant Worry

People have congratulated me for being out of the worst of treatment - surgery, chemo, radiation - but I think what many people fail to realize is that life after cancer carries so many additional concerns and worries.

A while back, I mentioned I was having abdominal pain. It was behind my ribs on my right side, and I was worried about it, wondering if my cancer had spread. I set up an appointment with my PCP, and she scheduled an ultrasound for me. Going to that ultrasound was incredibly terrifying and traumatizing. I found myself in the exact waiting room from 7 months earlier when I had my surgery - the first in many steps of my long journey with cancer. I had to remind myself to breathe as I sat there waiting for my name to be called, trying not to panic. I walked the same halls I walked when I was on my way to getting nuclear dye and a wire guide injected into my breast. The ultrasound took what felt like an eternity, and with every measurement, every shot captured, my worry grew. There were times when the tech would zoom in on an image, and spend a long time scrutinizing what she saw, which made me even more concerned. At the end, of course she said that she couldn't tell me anything and that I'd have to wait for my doctor to review the images and get back to me. Luckily, a few days later, I was told that there was nothing abnormal about my ultrasound or my blood work, other than my cholesterol was high.

Well, for the past month or so, I've been having abdominal pain on the same side, but lower. Chemo put me into temporary menopause, what's often referred to as "chemo-pause", so I haven't had my period since February. I was given a drug called Lupron twice during my chemo that shut down my ovaries, with the idea that it would protect them from being harmed or damaged by the chemo drugs. They were 3 month injections, and the last one I received was in May. So, if you're doing the math right, my 3 months is up. But still no period. So, once again, I found myself worrying about a cancer recurrence, or possibly a whole new cancer. Ovarian cancer is a sister cancer to breast cancer, so the fact that my pain was coming from that area in my body this time around, I was worried that maybe there was a cyst. Once again, I found myself on the phone scheduling a doctor's appointment, this time with my OB. I had a plan - I was going to go in and demand an ultrasound (and not the exterior kind - the really uncomfortable and awkward trans-vaginal kind that I hadn't experienced since my IVF appointments in January), and then, if necessary, a CT scan. I pushed my fear and panic aside, and had a plan.

Luckily, I have an incredible OB. She's the first doctor I saw when I found my lump, so she's been with me through this whole experience from day one. As I waited in the room with the paper blanket over my lap, I kept wondering if that was the same room she examined my lump in (I'm about 85% sure it was). Rather than breaking down and fighting a panic attack like in the waiting room of my previous ultrasound, I felt confident that things were going to be okay, no matter what the outcome was, because I had a plan. Dr. Lee soon came into the room, rolling in the ultrasound machine behind her. I didn't even have to ask, she automatically felt like it was important to do the ultrasound right then. Though those types of visits are never comfortable, I was comforted by the fact that even she felt the ultrasound was necessary. The one good thing about the aches and pains I feel is that my medical team will no longer take any chances - so I will be utilizing my health care at every single sign of pain. I will never let someone tell me "it's nothing" or that I should wait.

The best part about Dr. Lee doing the ultrasound herself right then and there is that she explained everything to me as we were looking at it - what we were looking at, how big it was, if it appeared normal, and if there were any abnormalities. I didn't have to wait for the results. Luckily, everything was normal. There were no cysts on my ovaries, and my uterine lining was thin and normal. The conclusion? My body is probably just still confused and thrown off course by the chemo and Lupron, and might be trying to figure out if I'm going to have my period again. So far, it's still MIA, which I'm not complaining about. It's just a pain to have to be constantly ready. The consistency and routine of what my monthly cycle was like pre-cancer is long past, and I'm not looking forward to the chaos of my body figuring itself out again. I'm only just hoping that I didn't get put into menopause at the age of 28, because that would seriously suck. It's unlikely, but, so was me getting cancer in the first place, so I don't take bets on this kind of stuff anymore.

