Anniversary

Today is the one-year anniversary of the mammogram that led to my cancer diagnosis. Next Wednesday will be the anniversary of the diagnosis itself.  This time last year, grandson Henry was here in Dayton with us, having flown solo for the first time, finishing out his week at Settler Survivor Camp at Carillon Park.  The big thing on my mind was how to make the schedule work to get him to the Air Force Museum, which he was very excited to visit.

It's strange to try to place myself, in my imagination, back into the mindframe of this day a year ago. Since then my life has been so profoundly marked and changed by the experience of cancer and its treatment, and it has become so clear that that experience will be a central part of my identity from now on. There is, more truly than is usually the case, no going back to the person I was this day a year ago.

On a trivial level, there's the matter of my hair.  What's growing back on my head is not the same hair that grew there this time last year.  The color is about the same--maybe a bit more silver in front--but the texture is totally different. And it is absolutely resistant to any efforts to impose a style on it. It does what it wants to do, and that's that.  The result is a kind of chemo-Afro.  Fortunately, it's kind of cute, and I get a lot of compliments on it, as if it were a style I chose.  But I didn't. The chemo chose it for me.

My chemo Afro.  Actually, it's a bit more sedate in this pic than usual.

Then there's my arm.  One result of the latest round of follow-up appointments is that I have been told I once again have mild lymphedema in my left arm and must wear a compression sleeve and gauntlet 6-8 hours per day, plus whenever I exercise or travel by airplane. There are also special massage routines I have to follow. This entails a certain burden on my daily schedule, and some attendant annoyances (like having to wear a rubber glove on my left hand whenever I cook or do something else that might get the gauntlet wet or dirty). Just annoyances, but annoyances that occur multiple times a day.  And that means there is no option of simply putting all this behind me: it remains, and will remain, very much with me.

The good news is that all three docs (surgeon, medical oncologist, and radiation oncologist) agree that all is well and I'm doing all the right things. Major good news indeed.

So. No going back, no putting it all behind me.  Only going forward, and exploring this strange new terrain of survivorship (yes, that's what they call it). Besides the lymphedema regimens, my daily schedule is significantly impacted by my stepped-up exercise regimen--a major time commitment, but with very tangible benefits in general well-being. And I find myself readily playing the cancer card when I want to get out of doing things I really don't want to do.  Plus, I gave myself permission to finally act on a long-suppressed desire and get myself a pink flamingo for my garden.

 

Flaminia the flamingo, ensconced in the garden next to the front porch.

My energy level is still somewhat diminished, or maybe more accurately, it's unpredictable.  I've resumed most of my regular activities, but every now and then I just poop out and have to take a two hour nap. So I am reluctant to make any new commitments, although I did agree to do phone banking for the Democratic woman who is challenging our long-time reperesentative in Congress (anything to put a brake on the disaster that is the Trump administration).

Of course, I'm still not quite done with the active treatment phase.  I have a herceptin infusion coming up on Monday, then one more in August, and my final one on September 10. From then on it's just the daily hormone-blocking pill for the balance of 5 years. 

Maybe because I'm still not done, I find it hard to visualize a future shape and direction for my post-treatment life.  Small example: I've always loved to travel, and have often organized my attention around planning and anticipating a major trip, and fantasizing about what other exotic trips I might take. As a result, I get a lot of travel promos via email and snail mail.  These days, they generally go straight into the trash or recycle bin. We do have a modest road trip planned for September, and a visit to New Orleans in October (a family reunion to celebrate out 50th wedding anniversary), but beyond that there is no eagerness in me to plan further travels--a very striking change. 

So I move forward day by day into this strange terrain, taking it slowly, feeling my way, not pushing or rushing. It still feels like the cancer experience is calling the shots in my life, not me. I still need time to get to know who I am, after all I've been through in the past year. It doesn't feel scary, and I don't feel weepy or depressed, but it does feel a little daunting: like a big incomplete project, with no good instruction manual.