I was planning on writing about something else here today but my husband shared this picture that popped up in his memories today. Three years ago today I was told for the first time the tumor that was removed from my appendix in what going into it we thought was a routine appendectomy was cancerous.
To my husband I know this picture means one thing. The devastation and fear hearing your wife call you and say ‘the tumor wasn’t benign’ is evident in his face. So is the shock. The difficulty of being a ‘fixer’ and faced with a situation you can’t fix.
For me I see how alone I feel and the beginnings of trauma evident on my face. To make a very long story short I had been told (incorrectly) a few weeks before this that all of my pathology reports came back clear. I went to my follow-up appointment with my gynecological oncologist solo believing it was just routine follow up. (I now know this pro tip: if all your tests are benign, you get cancelled from seeing oncologists. If your appointments stand, there are 100% still concerns.)
There I was sitting on the exam table expecting polite happy chit chat about how lucky I was and instead, having her tell me with great compassion the plans for follow-up surgery and more referrals to different oncologists. I could not even process her words and therefore, her compassion fell on deaf ears. I couldn’t comprehend I needed it. I told her I had been told my tests were benign so she went and printed out my lab reports and read them to me. She asked me if I had any questions and if I was alright, again two things I couldn’t even begin to process. I took the lab reports out of her office in my hot little hand. I somehow took the elevator down, got down to my car in shock and tried to call Aaron. He was in a meeting so I called my dad. I’m not sure what I hoped to accomplish as I couldn’t even explain anything properly but I needed to not be alone. I needed to be heard. I cried and then tried to get it together enough mentally to drive home safely to my kids.
When I look at this photo with the shock so evident I see there are a few things that day’s Leah who just heard life altering news had no idea about yet.
How serious my situation was. On this day I had zero comprehension about what the effects of having a cancerous tumor that spreads by mucus exploding your appendix and therefore possibly exposing literally everything in your abdominal cavity to cancer were. (Just do a quick scan of all your organs that are housed there to consider the possibilities. On this day, my mind couldn’t even comprehend.) I had no idea what a HIPEC was or a Sugerbaker Surgery was or why someone would need one. I had no idea some cancers don’t respond to IV chemotherapy. I had no idea how many appointments I would have and where this would end. I had no idea cancer could cause trauma.
That I would get a miracle. Yes it’s true - by some combination of modern medicine, prayers of so many and alternative medicine (Aaron calls this hippy sh*t) all rolled together by God’s grace it happened. Three years later, two and a half of these with ongoing NED (no evidence of disease) and I’ve come to some acceptance of it after a few years of secretly being afraid the tests were just missing things. Being healthy after cancer is sometimes hard to accept or talk about. Everyone you know is so, so happy for you but it’s hard for you to believe it for a long time. You have developed a dysfunctional relationship of lack of trust with your body. Your brain has wired on a path of being vigilant and expecting the worst to protect you from more shock. You know not everyone gets so lucky. You don’t feel worthy of the outcome. All of this still makes me incredibly emotional in a way I can’t really explain and likely always will.
One day I would be grateful for this experience. I wake up everyday grateful to be alive and that is not hyperbole. I wake up and know I am always held by a creator who loves me, especially in the worst. I wake up and know in my soul in a way I cannot explain that God will work all things to good, even if it is a good I cannot understand or agree with. I have increased compassion that today is the day others are hearing their news that is equivalent to cancer or working through their equivalent of the unknown or treatment or working through their healing (frankly the hardest part). I don’t sweat the small stuff. I see the absolute beauty and joy of ordinary life. You can tell me your utter heartbreak and it doesn’t scare me away. I learned to sit and share space comfortably with hard stuff. I know these are gifts not everyone gets and I am thankful I have them.
I share this just to say if today is a day you need it: here is some hope. Here are some things that three years later I can share.
Sometimes things may get even darker before the light comes. Survive it one day at a time. Remember even if it feels like it you are not alone. You are loved. You are beloved. You are cherished. Take all the help offered: things you once scoffed, things you don’t believe in, things you do, casseroles. Make and show up to your appointments.
Your miracle may be of the kind that comes by hard work, and showing up, and forgiveness. Your miracle may be of the kind that comes of letting something that was once precious go. Your miracle may be of the kind you can share publicly, or not. It may come in one fell swoop or it may come in one million tiny, painful steps.
It will probably take longer than you think to have eyes to see it or the ability to believe it.
One day, even if it seems impossible today, you will wake up happy to be alive.
