During one of my numerous oncology visits, my doctor reassured me that eventually, this challenging chapter would fade into the background of my life. He mentioned that I would scarcely remember the cancer experience. I chuckled—a bittersweet, cynical laugh. It seemed unfathomable at the time.
Yet, with the passage of time, the idea becomes more conceivable. There are moments when the profound sorrow feels distant. Did I truly experience such depths of despair? Was it genuinely that suffocating? Yes, it was.
My scars serve as constant reminders. Five distinct marks tell the abbreviated version of my journey. A small incision beneath my left collarbone, the port scar, which was the gateway for chemotherapy. It resided there for 361 days, a shallow reminder of my fight. I also have two crescent-shaped scars under the curves of my absent breasts and two more tiny lines beneath my armpits where the drainage tubes were positioned post-surgery. Five marks.
Some days, the memories come rushing back. The dread of upcoming appointments. Canceling my children’s dental visits due to my newfound aversion to waiting rooms. Every three months, I return to the cancer center for an injection that suppresses my ovaries. My heart races, my stomach churns, and I feel that prick of anxiety. Then there’s the daily pill I take, one that blocks estrogen. The sleepless nights soaked in sweat, longing for the comfort of my body before cancer. Those are the days I remember.
Conversely, there are days when I forget I’m a cancer survivor. While pushing a red shopping cart at Target, sipping my coffee, and navigating through traffic jams and lengthy meetings, I can lose track of my past. I can be short-tempered with my kids, annoyed by Lego pieces scattered across the floor, questioning where the other matching socks have disappeared to, and overwhelmed by the laundry that seems to multiply. Those are the days I forget.
But then, a moment strikes me. I recall how I prayed for days like this, pleading for the simple joys of an ordinary life. Sometimes, I feel a shiver of gratitude. The scent of coconut shampoo in my seven-year-old’s hair while reading a chapter of Harry Potter. The gentle squeeze of my four-year-old’s hand as we cross the street. The sound of rain against the window or seeing my husband asleep, illuminated by moonlight. I am here. I am still here.
And I realize, forgetting isn’t what I want. I don’t want to detach from my five scars or the memories of my profound sadness. I have immersed deep into the earth while reaching for the sky.
This week, my son, Liam, showcased his artwork at a local mall. As he highlighted the details, I felt a lump in my throat. What if I had missed this? We celebrated with ice cream, gazing at the clouds above. This ordinary, yet extraordinary life felt like a slice of heaven.
In moments like these, I acknowledge how precious life is. Whether exploring resources on pregnancy from the National Institute of Child Health and Human Development or learning about home insemination kits like the Cryobaby Home Intracervical Insemination Syringe Kit, I cherish the journey. It’s essential to remember where we come from, even as we embrace the beauty of now.
In summary, life is a tapestry woven with experiences—some painful, some joyful. Each moment is a reminder of resilience, and it is essential not to forget the journey we’ve traveled.