Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Following Up on Followups

My first followup pap smear two weeks ago was unexpectedly anxiety-inducing. I couldn’t figure out why I wanted to cry as we approached the UCSF cancer center, or why this little voice in my head whined, “I don’t want to BE here” as we sat in the waiting room.

It wasn’t until we were back home after the 14-hour day that I realized this was the first time I’d been to that center and didn’t know what the outcome was going to be. Every other time we took the familiar route to Divasadero Street, I’d already had cancer—we were just making a plan to get rid of it. This time, I was back to that unknown state. The scariest state.

My gyn onc took a biopsy of some tissue she noticed. She said it looked like scar tissue, but wanted to take the sample because we live so far away and weren’t scheduled to see her again for three months. It’s funny, but I’m way more in tune with my body now.

"Is it up and to your left?" I called down to her from my perch on the exam table.

"Yep," she answered as she snipped a bit of tissue.

I knew exactly what she was talking about. Wish I’d had that ability when a tumor was growing in there, but hey, what’reyougonnado, right?

After all that, the news is amazing. The best news. Biopsy came back clear, as did my pap smear. I have another three months and then will go back in June for a second followup. I have a feeling it won’t be as anxiety-inducing the next time around. By the fourth it’ll probably be old hat. By the eighth, I’ll be past that magical date when most cervical cancers recur. 

But I won’t count down those dates now. Instead, I’ll just enjoy the little milestones that are getting me back to “good.” Working full time hours and not needing to take an extra day off for rest. Enjoying my magnificent display of apple blossoms cut fresh from the backyard. Having friends over for John’s incredible pho.

Not letting cancer or the memory thereof rule my day-to-day life. It’s a struggle still, but I know in time I’ll be strong enough to move on.

Sunday, March 3, 2013

"The Last Time You Were Truly Happy."

I wrote all day long yesterday. It felt incredible. Most of my entries, like Anne Lamott says, were shitty first drafts. But I’m really pleased with my response to the “Tell Me About the Last Time You Were Truly Happy” writing prompt. So I’m sharing it here:

These first few months of 2013 are the happiest I have ever been. I live in a house with my husband. I know, from three years of observing my incredible Mother in Law, what I want my house to look like. How to keep it uncluttered. Organized. Looking the way I want it to.

I have real, true, unfettered “me time.” I sit around in my pajamas all day on Saturday and Sunday. I read silly, thoughtful, gossipy articles on the Internet. I write for hours on end. I do whatever I please.

I create bouquets and place them in places that will bring me infinite joy each time I walk by. Our hallway is alive with sprays of lilies. The entryway with a stately purple orchid, serenely bowed.

On these days alone, I listen to the music I want to listen to. At the volume with which I want to hear it. Sometimes it’s loud. And it shoots right through to my soul. And I dance around my living room, perfecting my Breakfast-Club-era Molly Ringwald. And I sing along. And I get out of breath. Sometimes I slip on my socked feet, But that’s ok.

When JLP’s at work, I watch dumb movies. With nobody to question why I might be interested in yet another Matthew McConaughey bromance. I eat four pieces of cinnamon toast in a row.

I do not have cancer. I do not work four jobs. When I sit on the couch with my husband, there is not so much information flooding my brain that I can’t enjoy the moment. I no longer make miles-long to-do lists in my head. I give thanks (sometimes silently, sometimes audibly) for this moment. When we can hold hands on the couch and our smelly old cat can sleep, drool pooling at his upturned lip, snuggled in between us.

I have a husband who adores me. Who isn’t afraid of this post-cancer body, that I might be broken, that I may have progressed without him in some sort of cancer-caused journey of introspection. He pleads with me to do less. To heal. To not worry so much about a spotless bathroom. I agree. And I actually stop worrying about it. I let those fucking winds of heaven blow through us like we’re a couple of slices of commodity Swiss cheese. I accept each moment for what it is. I unabashedly ask for more time, for someone to repeat something I might not catch right away.

I’m ok with the distance from my friends, knowing that we can all check in at any time with each other and pick up right where we left off. I have no fear that anyone is angry with me. That there is any misunderstanding between me and another that may be creating conflict in our lives.

I am in love with life. I am in love with every day that starts with a fresh promise and a warm cup of Ethiopian coffee. I can’t remember a time I woke up every morning excited to brew a fresh cup of coffee. But with every single cup, I’m reminded that today is a new day. Anything is possible. I no longer make those big, convoluted plans that I have to carry through at all costs. I might do the laundry today, or I might do it tomorrow.

And who’s going to judge me? The Overachieving Women’s Club? Guess what, they wish they could do the same. They just haven’t had the reason to let those inner judges go yet.

I have, and it’s the most incredible feeling. I am so happy.