cancer – Sarah Thomas

It’s ok. I’m ok.

That’s what I told myself in the week leading up to my annual mammogram and first post-cancer MRI.

It’s what I told Ryan when I declined his offer to drive me to my appointment, then proceeded to back the truck into the 90% open garage door.

It’s what I told the kind receptionist when I showed up with red eyes and tear-streaked cheeks.

It’s what I told the tech who gently maneuvered me for my mammogram.

It’s what I told the woman who set me up for my MRI.

It’s what I told myself as I took a few shaking, deep breaths to steady myself, waiting for another round of banging, with my chest exposed and braced against a plastic bar, butt in the air, toes threatening to cramp unless I moved.

It’s what I told myself amidst the banging of the MRI machine when I realized tears were leaking out of my tightly shut eyes, snot slowly dripping into the sterile, whiteness of the machine below.

It’s what I told the tech as I bolted from the room, snot smeared down my pink hospital top, eyes averted in shame for not controlling my emotions.

It’s ok. I’m ok.

Sixteen days later, I was headed to my routine oncology appointment. About an hour before I was set to leave, I received a notification from my oncologist’s office patient portal saying I had new test results. I logged in and saw that my MRI and mammogram screening results had been posted.

“On the sagittal reconstruction an ill-defined 1.3 x .9 cm irregular finding, bright on STIR.”

I stared at the screen. Stunned.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.

It’s happening. It came back. It’s over.

I can’t breathe.

Somehow, I’m on the floor of my office, curled into a ball, my body shaking with uncontrollable sobs.

It’s not ok. I’m not ok.

Luckily, I was headed to my oncologist. My friend Cindy came to hold my hand. The doctor saw the images, not just the report I got. He thinks it’s a shadow. He ordered an ultrasound to be sure. I waited a week for an appointment. I made Ryan drive me; the garage door was appreciative.

The radiologist dug in deep with her wand. She told me it was fine.

It’s ok. I’m ok.

Most of us who have lived through cancer will tell you we’re grateful to be alive. It’s the easy answer. We are grateful.

We don’t tell you about the fear we live with daily. The constant pain. The doubt. The rage. How one sentence uploaded into our patient portal without explanation is the same as a death sentence, logical or not. We don’t explain how accidentally letting our mind wander in the wrong direction can send us into a tailspin of hysteria. How demoralizing it is to not be able to do the things we could do before. How chemo changes you from the inside, even if you look the same to others.

We don’t talk about the sickening in the pit of our stomachs when we learn a total stranger has a new cancer diagnosis. The true terror when it’s someone we love.

It’s ok. We’re ok.

Cancer is a cruel disease that takes so much more than you realize. I don’t remember the last time I was confident in my own skin or felt I could trust my body not to betray me.

Any moment this disease can take everything away. Again.

No one wants to hear about the real reality of living with cancer. I’m all about being positive. I try to do my best every day. I’m resilient. I’m happy. I’m grateful for medicine and science that saved me. I’m alive. I’m breathing.

But even the most resilient still have moments when the bitterness creeps in, forcing us to take stock of all the things we’ve lost along the way. I’m allowed to be angry and scared and ready to fight dirty to survive.

I am NOT grateful for cancer. Don’t ask me to look on the bright side or find a silver lining.

We’re all one test away from losing everything we’ve tried to rebuild. The further I get from my cancer diagnosis, the closer I get to the likelihood of a reoccurrence.

I can’t breathe.

But it’s ok. I’m ok.

It’s what you want to hear.

Your whole life, you wake up every morning in your body. It’s your own to build and train and you have the freedom to flex it to your needs. You take for granted that it will be there to convey you through life. You spend time learning to be comfortable in your own skin and to accept your body for its strengths and flaws. You learn to love it for what it is: Yours.

And then you get a cancer diagnosis.

All of a sudden, your body is no longer your own. Any confidence you had in your body is shattered. Your body has betrayed you. It’s owned by disease, chemicals and doctors.

Cancer ravages your body and robs you of your peace of mind.

Even when the treatments have ended, even when the doctors have told you that there is no evidence of disease, cancer still rules your subconscious.

No matter how far out from treatment you are, there is always a little pea-sized nugget reminding you that every ache or pain, every tiny cough or headache could signal your worst nightmare: Cancer has returned. You try to push it aside, putting your hope in the science and doctors that said you’re cured. You live life to the best of your ability, relearning how to exist within a body that suddenly feels like a stranger’s. You push forward, always with the knowledge that if you live long enough, there’s a good chance you’ll have to face the cancer demon again.

You pray that day isn’t tomorrow. Or the next day.

Slowly, you rebuild hope. You rebuild trust. You put one foot in front of the other, from one day to the next, striving to be better and stronger than the day before, always existing alone within a body that betrayed you.

Then you get abnormal test results.

They could mean nothing- a fluke, a hormonal response, a false positive, an indication of something benign.

Or they could mean everything.

And that precarious, tentative hope and trust in the body who betrayed you comes crashing down.

I had some abnormal lab results a month ago- and the only thing to do was wait a month and re-test. It’s been a very, very long month of waiting, trying to stay positive and distracting myself with swimming and dogs. Thank you to the very few people we shared this with, who helped us carry this terror for a month. We didn’t want to tell very many people in case it turned out to be nothing, and it was a scary wait.

Wednesday, I went in for a repeat test and after a very long two days of more waiting, the results came back good. The last two days have been puke-inducingly tediously hard to get through, but to wake up to positive lab results this morning was glorious. It’s a beautiful day. I apologize for the delayed emails, lack of follow up, and sometimes prickly responses. It’s been so hard to focus on anything other than breathing; and I’m so glad to have put this behind us, for now, with the very horrible reminder that cancer never really is truly “behind us”.

But, when in doubt, go to Cabo, swim with the whales and ride the camels.