Walking out of the treatment bubble
Despite the long list of ‘crappy’ inevitabilities from treatment this year, there is a level of comfort and protection created from the constant hospital visits, cancer-fighting drugs, specialist appointments, and general routine check-ups.
But then the day comes when you burst the treatment bubble. The last day of treatment. In anyone’s book, this would be a day to celebrate. And it is. But like any good party, there is a massive hangover waiting for you…
It’s one thing to manage and push through the staggering list of physical changes/impacts/side-effects of treatment. In some ways, these are the easy things to manage because most of them are, by nature, temporary, while undergoing treatment. Like chemo nausea and fatigue or radiation burns. Within all of it is the emergent emotional roller-coaster that serves up heavy doses of fear and anxiety from dealing with treatment, such as hair loss or infertility or waiting for pathology results. But again, these are largely temporary and eventually pass through you the closer you move towards acceptance.
Now, at the end of treatment, the physical side of ‘normal’ is beginning to return. My hair style is resembling that of Johnny Howard – the back and sides have filled in, but I’m sporting patchy bum-fluff/bald patches on top (always the last bit of hair to grow back!) instead of a desert wasteland of hair follicles. Even my eyebrows and eyelashes have started to emerge (no more stick-on eyebrows!).
But the longer-term emotional changes and impacts have apparently been sitting patiently on the sidelines in wait. I felt the first sting when packing up my make-shift pharmacy (in my bathroom) – the bicarb soda/saline washes, dressings, anti-nausea tablets, etc were easily thrown in the bin. But then I came across the over-shoulder bag that I carried my surgical drains around in for three weeks. And then I looked at my chemo caps. And fake fringes. Should I throw those out too? What if I need them again? And the fear almost winded me – “What if it comes back?”.
It’s like throwing out the ‘big’ clothes you used to have hidden in your wardrobe because you don't want to give yourself permission to gain weight again, yet you find yourself hanging onto them just in case you indulge a bit too much over Xmas... But by holding onto things like surgery bags and chemo caps, am I passively giving into the thought that it could come back?
Cancer feels like it has left me with a port-wine-stain birthmark ... it is now permanently and visibly a part of me and my identity. And while I could wish it away or choose to cover it up, it has changed who I am, how I view myself, how I view others, and how I view my place in the world. I could not possibly have achieved such a dramatic change in perspective without the enormity that comes from facing one’s mortality.
I appreciate, however, that some instead choose to sprint to the finish line of treatment and slam the door in Mortality’s face. It comes from a deep, desperate desire to feel the comforts of ‘normal’, familiarity, routine, and everything B.C. (Before Cancer). I can only imagine the purge that must come in the form of a skip-bin-sized dumping of all physical and emotional traces that would suggest life was “back to normal”.
But I don’t want to go back. I don’t actually think I could, even if I wanted to. I have grieved many aspects of my life this year, and permanently laid them to rest. Some of that grief is wrapped up in relationships that have not withstood the emotional burdens that have come with supporting me in my need to fall and break so that I could rebuild and reclaim my life. There is also grief in the way I used to work – my professional identity. I am no longer willing or able to quantify my self-worth or my confidence on the basis of job titles, status and a long list of career achievements. They are now part of my story; my world view, but they no longer define me.
The largest part of the grief pie has been divided up for me and my personal identity. Never has this been more absolute than looking at an old photo of myself from last year - laughing, long hair, care-free, and cancer-free. I will never be ‘her’ again.
The laughing is returning, and in fact held my hand through the worst of times this year.
The long hair is at least five years away, but it’s just hair, and I’ve come to accept my reflection and embrace my bald head as a way of respecting that this entire year gave me the strength to be laid bare.
The care-free is now a mandatory part of my approach to walking slowly and smelling the roses/jasmine/frangipanis on the path to living a happy life. But it’s a qualified state of being, where I am both humbled by, and grateful for, the randomness of life, while also keeping Anxiety in my peripheral vision about whether the other shoe will ever drop …
Which brings me to the cancer-free part. That part will reside in a silent prayer every night and every day for the rest of my life. But it keeps me grounded in the super-human powers I didn't know I had. It keeps me grateful for the new strengths to relationships I didn't know were there. It keeps me connected to new friends and new experiences that I would have never had ‘but for’ cancer. And it keeps me forever appreciative of the infinite wonder that the human body (my body) represents, as each eyelash, eyebrow, hair follicle, and healthy cell regenerates and offers me renewed life.
I’m now standing in front of the blank canvas that is my life, being invited to paint my hopes and dreams A.C. (After Cancer). The paint palette is the same as B.C., but I can now see so many wonderful new ways to mix the colours.
