There is a corner of my room that I call “The Cancer Corner.” It has everything I had in my hospital room- decorations, books, pictures, gifts, journals, and so many adult coloring books. It has even spilled over into the dining room area that I have designated as the Costco Corner. I’ve been home since February, and still I can’t get myself to clean up that area. I finally donated my PICC and port supplies to my local oncologist’s clinic, which felt good. But the rest of it still awaits my attention, yearning to be asked if it brings me joy or not (shout out to Marie Kondo). I told myself I was going to do a little at a time, but I keep putting it off. I don’t want to really look through the stuff, even though all of it is probably sweet and inspiring, intended to keep me happy and preoccupied during my hospitalizations. It just makes me sad now. I sort of just want to be done with that part of my life, but reminders are everywhere, even beyond the Cancer Corner.
Don’t get me wrong, I do feel further and further away from cancer as each day passes. Most days, I could walk right by that Cancer Corner and ignore it, much like walking right by a laundry basket full of clothes that I need to fold. But then there are other days when I feel a cancer essence lingering around me, like a terrible fart that won’t go away. It typically happens around the time I have to see the oncologist again. I get pretty anxious during the days leading up to the appointment, and even if Jamie asks me if I’m nervous and I say no, I believe subconsciously the answer is yes. I drove downtown to see my oncologist last week for my follow-up blood work. What I thought was supposed to be follow-ups every 3 months for the first 1-2 years post chemo has now become every 3 months for the next 5 years. It struck me as odd to require such frequent follow-ups, as my parents that also had cancers didn’t have to follow-up as frequently. I asked her what the recurrence rate for APL was; in my mind it has always been a super low percentage, somewhere in the single digits. But it is actually 10-15%, which sounds kind of high, or at least higher than I would like it to be. I thought I heard that wrong, but Google verified it for me. So that sucked. It wasn’t bad news per se, but it did give my anxiety more ammo, and that benefits no one.
After I saw my oncolgist, I had my first meeting with the nurse practitioner that runs the Survivorship Program. I spent about 45-60 minutes with her, and I still don’t know what it was for. I think her purpose is to manage my care wholistically, making sure I get everything beyond the cancer taken care of, like my bone scans, opthalmologist appointments, echocardiograms, and the like. Apparently, I was zapped with some high level doses of steroids, which I only vaguely remember, and that could mess with my bones and eyes. And obviously, the chemo messed with my heart, but it should be okay by now. So even if I wanted to move past the memories of cancer, all these new “possible medical issues” from the treatment seem to be coming to surface. None of them are serious, or at least not life-threatening, which is good. They’re all just annoying. Here I am trying to move on, rehabbing myself, getting my diet more healthy (except on Saturdays), attempting to live how I used to live pre-cancer, and none of this shit will let me go. The nurse practitioner asked, “How are you psychologically? Has it all kind of hit you, now that you are 6 months out?” I thought to myself, “Yeah, bitch, it hit me like a ton of bricks, and continues to do so (she was actually very nice, not bitchy at all).” But I coolly said with a smile that I’m handling it (shout out to Olivia Pope). At the end of the appointment, she handed me a thick packet of records that summarized everything I went through, as if I needed a written reminder. I smiled graciously again and said thank you, and refrained from throwing it away right in front of her face. See, cancer puts me in a shitty mood. Even though the cancer itself is cured, it still has a presence and it acts like an annoying frenemy that keeps peaking in and out of the picture, sticking it’s finger right next to my face and saying childishly, “I’m not touching you, I’m not touching you…” That day had a little too much cancer talk for my liking, and it was the pits.
Perhaps the most redeemable part of the Survivorship appointment had nothing to do with the actual program or nurse practitioner, rather, the view from the office window. The office was in the same hospital building I stayed in all those months, except instead of the 15th floor, I was staring out of a window from the 5th floor. All the things I used to stare at for hours were still there- the lake, the park and running track, the field of grass that many dogs would play in, the tennis court, the trees. But how different the vantage point is from the 5th floor compared to high up. When I was on the 15th floor, it was quiet, removed, peaceful but isolating. I could see the top of trees and an unobstructed view of the lake and all its moods. The 5th floor view, while still pretty, provided a strange vibe. I could hear the traffic in the streets, I could see the details of the pedestrians, mostly med students and residents in their white coats having intense conversations with one another. I viewed the lake through the trees, and I could not get a good appreciation of its vastness. There was an added element of hustle and bustle, which made the once peaceful view seem less enjoyable, even though I was looking at the same scene. And that’s how I feel now in my own life. While I know the big picture scene is beautifully picturesque, it is often difficult to see that when I am so involved in the mix of everyday life. I’m like one of those med students having an intense conversation; while I’m walking around in perfect weather with the breeze off the lake blowing through my hair, all I hear is the stressful words of the conversation. I’m missing the beauty around me because all I’m focusing on is the stress in my face.
Realistically, no one can walk around all day marveling at the beauty of their surroundings and be an actual functioning adult in society at the same time. If I did that all day, my kids would probably run into the street and get hit by a car while I was marveling at a cloud that was shaped perfectly like a piece of delicious fried chicken. It’s just not possible to be in that head space at all times. Conversely, I also don’t have to be in the stress mindset at all times and never pick my head up. I am a miserable person to myself and others when I’m like that. It just takes a lot of effort and work to pull away from the details and lift your view about 10 stories up to see the beauty in the day. I’m not good at this skill. Like yoga, it’s a practice. And like yoga, I often skip it in the workout schedule. As cliched as it sounds, I need to find a balance, specifically how to live with cancer without letting it freak me out so much.
So first thing’s first, I need to tackle my Cancer Corner. I think with the physical reminders out of sight, I might feel like it is less in my face (these items are literally next to my bed and the first things I see in the morning). I’m not sick, I’m quite healthy now actually, so all the hospital paraphernalia needs to go. Maybe after I clear the space, I could put a reading chair there (just kidding, I don’t have time to read, it would be a place to put newly folded laundry). Next, instead of feeling sorry for myself for having to drive downtown to see the oncologist every 3 months, I’ll just have to think to myself that I’m being proactive in my health and wellness (sounds like a sentence straight out of a hospital pamphlet). It is something that should decrease my anxiety; instead of wondering if the cancer came back, I am getting definitive answers that it’s still gone. And finally, whenever I feel that cancery feeling, I need to acknowledge it, feel my worry for a moment, but then remind myself that I beat it before and I’m here now, alive and cancer-free. I won’t let the memory of the fight ruin the joy that the cure has brought to my life.
Even after I clean up the Cancer Corner in my room, I’ll always have a little Cancer Corner in my life. I know it will always be in the back of my mind. I’m okay with that, so long as I don’t let it become an overpower thought. Life is just way better now, and it would be a shame to let a little bit of cancer rain on my parade. And the same goes for regular everyday stressors. Is it really worth it to let those little things obstruct my perspective? Is it worth it to give the pile of dirty dishes in the sink that much power to ruin my day? Do my kids really suck that bad, or just medium bad? If I pick my head up from my endless to-do list and pause for a minute, the answer is usually no. And if I raise myself high up to admire the view, the answer is always definitely no. Remind me of that in about 5 minutes, and probably every 5 minutes after that until the kids are in college.
The Mundame 