Two years

Tomorrow marks exactly two years that I have been dealing with this stupid, stupid cancer.  It has been quite a ride hasn't it?  So, I'm going to share a few of things that have stuck out to me about this journey.

People (including myself) have lot of different reactions to my story. This first one is usually disbelief - "but you look so healthy!" Right after diagnosis, I spent a lot of time thinking "this can't be happening" or "I don't feel like I have cancer."  Often, I still don't feel like I have cancer - and always wish I didn't have it.

Then comes the fear - I see this in myself of course, and the people who sympathize with me saying "you must be so scared." But I also see it in the people who insist "you're going to be fine!"  My doctor's can't say this, and I know it isn't true. So, the real reason you are telling me that I'll be fine is to make the cancer less scary somehow. I've come to realization that it is ok to be scared - cancer is terrifying.  I just can't let the fear control me.

There's anger and sadness, too, of course.  I'm not sure why it has stuck with me, but right when she found out I had lung mets, one of the nurses I see on a regular basis said, "It makes me so angry that you have to deal with this." And she meant it.  I still think that was one of the kindest things someone has said to me when I had bad news to share.  It's ok to be angry and sad, too.

It hasn't all been negative.   At one of my very low points, while I was waiting for radiation to star, I went to church and sat in one of the back pews.  I managed to make it through the service without crying, but it was close, and I really just wanted to leave quickly through the back door. Maybe I could make it to my car before the tears came. But, the minute the service was over, the elderly gentleman in front of me turned and asked, "How was your week, dear?"
At that point I didn't even have the strength to lie to this nice old man. "Lousy."
I think he saw the tears in my eyes, or the pain in my face, because he took one of my hands in both of his, and patted it gently. Looking me in the eyes, he said "Life will get good again."
He had no idea what was going on with me, but he had exactly the right words. "Life will get good again." At that moment, there was nothing I needed to hear more. I still don't know which of the little, white-haired men at my church held my hand that day.  It doesn't matter; that day he was an angel.

And so, two years now, I have been dealing with this. I sit here, knowing that the scan I had yesterday might bring good or bad news. (I should hear on Monday.) I am all of these things: unwilling to believe this is happening to me, angry, sad, scared. And I am just tired of thinking about cancer. But I know, too, that life IS good.  I have family and friends that I love, a good job, and there is a rabbit sunning himself outside my back window.  I can enjoy things big and small, and I will, because, even though I know the future probably holds unpleasant things, life is good again.