Three very, very long years ago, on April 27, 2011, I heard the words "you have ovarian cancer" from a strange doctor at the side of my hospital bed. The words didn't mean much to me at the time, thanks to the morphine drip that was easing both my pain and my mind.
Looking back I've learned a lot of things, many of them medical, and many terms and definitions I could easily have lived my life not knowing. With the exception of six months, I've spent the remaining of those three years having chemo poison my innards every month, but so far, and thankfully, keeping the disease at bay, but not curing, because there is no cure. Eventually, either the drugs or the disease will have the final say. That's realism speaking, not depression.
Some of the other things I've learned have been both disappointing and enlightening. I've learned that every day is a gift, and I try to use it as one. Some days, that's harder than others. I've learned that a simple thing such as walking is not always that simple, when just a block or two leaves me breathless. I've learned that things I normally did in my everyday life are no longer things that are normally done in my new life. And I've learned which family members and friends I can lean on when I need holding up; those who will call occasionally, drop me an email just to say hi, or thinking of you. And those who don't. For the ones who have stayed with me, I thank you. For the new friends I've met who stand by me, I thank you. What you offer me is priceless.
I've learned that this 'new normal' isn't really very normal at all. Chemo week brings nausea, highs from the steroids, and downs (very down) when you come off the steroids, sleepless nights, or a sleep filled with nightmares that make my heart pound and my body sweat, (steroids are given with each infusion to prevent allergic reaction to the drugs), and utter exhaustion. The following three weeks see progression, little by little, to somewhat of a normalcy, and then, it's time to start all over again. Blood work to see what's happening inside my body, and a 'special' blood test to check for disease status (regression, or progression), followed by more chemo. My oncologist tells me I will be on chemo for the rest of my life.
We don't travel much at all. When everyday simple things exhaust you, the thought of packing a suitcase, spending a day traveling in and out of airports, and being away from my doctor is overwhelming to me. Going home to see everyone I would like to see is exhausting, and saying goodbye when we leave is a heartache that is difficult to describe.
But on the other hand, when I was diagnosed I was given 1, maybe 2 years to live and here I am, still waking each morning, appreciating a beautiful sunrise, the warmth one enjoys every day when living in the western part of this beautiful country. I can go any place I want just by turning the pages of a book. I can knit for charity and for gifts, and do other hobbies that I enjoy, I can see smiles on the faces of friends, and I can share the day with the man who travels with me on my cancer journey. The one who sees it all, both the good and the bad, who holds me up and still can make me laugh. Who goes with me to every doctor appt and every chemo infusion. Because as he says, "It's not your disease, it's our disease." Get the picture? He is present, and he is steadfast, and I am lucky to have him, another thing I am grateful for.
So yes, although it may not be the life I would pick, it is still life and with it brings a great appreciation for things previously taken for granted. And for that, I am grateful. I love deeper, I help more, even if that only means taking however much time it takes to listen to someone, I judge less and I have become more compassionate. Because what you may see on the outside of someone, is nowhere near the person they are on the inside. If you remember nothing from this post, I hope you remember that.
