Ringing the Bell - A Cancer Survival Story
Ringing the bell means I’ve completed treatment and survived cancer. That’s now part of my story. Cancer Survivor. Here’s how the last six months, cancer, and a village changed my life. You might want to grab a tissue. Lord knows how much I cried.
In November, I had an overabundance of seemingly unrelated symptoms. Nothing of concern on its own, but the variety, the frequency, the randomness that weren’t. In December, a CT scan showed a tumor in my chest cavity. The doctors called it an anterior mediastinal mass. I googled the shit out of everything. For Christmas, my surgeon removed the tumor and in January – I received the diagnosis: Primary Mediastinal Large B Cell Lymphoma. It’s a rare, yet aggressive form of Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. A blood cancer of the lymph cells. Finished treatment and I still don’t understand all the complexities of the cancer I had.
When shit started going sideways, I heard the voice of the one who holds my spirit in his hands: “It’s not your time. Not yet.” I knew I wasn’t going to die. Not from this. I didn’t pray for physical healing or a miracle. I had a team of doctors with science to take care of that shit. I can’t force my body to heal itself, to make more blood. Or to make it faster. And when God tells you you’re going to be okay, you’ve got to believe that. I’ve always had a feeling that I would not get out of this life unscathed and without scars. This was my burning. My scathing. A battle of mental fortitude.
I prayed to know that I was loved. I prayed that I would have friends. My only ask, the only support I needed, was truly a gift that costs nothing. The love of others. And is that such a hard thing to ask for? Is it such a hard thing to give? I didn’t want to go through this by myself. If it took a village to carry me through, I hope I picked the right village. More than ever, I understand the meaning of the adage, “Choose your friends wisely.” Fears and insecurities rose to the top of my mind. The fear of vulnerability, the fear of people, the fear of abandonment, the childhood trauma of not being lovable enough. Yet, I am not an island unto myself.
How people reacted or responded had nothing to do with me and did not mean that they did not love me less. They must deal with the emotional impact of having a friend who has cancer and what that means to them. It surprised me who drew close and who withdrew and in either case, all still loved me the same. I am not responsible for other people’s feelings and what other people think of me is still none of my business. And if my friends withdraw without explanation, chances are it’s not me, it’s them. I wish I could help them with that. I wish that I could tell them how beautiful they are. How much I treasure and adore them.
So it is that I’m the one who is blessed to know you if, for a glimmer of a moment, I’ll dare let you into my messy world. When life’s chaos shakes me up more than normal. When being strong and fierce no longer serve their purpose and my weak knees threaten to buckle under the weight of my world, my stomach tied up in knots and my head swam with anticipation. For if I am not loved, if I cannot love, then what the hell is the fucking point of life anyway?
Oh, how many times so many moments, when I began to cry when my anxiety took hold while I waited for another surgery, while I made phone calls to the dr. office, at the exact moment my phone would bleep. A text, a note, a like, a virtual hug ~ and what a miracle it was that my friends still loved me when I needed it most and they literally had no idea. I would wipe my tears and carry on. This would not kill me. This would not break me.
But 101 hours on hell’s doorstep, or chemotherapy, would certainly try. That shit’s a real bitch. Literally dying a thousand microscopic deaths to live. Thinking this shit has to work. Hospitalized for six days at a time, every two weeks for the last four months. Hooked up to an IV of chemotherapy drugs that kill the cancer and healthy cells too all I can think is this shit’s got to work. I go back to the beginning whenever I get worried, I remember what I heard, what I still hear. It’s not your time, not yet. I feel my spirit captured and held by providential hands – and I relax while all my hair falls out. While I fight through the sick feeling, yet I cannot hide the hair loss. And through everything, while I’m hospitalized, my nurses are a foundation in my life. I cannot tell them thank you enough. I cannot tell them how much I love them enough. I cannot hide the emotion behind the thin wall wrapped around my heart.
Three weeks after my first chemotherapy round, my hair began falling out. It took all four months for ALL my hair – eyebrows and lashes included to fall out. I look worse for wear, but I don’t feel as bad as I look. It’s incredible how much of our identity is tied up in hair. I hope it comes back quickly. I couldn’t bear to lose all my hair in one go. Inside my head, my inner monologist screams blood-curdling wake you up from nightmare screams. I know it’s just hair – but it’s just most of me. My sexuality, femininity, identity, self-worth, self-esteem, etc. It’s literally a part of my unspoken social construct. I reminisce on the memories of what it meant at different points in my life – as a child, a rebellious teenager, an adult, and that mom-life.
In my life, more than anything, I hope like everyone else to be seen. To show my heart in a way that allows me to be seen. It’s a hard wall to break through, the one I have wrapped around myself, and yet, it’s a wall I wear as protective armor around me.
A million thanks to my village. Every text, phone call, every like, comment, and heart. Every prayer. Anything letting me know your still there and I’m still here. It never once went unnoticed.
Life carried on and I settled into the routine of hell's doorstep until: FUCK YEAH! – REMISSION!
Oh yeah, and my hair – it comes back in three to six months. I’ll keep up the selfie Saturdays. At least until I look like me again😉