"Things I like about myself"

Around this time last year, I made this list while I was at work. I was feeling particularly down about myself for one reason or another, and I knew I needed to be gentler to myself. I have always been my own harshest critic; rarely able to see my reflection clearly. I crack jokes at my own expense, often by means of self deprecation. And in this moment, I was tired of being mean to myself. I just found this list while writing down quotes in my quote journal, and figured it was worth sharing.

• My eyes
• My shoulder freckles
• My passion for reading
• Ability to make others smile
• Ridiculous sense of humor
• My desire to help people
• The fact that I'm responsible
• ...but am learning how to let go & have fun
• That I try to see the good in everyone
• My love of languages
• My glasses
• My tattoos, even though I sometimes struggle with them
• That I put my friend's needs first
• My love of adventure
• My small dimples
• My ability to acknowledge & accept my feelings, without letting them consume me. 
• That I can express some creativity through crocheting
• That I can make almost any baby laugh/smile
• That I enjoy being outside
• My body and seeing its changes and progress 
• The perseverance to continue on with my MA

I could add more to this list, as it's ever evolving the more and more I learn to love myself. Seeing where I was a year ago, and comparing it today was just a nice reminder that I need to constantly work at being my own best friend.

Dating with Cancer

Trying to find someone who will accept me and my medical history as been high on my list of things that cause me anxiety. The biggest question I've had is, if I do go on a date, when do I tell them about the cancer? Many people have said by the third or fourth date, because by then I'll know if I want to continue to see them. My issue with that is, by that many dates in, I'm sure I'd probably develop some feelings (because I'm a sap, I wear my heart on my sleeve, and I don't really know how to take it slow when it comes to matters of the heart.), and then what if I told them and they ditched me after that? That would be completely traumatizing and I would probably never want to attempt to go on a date again.

I know what you're going to say - "The right guy won't care about your cancer." or "Don't be ridiculous." or "Sometimes you have to make yourself vulnerable to get rewarded." I appreciate those comments, but it doesn't help. I know that whenever someone tells me something along these lines of encouragement, they mean well. But what I feel is valid, and nobody gets to tell me otherwise. I feel like I'm damaged goods, and who would want to take me home, when there are plenty of other non-defective pieces to pick from? Who would want to risk loving someone who's had cancer, knowing there's a possibility (no matter how small) that it could come back, and I could have to go through this whole experience all over again? Or that I might die? I know that we all die at some point, and that's a risk we take no matter who we date or fall in love with, but I feel like my odds of that happening are higher than anyone else's. Maybe that's a morbid thing to say, but these have been my thoughts. I'm scared shitless to let love in again. Especially because the last few times I did, my heart got trampled on. I also know that's a risk we take when we choose to love again, but I can almost feel the brick wall I've put up to barricade my heart from any further damage. I've carefully laid the bricks one at a time, as high as they will go in my chest cavity, and sealed them with as much plaster as possible. Telling myself Maggie is the only companion I need.

But the truth is, I miss having a partner. Someone to go on adventures with, to share parts of my life with, to talk to, and especially someone to hold me during the rough days. Throughout this entire cancer experience, I've craved someone to be by my side. Someone who wouldn't run scared when things got difficult or uncomfortable. I've wanted someone to just lay in bed with me while I cry, without trying to offer words of encouragement, but just let me feel my pain. Despite being surrounded by people who love me, I have felt incredibly alone in this whole process. But because of my past heartbreaks, and my current health status, I knew that dating wasn't something I was emotionally capable of, no matter how much I craved someone else's companionship.

But for about a month now, I've finally felt like I'm ready to get back out there in the world of dating. I feel like my health situation has settled down enough to where I can successfully manage my time between work, friends, doctor's appointments, and dates. I'm starting to feel like ME again. My problem from there was - how the hell am I going to meet anyone? While I know it's worked for many others, including two of my best friends that are getting married in May, online dating just really isn't my thing. I haven't wanted to go down that route yet. I like the idea of meeting people organically, in real life, because that's how all of my relationships have started. Knowing that is my preferred method of attempting to meet someone, I also knew that meant I would actually have to leave the house to make that happen, rather than sitting around at home in my pajamas watching reruns of Say Yes to the Dress (yep. shamelessly admitting I watch that show on the regular. All girls do). A lot of my friends are either married or in serious relationships, so I didn't really know who to go out with, or where.

