The day after tomorrow I have my next MRI. If its clean ( like the others have been) then I get to go onto the yearly ones, rather than every 6 months.
And yet, I'm scared ( pardon my language) shitless. Every time, regardless how the others have turned out, there is that moment of breathless terror. The possibility that maybe this time they will find something again.
Needless to say, I can't live my life that way and for the most part I don't. I wouldn't have undertaken homeschooling our son and taking on some professional opportunities this year if I was still in survival mode. My day to day isn't about cancer anymore. Two years later, can I admit to that? However, I am still part of the support group that I found before my MOAS, and in those two years I ache to think how many friends we've lost. I am one of the lucky ones, but there's always that worry of what happens if the luck runs out?
I find that I am a lot more melancholy this year. Last year I had just finished chemo and dealt with the surgery and the aftermath; I was functioning on survival mode. Last summer, after my appointment with the wonderful Doctor Temple, we finally made the decision to pull out son from the public school system. It was a leap of faith that has paid off a thousand fold. He is happy and less anxious, thriving. So am I. And then the anniversaries started.
( Of course as I'm typing this I got a phone call from the
Cancer Agency and just about jumped out of my skin. It was just to
remind me of my MRI Friday)
This year we didn't celebrate Purim. I mean, I made the hamantsachen and shared them, but we didn't participate in the school's celebrations or the community one. In fact, we went away for that weekend; we spent it together trying to learn something new - snowboarding.
Two years ago I was baking for Purim, planning to go to the party that afternoon. Instead I had to call my mom to come look after Aiden as I headed with Chris to the ER. Life unraveled after that.
This spring break was hard too; our son is now spending the rest of the week with his grandparent. Its hard not to recall the spring break two years ago, when he spent it all with them on the island while we struggled to figure out how to tell him I had stage 4 cancer.
Passover was spent with all my family at the community celebration here, and I cried all the way through it. This year I've opted not to go and have only the family one, as I don't feel ready for it yet. I think that the emotional impact of what we went through is finally hitting me.
I am writing again. I am drawing again. I am living and learning, and trying new things. I am reminding myself constantly that its a process and we're well underway. Some days are easier than others, and no matter where you are in the journey I wish you luck and strength.
This year, however, I feel that I am also ready to honour the journey - the friends we lost along the way, the fight we all gave. I will be participating in our Relay for Life activities ( http://convio.cancer.ca/site/TR/RelayForLife/RFL_BC_even_?px=5740486&pg=personal&fr_id=15991 ) both closer to come and elsewhere in the Lower Mainland. I may even be bringing my book, and sharing my story with others.
I hope that if you found this blog, it has helped a little. I hope you know that for all the heartbreak there are good outcomes too.