I started this post four months ago. The Lumpy Offensive was relatively new, and I was struck by how cancer inspires people to create, to use their hands and craft something. I wanted to share some of the examples I’d seen and try to put some words to the gratitude I felt for those gifts and those creators.
Then, I became overwhelmed by the daily tasks of undergoing chemo, dealing with side effects and continuing to work. Writing anything, other than to-do lists, slipped out of the realm of my personal possibility. I kept thinking about it though, and as I did, my post on crafts morphed into something else entirely.
As I considered pictures of the gifts and projects, I began thinking about the other images and memories I will take forward from this time in my life.
I will remember that I surprised myself by so often turning to Facebook. I will remember that even as I felt cheesy for asking, the outpouring of support and emotion from folks on social media buoyed my ability to battle. People posted, they changed profile pictures, they sent me messages. Those who did so may have thought, and often said, that they wished they could do something more. But, it was exactly right. It was more than enough and continues to help me heal.
I will remember tiring of plain bagels and gatorade. Sadly, I will remember the moment that an ill-fated disagreement between my stomach and mint Oreos relegated the cookies to join tequila in my monument to “never again.”
I will remember that while my spouse and I have lots of skills, successfully keeping stitches dry is not one of them. I will also remember that it turns out I’m allergic to tape.
I will remember that on the eve of March Madness, as I started my second round of chemo, I was struck by a debilitating bout of anxiety. The 6 weeks which followed found me in a fairly constant state of terror. I’ve struggled to find an analogy to explain the feeling, but let’s try this: imagine walking along a path on the side of a steep cliff, where one careless step could result in utter disaster. Picture a large yawning void to one side, a wall of rock on the other side and only a narrow strip of flat ground in front of you. The best way to get through is to be careful, yes, but also to have faith that you know how to walk. Years of walking have prepared you to walk straight and reach your destination safely.
Anxiety strips you of that faith. It convinces you that you never really knew how to walk, that you are terrible at walking and that any step forward will result in certain death. It is paralyzing. It is confusing to those around you, who know you’ll be fine if you move forward because they remember that you can, in fact, walk. But for you, the cliff never goes away.
It has been suggested to me that perhaps in the early stages of this battle, I avoided dealing with the emotional impact of the diagnosis. And, when you put that work off, it will land on your head. Not unlike an anvil.
So, my Wile E Coyote ass had to dig my way out, and I did, with the help of doctors and understanding nurses and my amazing family and friends and colleagues and my spouse, who has demonstrated previously unplumbed depths of patience. As the cliche goes, the only way out is through.
I will remember the Kentucky Derby, an event close to my heart due to part of my childhood spent in Louisville (pronounced lou-a-vul). My sisters and I lived for the pre-race events: the Pegasus parade, the steamboat races, the hot air balloons…I still get pretty excited and I have never once been to the actual race. This year, the day before the race, they posted pictures from an event in which cancer survivors, dressed to the nines, walked along the track at Churchill. And, one woman held a sign which read, “Cancer gave me more than it ever took away.”
I will remember thinking frequently of this sign. Through treatment and testing, I have been given the opportunity to reduce my risk of future cancers. As the anxiety clears, I am discovering a new ability to find peace, even as I prepare to have a bi-lateral mastectomy in July and I try to decide whether to call it the “Applegate” or the “Angelina”. And while I will never change my mind about skydiving – the answer is, “no, but I’ll take pictures while you do it” – I can’t deny that my perspective on life is changed.
I will remember the stranger I ran into at the restaurant down the street who told me about her cancer survival and said, “God has his ways of letting you know he’s with you.” I will remember the woman in the gift shop who is a 30 year survivor. I will remember hearing about others diagnosed with lung cancer and breast cancer and leukemia. I will remember that Stuart Scott and Lauren Hill and countless others died in the time between my diagnosis and my surgery. I will remember how much it helped me to work on Pelotonia – a local biking event to raise money for cancer research.
And, I will remember the crafts. The quilt from the hospital volunteers and the quilt from my soccer team (left). The buttons my sister had made. The handmade jewelry. The food people made and brought over so we wouldn’t have to cook. The coloring book which was a gift from a friend. The YouTube videos on how to tie a headscarf. The cheerful pillowcases sewn by Josh’s aunt. The cards for my last day of chemo. The drawings from kids wishing me well, even though some of them have never met me.
Cancer brings out our desire to “do something”. I’ve seen so many of the people around me struck by a feeling of helplessness, because at the end of the day, they can’t shrink the tumor. They can’t fight the Lumpy Offensive for me.
We all feel helpless. We all wish we could do something more. So we make things. And support each other.
#tovictory