That's when Alicia came along. She sent out an email to a group of her friends saying she wanted to host a Singles Night at a pub in Oakland. She told me that there were a few people she wanted me to meet, no strings attached. And while I was nervous as hell, because I'm usually shy, I put on my big girl pants, and went. Before going, though, I asked Alicia if the people she wanted me to meet knew about my cancer or not. She said she wasn't sure, and apologized profusely because she hadn't thought of that. I told her it wasn't a big deal, I just wanted to be prepared for both scenarios, in case it came up in conversation. I said it wasn't like I was going to introduce myself as, "Hi, I'm Whitney, I had breast cancer." Although, admittedly, I do want to try that out as a sort of social experiment to see what kind of reaction I would get. Granted, that's probably not the best idea since I'm still in a somewhat fragile emotional state about this.

Back to Singles Night. So, I went, and Alicia and a few of her other friends were the only ones there when I got there. Alicia had set up a table near the fireplace of conversation starters and treats. Included on the table was a Donkey Kong Nintendo 64 game cartridge that could be used as a security blanket. Gradually, more of her other friends arrived, so while she was off playing host, I attempted conversation with a few of the people I had met. Which, again, was difficult for me, because I'm shy. I finally met one of Alicia's best friends who I had heard a lot about, which was great. I also met one of her other friends Jesse that gifted me a book for no reason a while back just because he'd thought of me since he knew about my health. As the night went on, I talked to more and more people, slowly shedding my shell, and although I wasn't interested in anyone as far as dating, it was nice to meet new people. I talked to people about my job, school, dating in general, art, Friends episodes, and in one instance had my first experience of someone telling me negative stories about CrossFit after me telling him I'd just started the sport. I knew that eventually that would happen, so it didn't come as much of a surprise. I definitely started to get a little defensive, but luckily Jesse stepped in and commented that so long as people are exercising, who cares what the means are? (Thank goodness for him stepping in, because I almost went off on the other guy telling him he can stick to his wilderness nudist yoga retreats, and I'll happily be at my box throwing around heavy weight.)

Eventually, people trickled out, and I got tired, so I decided it was time to head home. Alicia and I said our goodnights, and she made Jesse walk me out to my car. Yoga guy decided to leave at the same time we did, and as he was getting ready to get on his bike, Jesse shook his hand. I then stuck out my hand for a handshake and to say "Nice to meet you" but Yoga guy opened his arms for a hug. And even though I really didn't want to give him a hug, I did anyways, because society beats it into women that it's unacceptable to be rude to someone, and we should go out of our comfort zones to make other people feel accepted. Jesse walked me to my car, and I happily gave him a hug, because I felt like I'd known him for a lifetime already. There was no hesitation at all. I felt perfectly comfortable hugging him.

It wasn't until the next day that I really realized what had happened about me being nice and giving someone a hug when I didn't want to, and how I wish I hadn't done it. I don't need to make anyone comfortable except myself, and I didn't feel comfortable doing it. I told Alicia about my realization, because I know she has strong feelings about society's rules on women's cordiality, and she agreed that it was a tough situation because I let it happen, but at least I realized I didn't like it, and not to let it happen again.

So, while I didn't find love that Tuesday evening, I did meet a few new people that were fun to talk to, and I pushed myself out of my comfort zone a little bit since I only knew one person at the event. That's at least a step in the right direction towards meeting someone.

Oh, and did I mention I have a date this coming Tuesday? (He asked me to dinner/drinks/coffee and said it was his treat - that's a date, right?) I'm already nervous since this is unlike the group setting of the Singles Night, and in typical girl fashion, I'm already concerning myself with what I'm going to wear.

(PS - If you're reading this, Mr. Tuesday, we can totally just call it dinner and catching up. Or is it a date? Fuck, I'm so far out of practice with this.)