It snowed last night – a White Christmas. It feels like Christmas traditions are being fulfilled, including my insomnia. Not nearly as bad as years past, but here I am at 4:30 am. A head full of thoughts, and doing my best to off-load the weight.
There seems to be two options for surviving cancer: acknowledge it daily and be grateful, or ignore it for as long as you can. I feel like I’ve chosen the latter.
There are two options for surviving the holidays with cancer: allow yourself to be distracted entirely, or let it loom over your head. I still don’t know yet which I’ve chosen. This is only my second holiday season post-treatment. Tomorrow will be my second cancer-free-anniversary.
While what happened to me will always affect who I am, I won’t let it own me. I remember at the beginning, I read a story of someone who viewed cancer as “something bad that happened this one time” and then their life moved on. I clung to that philosophy through treatment – that some day I would look back at this as an event in my life sandwiched between so many others. I don’t know if I yet can look back, but I have moved on.
At the same time, it’s extremely difficult to swallow that life is average again after such a traumatic event. Applying the diagnosis of PTSD to survivors is common, and it makes you such a raw and genuine person. As I continue to settle back to normal life, it’s a little unnerving to feel that appreciation for life grow distant. Rather than focusing on how incredibly lucky we all are to be here, the tiny pain points in life are beginning to grab hold of me again.
I remember when I was going through treatment how excited I was when I was able to go to work. The first time I was outside in below 30-degree temperature for more than 15 minutes I was elated.
I tried to apply so much meaning and purpose to being diagnosed with cancer, to give myself strength to get through it. It seemed like the phrase “everything happens for a reason” was on repeat. As I grow distant from the experience and revert back to a ‘normal’ lifestyle of hamburgers, avoiding the gym, and less meditation, a part of my soul screams out “you didn’t learn a damn thing.” From my perspective now, I still can’t tell if it’s all bullshit.
I spent 20 minutes in bed this morning looking for a picture I swear I took of my chest when I was plugged into chemo. I wish I had taken more pictures of the bad stuff, of how distorted my body had become. Does anyone really want a photo of a colostomy bag? Of my ring of bruises from my self-injections of blood thinners? Of the giant needle I pulled out of my chest every two weeks?
So here’s my attempt to start documenting what’s left. To keep it all still relevant, the only things I have left of the remaining ugly: My scars, unfiltered.
Happy second anniversary to me.