What is it like to be 2 years out from a cancer diagnosis?
To me?
I reach for the future and feel the pull of my scars.
I saw my oncologist at the end of February just before my gamut of cancer anniversaries. This day I found a lump, this day I had a birthday, this day I heard I had cancer, and today’s anniversary: my diagnosis was confirmed with the biopsy results. I sat in the surgeon's office and talked about the amputation of my left breast. Kateri cried in my mother's arms so hard that my mom had to take her out into the parking lot. I wrote a $300 check, a deposit against the cost of such an extensive surgery.
I came in to see my oncologist in February just after he told another young woman from my cancer survivors group, we went through treatment together, that the cancer had come back in her brain and that even though the brain surgery to remove the lump was successful, the cancer would just keep coming back again and again.
He didn’t take my request to see him less often very well.
We talked about how well I am doing in recovering from the treatment. I may never get back the feeling in the tips of my fingers but I have no painful tingling. I have a great deal more energy than October, though I am still tired, my energy and stamina have improved. I may have some heart damage from the Chemo and radiation but right now my symptoms are not alarming, I can exercise. No, he doesn’t think it’s safe to have another child, it may never be safe for my body to nestle another child in my womb. You might feel better but your body has been broken is the message. How I do feel really good but I do know that doesn’t mean it won’t come back. My mammogram on my only remaining breast is clear, but my risks of breast cancer again in my lifetime are high.
I promise, Dr. Cho. I promise. I know there are no guarantees. I know.
I promise to call you if I get a headache. I promise.
And I wonder, who bears more scars from this appointment?
Me, from thinking I am starting to recover physically and emotionally to be slapped with the news of my friend? This is an unwelcome crash back to cancer reality.
Or my oncologist who counts the tally of his young patients?
I wonder afterward, does he count 1-2-3, 1-2-3 in a drunken cancer waltz and wonder who will be the ones who will sit in his office, again, and weep with their husbands when their headaches last too long or their cough just won’t go away? I could see the broken awareness of my mortality in his eyes as we talked, his hands on my body tracing my scars and hoping, hoping that I would not say anything to alarm, hoping to not feel a new lump.
I, Stephanie Lynne Sanders, solemnly swear to call you, Dr. Benjamin Cho, if I don’t feel well. I know, Dr. Cho. I know. 1 in 3.
Today, I’m fine, but I will call. And so, with a deep breath, he hopes with us
and lets go against the tightening of his fingers to 6 months and September.
It’s Lent again (2 years later it still comes!) and I walk through my memories as we march (pun intended) through the descent into Easter. I think this year about my own experience and of Simon the Cyrene, both of us taking up crosses not of your choice. What he bore, willing or no, because of our broken condition had to be borne by someone. All roads lead to Calvary and the love-cross
Christ bore for us. What was the gift of salvation was also burden and Simon shouldered his part. So I too, because of our broken human condition, have a cross to bear. I take it up, willingly this time, this Lent.
Simon of Cyrene was forced to carry the cross of a condemned criminal and so doing aided God in
the salvation of all the world. I can only hope that my choices, the bearing of my burdens, has some piece of the same. Redemption. Mine. My family’s. Yours. I reach and stretch for the future and my scars pull tight across my chest and left arm. I reach and grab tight to gratitude, I shoulder a hope tested in fire. I’m exhausted, it’s 1pm and I haven’t showered, but it’s still a good day.
I saw my oncologist at the end of February just before my gamut of cancer anniversaries. This day I found a lump, this day I had a birthday, this day I heard I had cancer, and today’s anniversary: my diagnosis was confirmed with the biopsy results. I sat in the surgeon's office and talked about the amputation of my left breast. Kateri cried in my mother's arms so hard that my mom had to take her out into the parking lot. I wrote a $300 check, a deposit against the cost of such an extensive surgery.
I came in to see my oncologist in February just after he told another young woman from my cancer survivors group, we went through treatment together, that the cancer had come back in her brain and that even though the brain surgery to remove the lump was successful, the cancer would just keep coming back again and again.
He didn’t take my request to see him less often very well.
We talked about how well I am doing in recovering from the treatment. I may never get back the feeling in the tips of my fingers but I have no painful tingling. I have a great deal more energy than October, though I am still tired, my energy and stamina have improved. I may have some heart damage from the Chemo and radiation but right now my symptoms are not alarming, I can exercise. No, he doesn’t think it’s safe to have another child, it may never be safe for my body to nestle another child in my womb. You might feel better but your body has been broken is the message. How I do feel really good but I do know that doesn’t mean it won’t come back. My mammogram on my only remaining breast is clear, but my risks of breast cancer again in my lifetime are high.
I promise, Dr. Cho. I promise. I know there are no guarantees. I know.
I promise to call you if I get a headache. I promise.
And I wonder, who bears more scars from this appointment?
Me, from thinking I am starting to recover physically and emotionally to be slapped with the news of my friend? This is an unwelcome crash back to cancer reality.
Or my oncologist who counts the tally of his young patients?
I wonder afterward, does he count 1-2-3, 1-2-3 in a drunken cancer waltz and wonder who will be the ones who will sit in his office, again, and weep with their husbands when their headaches last too long or their cough just won’t go away? I could see the broken awareness of my mortality in his eyes as we talked, his hands on my body tracing my scars and hoping, hoping that I would not say anything to alarm, hoping to not feel a new lump.
I, Stephanie Lynne Sanders, solemnly swear to call you, Dr. Benjamin Cho, if I don’t feel well. I know, Dr. Cho. I know. 1 in 3.
Today, I’m fine, but I will call. And so, with a deep breath, he hopes with us
and lets go against the tightening of his fingers to 6 months and September.
It’s Lent again (2 years later it still comes!) and I walk through my memories as we march (pun intended) through the descent into Easter. I think this year about my own experience and of Simon the Cyrene, both of us taking up crosses not of your choice. What he bore, willing or no, because of our broken condition had to be borne by someone. All roads lead to Calvary and the love-cross
Christ bore for us. What was the gift of salvation was also burden and Simon shouldered his part. So I too, because of our broken human condition, have a cross to bear. I take it up, willingly this time, this Lent.
Simon of Cyrene was forced to carry the cross of a condemned criminal and so doing aided God in
the salvation of all the world. I can only hope that my choices, the bearing of my burdens, has some piece of the same. Redemption. Mine. My family’s. Yours. I reach and stretch for the future and my scars pull tight across my chest and left arm. I reach and grab tight to gratitude, I shoulder a hope tested in fire. I’m exhausted, it’s 1pm and I haven’t showered, but it’s still a good day.
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