Yesterday was my one year anniversary of completing chemotherapy. This morning, on the edge of the never-ending ocean waves, I ran.
But next to.
The sand was littered with crab parts – carapaces upturned and filled with water, pinchers holding nothing, legs attached only to each other.
I ran and thought about the life I have, now. How strong my body is, now. How happy I am, now.
And as the waves kept coming in, washing over the scattered crab pieces, I let myself think about death. And even in that thinking, I was still strong and happy.
There was a time, before cancer, when even thinking of death, would cause panic. When feeling connected to a bigger presence meant life might turn and go wrong.
I know fear will return someday, just like any emotion.
And I know, it is not here now.
“What’s the catch?
The catch is that there is no catch.”
– Anne Lamott from Hallelujah Anyway
A few weeks ago I had my first mammogram since my diagnosis. As the technician said, now I go back to routine screening. Except what is routine now is an annual mammogram on one breast. Something that doesn’t feel routine to me at all.
It was normal. And now I go back to waiting – for another year to screen again, for a few more weeks until I see my oncologist again. I am waiting to feel safe and okay.
Except this morning I woke up in a warm bed newly covered in a heavy comforter; a lovely chill in the air. I had a much-anticipated breakfast and a small cup of coffee in my favorite owl mug. I started reading Anne Lamott’s book about finding mercy, not only for others but for ourselves. I started thinking about the barriers that we carry around to put down at various points in our search…
like large orange traffic cones,
to mark that we are still scared (or angry or confused)…
To justify that we aren’t ready yet…
Yes, I am that snail.
Thank you morning, for coming. For showing me what I’m carrying. For helping me to start over again today.
“The sun doesn’t rise for us. We turn to it and the day begins.” – Mark Nepo from Finding Inner Courage
The crab is under the rock, carapace touching, rough to rough. My chest is hard beneath my hand, bumpy with scar tissue, held between bone.
The crab doesn’t need me to name it or see it to be what it is. Claws folded and resting in cool, shallow water. Tucked into a rock like a ball in a socket.
“Are you going to do anything with it?” My surgeon asks about my scar.
“Do you want a prosthesis?” Asks my oncologist, again.
I shake my head.
I want to claim this body as my own. As valid. As beautiful. As whole.
And that is mine alone to do.
Two hours from now I will have my port removed; a pebble-sized device that gave easy entrance to my body and allowed in a year’s worth of medicine. It is the last thing; a small finial atop a tall, seemingly insurmountable year and three months of treatment.
I am hopeful for an uneventful day and am holding the image of a bird losing a feather. It served a purpose and helped me get where I am. The loss is insignificant and hardly felt. I’m here now and releasing what is no longer needed.
Now when I lay in bed, reading, my right hand rests on my chest. Where my breast used to be. It is an unconscious gesture. I just noticed it the other day. As if my body is comforting itself.
My right arm folds in.
Like a wing.
“My grief work is not so much about climbing a ladder to get out of it as it is about the awareness of how many people are in it with me.” – Madge McKeithen from Blue Peninsula: Essential Words for a Life of Loss and Change.
The dermatologist knocked and opened the door. I took in her face, her smile, her small stature and then…her prosthetic right arm.
Recognition was immediate; a full body sensation. At the same time, a startling realization that this wouldn’t have been my reaction five months ago. This is my first time with a visible difference.
The appointment became less about my mole of concern (she wasn’t) and more about what it was like to be in the world with one arm (her) or one breast (me). The grief, the responses, the internalizations. She lost her arm in an accident at sixteen; I’m guessing at least thirty years ago. Her prosthesis is functional at work. She doesn’t usually wear it otherwise.
Whales vocalize to find each other. In the vastness of the ocean, it must be the only way. I walked out of her office with a new sense of myself. Like I had finally gotten a response to a sound I made months ago.
“The irony is that we share a great kinship in this struggle to be real, though we all think we’re alone in our struggles to be here.” – Mark Nepo from The Art of Being Sensitive
For several years I’ve noticed hawks at times of distress or worry. To me, the hawk is a comforting sentinel. To the hawk, I am just a speck in their broad landscape.
Today is my 40th birthday. This past week many people have asked me if turning 40 is hard or depressing. I know they ask because that is our narrative – 40 is the big one.
At first I nodded until I realized I was just following the same script. It felt good to be real and say:
“No, cancer was hard. I’m grateful for 40.”