a few weeks ago, one of my closest friends wrote me a text that said simply: thinking of you, it’s been two years.
at first, i couldn’t think of what she was talking about. and then i realized, it had been two years since my diagnosis. two years. 730 days. 17,520 hours. it took my breath away. a lifetime, and also no time at all.
for my reflections on two years, i actually have two short pieces to share. both are true based on how i was feeling at the time when i wrote them:
here is the post i wanted to write at the beginning of this week
thinking of you, it’s been two years.
i was so grateful that she told me, because i went back and re-read the emails and texts i had sent that week. re-living it was a cathartic experience, like re-reading old diary entries. i recognized my voice in the emails and texts, and knew it was me, but i also felt like it was a different person. the deep awareness of my experience, paired with utter despair, and incredible hopefulness: how did i manage it? how did i communicate at all, let alone with humor? it is fascinating what we are able to do in a crisis, much of it lost in the abyss of my memories. if it wasn’t for those texts and emails, i don’t think i would remember it very much at all. i can see some moments so clearly that i could recount exactly what i was wearing; whereas other days blend together, becoming indistinguishable one from another.
thinking back, i wonder how many weeks/months i was actually just in shock, moving through my days on autopilot. at the time, i thought there would never, ever be another day where i wasn’t consumed with thinking about cancer. i could not imagine ever not being sad. i thought life couldn’t get any worse, and would certainly never be any better. now sometimes my pain doesn’t feel clear enough for me to write about it. there used to be a shape to it, and now it is amorphous.
i wish i understood why some people get cancer and live and some people get cancer and die. i don’t think i’m any more deserving than anyone else. but, i am not taking it for granted. lessons two years on:
*in my previous life, i was a hopeless romantic, but now i’m more of a realistic. i understand that we don’t necessarily get what we ‘deserve’, good nor bad. some days i still let myself believe it will all work out as it should. it is like wrapping myself in a warm blanket of optimism, which we all need sometimes. i also share my optimism with others as best i can. it makes life so much better, even when i know nothing of what the future will actually bring.
*i believe it is a brave thing to tell our stories. maybe some people don’t want to hear them, or think it is too effusive, or consider oversharing. but, given how desperate i was to find someone in my situation, we never know who we are helping. and if nothing else, it is helping me.
*i am still angry that i got cancer. i am angry that it temporarily stole my dreams, my innocence and my freedom. i still play out sliding doors moments where that first dermatologist took off that mole, all those years ago. i went to the effing dermatologist and she said it was fine. i am still so angry that she was wrong and i wish i could tell her that she ruined my life (that is so mean, i know).
*sometimes i feel like the only people i want to talk to are people who have been through grief, loss or pain. i feel most seen by them.
*at the gym, someone called me broken. it was several months ago, and it wasn’t meant the way it sounds. the person was making a joke about a particular trainer who only works with people who are injured. but, it stung. not everyone sees me as broken, and i certainly don’t. when i look in the mirror, i see someone who is wise, strong and a little gullible/intense/strong-willed (definitely far from perfect, but not broken!). but, i still worry (a tiny bit), that some people in the world see me the way that guy at the gym does.
*i didn’t do anything wrong that led to this. it wasn’t because i didn’t get enough sleep in my 20s, or because i drank too much in university, or because i made those illegal right turns for so long. if i wore sunscreen every day of my life, it could have still happened.
two years later, i’m still scared. i guess that won’t ever go away. but, i’m no longer scared all the time. i am so much better at compartmentalizing, at having perspective during hard times, at being clear on what i’m living for. rock bottom feels catastrophic. but, even when we are numb, we slowly rebuild. what i’d love to be able to promise others in pain is, it gets better. often it does. in my case it did.
that somehow, there is another side.
here is the post that is the truth of my feelings at the end of this week
thinking of you, it’s been two years.
this week, i got word that a young man, who had a similar diagnosis to me (around the same time), passed away. i had a sense he wasn’t doing well, but the information brought on a wave of uncomfortable feelings. i am embarrassed to admit that i am making his death about me, and i am trying not to, but it does hit close to home. i was feeling so empowered as i wrote the initial words for this blog post, but now, i feel a bit guilty, a bit scared, and cancer feels so close again. making friends/acquaintances in the cancer world is vital to feeling understood and seen; it also comes along with the sad reality that some of us will die.
his experience was completely different than mine, but the one thing that stuck out, was that he always believed he would beat it. he truly believed this wasn’t his story. i always found this admirable, and a bit confusing. i mean, i am definitely a fighter – i will do ANYTHING if it means i have a better chance of having a long life. but i was also very aware of the threat of my disease, and i did the work to think about death, talk about death, and even go far enough as to write my own version of an “ethical will” (i had never heard of this until a suggestion from a friend). there is so much in the cancer literature about mindset, and a lot of it is unfair: if you believe deeply that you will beat cancer, does that really make it more likely? he believed, and he still died. i went through a phase where i was emotionally preparing for the possibility that i would die, yet i lived.
i don’t know if what i’m feeling is survivor’s guilt, although i’ve heard that is a thing. or maybe it is just a reminder that when some people get diagnosed, all they get is two years, and they never get to stop thinking about it. it is a luxury that i’ve had hours, and even days where i’m not consumed by fear. or maybe it is just another example of the ever-present precarity and seemingly randomness of good and bad in the world. i feel sad for his family that now is grieving him, and i feel guilty that i get to write a post about my reflections on two years. i feel steeped in privilege and also scared that i shouldn’t take anything for granted, because his story could have been mine.
**********
thinking of you, it’s been two years.
as you can see, from the two posts above, it continues to be a bit of a rollercoaster ride. at the beginning of this week i felt high on optimism and hope; by the end of the week, i felt silly for letting myself believe it would all work out, and the fears trickled in again. but i’m still here, and feeling these feelings means i am one of the lucky ones.
thinking of you, it’s been five years.
thinking of you, it’s been ten years.
thinking of you, it’s been a lifetime.
it’s going to be quite the ride.
*speaking of lucky ones, i finally went through my photos from my february 2020 trip to sri lanka. oh, how beautiful it was when we could travel! this shot was from a clear day at sigiriya rock, an ancient rock fortress that we climbed.