Hope
Every 6 months cancer knocks on my door in the form of blood draws, and CT Scan of my lungs. This ritual is part of the “watch and see” game my oncologist and I play to monitor the growth (or non-growth of my cancer). Will the cancer have grown since the last scan? Will have shrunk? What will we find? The time around these events is the hardest of hard times for me. Words, attitude, and no amount of physical shaking and tears can come close to the difficulty I have in facing these events and possible reality they may uncover.
This semi-annual event (VERY unlike the Nordstrom Semi-annual sale) has just come and gone. Yes, that sound you hear in the wind is me breathing again. Results show a minimal amount of growth, with one mass having gone from 2 to 3cm in size. Tumor marker in the blood is down, though. So what does this mean? What does this mean for everyday living? Aside from the fact that I’ve answered the door, acknowledged the cancer, checked its pulse, and shut the door. Answering the door is complicated and thorny. While I am able to put this aside every other time of the year, at these moments I come eye to eye with it. Face it. Look at it. See it. Register whether I am still winning the game called my life. Cancer plays terrible mind games, it gets inside its opponent’s head, but don’t underestimate me. Yes, it rattles me, but I emerge, close the door and move on.
Bouncing back to everyday life is not easy after going a round with cancer, so the most powerful of ammunition must be used. Sometimes subtle, never to be outdone, I cling to the most important of my arsenal: hope.
Today I was watching a BBC clip on the terrible fires in Australia, where Anna is about to go in two days. I saw people interviewed who had lost homes, pets, and people, in the flash of a powerful conflagration. Everything they had worked for and people they loved were gone in an instant. Devastated, they recount their emotions, now familiar to news stories of this kind…”Everything we worked for is gone.” “We raised our children here. This was our life,” and on and on. I thought about the fact that people are more important than things (thank you, Eleanor, for that), and how hope will eventually fill back into these decimated areas of Australia. Hope always wins. That’s why it’s on my team.
Every 6 months cancer knocks on my door in the form of blood draws, and CT Scan of my lungs. This ritual is part of the “watch and see” game my oncologist and I play to monitor the growth (or non-growth of my cancer). Will the cancer have grown since the last scan? Will have shrunk? What will we find? The time around these events is the hardest of hard times for me. Words, attitude, and no amount of physical shaking and tears can come close to the difficulty I have in facing these events and possible reality they may uncover.
This semi-annual event (VERY unlike the Nordstrom Semi-annual sale) has just come and gone. Yes, that sound you hear in the wind is me breathing again. Results show a minimal amount of growth, with one mass having gone from 2 to 3cm in size. Tumor marker in the blood is down, though. So what does this mean? What does this mean for everyday living? Aside from the fact that I’ve answered the door, acknowledged the cancer, checked its pulse, and shut the door. Answering the door is complicated and thorny. While I am able to put this aside every other time of the year, at these moments I come eye to eye with it. Face it. Look at it. See it. Register whether I am still winning the game called my life. Cancer plays terrible mind games, it gets inside its opponent’s head, but don’t underestimate me. Yes, it rattles me, but I emerge, close the door and move on.
Bouncing back to everyday life is not easy after going a round with cancer, so the most powerful of ammunition must be used. Sometimes subtle, never to be outdone, I cling to the most important of my arsenal: hope.
Today I was watching a BBC clip on the terrible fires in Australia, where Anna is about to go in two days. I saw people interviewed who had lost homes, pets, and people, in the flash of a powerful conflagration. Everything they had worked for and people they loved were gone in an instant. Devastated, they recount their emotions, now familiar to news stories of this kind…”Everything we worked for is gone.” “We raised our children here. This was our life,” and on and on. I thought about the fact that people are more important than things (thank you, Eleanor, for that), and how hope will eventually fill back into these decimated areas of Australia. Hope always wins. That’s why it’s on my team.
