As much as I wanted cancer to be a blip in my story, or a side quest that I did and then returned to the actual plot of my life, it sadly doesn’t work that way. I suppose I have to admit, it changed me. There are the body changes that don’t solely have an impact on how your body moves in this world; you have to deal with the psychological impacts of that too. There is the frequent monitoring that reminds you in a unavoidable way that cancer could come back and metastasize at any time. Let’s face it though, that thought crosses my mind many times every single day. In that same vein, when Colette and I talk about her future adult life, I can’t help but think, and sometimes somewhat jokingly say, “I’ll be dead by then.”
Then there are the trauma triggers that make my stomach turn. Surprisingly I still enjoy a cold Sprite, but there are some times when I open our pantry, see the Sprite, and I remember the warm Sprite. It was one of the only liquids that didn’t make me want to gag at the time, but now, my whole body reacts. It starts with the turning stomach, followed by the tensing of my neck and facial muscles, then that overwhelming feeling of your body wanting to melt into tears and curl up in a ball. For me, there is the wall. My body may be telling me to feel through the grief, but there is also this inability to relax enough to allow it to flow.
Those same physical and mental reactions happen when I see Instant Breakfast and peanut butter, my chemo bag, and my hoodie. Thankfully we don’t keep Instant Breakfast in our home anymore, but every now and then I get a whiff of peanut butter and immediately taste that warm chocolate sludge. It sustained me, but I will never recommend a warm smoothie to anyone but another chemo patient who can’t tolerate cold liquids. My chemo bag sits in plain sight at the back of my closet. I don’t notice it every time, but when I do, the memories come rushing back. My hoodie. One of my favorite hoodies. I got it from the Las Vegas Cirque de Soleil show The Beatles Love. Such a positive message felt comforting to wear to most of my chemo sessions, and for the first few scans it held the power of guaranteeing a NED result; or so the rules I make up in my brain said. It still hangs among the dozen other hoodies in my closet. I get a glimpse of the white sleeve with the pastel pink and green accents, and I think, “Should I pack that away? Why did I tarnish my favorite hoodie with such bad memories?” I imagine it’s kind of like coming across your ex-boyfriend’s hoodie. I mean the ex-boyfriend that was much needed at the time but eventually became toxic, not the one that deserved the hoodie to be set on fire.
I haven’t packed it away, not because I long for my chemo days, obviously. It’s another on of those rules. If I put my chemo bag and my hoodie in storage or out of sight, I’ll just invite recurrence. It’s a rule. I know it’s not mentally healthy. I know I should go through the emotional exposure therapy process of proving that rule wrong, but I’m not ready. I’m proud of myself for not having to wear my hoodie to my follow- up scans and appointments. Exposure therapy is about baby steps. I’m not sure what the next step is in that packing it up process, but I know it’s not sealing it away in a box for storage yet.
In September, at my hopefully 2 year NED anniversary, I am supposed to graduate to my blood tests being reduced to every 6months with my scans. Those 2 extra follow-up appointments will be dropped. I’m not so sure that will reduce my anxiety around recurrence, but I suppose I won’t be holding my breath afraid of results turning my world upside down again. I don’t imagine my hoodie will find a new place in September, perhaps year 3, currently my goal is year 5.
For now, I will continue to take little dips into my trauma and find ways to heal on my time. As much as I wish it had been a side quest, I am slowly accepting that cancer is integral in pushing my story forward. So here we go. Onward.