plus one

of all the snapshots and moments i have stored away from the past year, i find it somewhat amazing that i don't actually remember being told "it is cancer".

i remember small parts of october 24, 2006. being unnecessarily frustrated with my family as they dropped me off at the revolving doors into the hospital. this is how i get when i am nervous. extra hours of torment in the waiting room because the surgery before mine was unexpectedly complicated. my inability to hide my tears in the pre-op area; the nurse who took my hand and told me i was in the best hands imaginable. my first views of the operating room, stainless steel tables covered in blue sheets. it looked like way too many tools for a small slit in my throat. something was pushed into my iv. and then it all goes blank. i come back to, i want my mom. i paw at the dressing at the bottom of my throat. what happened, what happened? is there a dressing on my side? is my lung gone? what do we know? where is my mom? my family comes in. it is cold. there's sun outside the tiny window i am next to. i have no idea what i said. i have no idea what they said. someone told me "it is cancer". i almost think i didn't care. incapable of caring. i want to sit up. i want my clothes. i want to eat. i want to go home. cancer. i can't care. i can't remember. the nurse obliged - got me my clothes. adidas sweat pants and a wasatch powderbirds hoodie. she moved me to a recliner. she got me some applejuice. and i promptly threw it up. i remember being preoccupied with getting the hell out of the hospital, doing everything right so i can go home. i wanted to walk out, but they don't let you do that. into the wheelchair, probably better, i was unsteady on my pins. right back through the revolving door from the morning. when i didn't have cancer. or didn't know it. the air was so crisp. so clean. i rode in the front seat, slumped down, sun stinging my eyes. and i am 99% certain i wasn't even thinking about the cancer. i don't remember being told about it. but all of the sudden, there it was.

so today's my new birthday. the cancer had been inside me for a long time, so maybe i can argue i've been a survivor for longer than a year. but as far as i know, i started counting the days one year ago today. at the onset i was a little too shocky to know what was going on. the gravity didn't hit for a few days. but as soon as it hit, i knew the only way i could get through it was to adopt the attitude that every single day is a good one. there are only bad moments and experiences. and even they contribute to my lifetime and the quality of it. even now, perhaps even more necessary than during the drugs and surgery and recovery and radiation, each night when my head hits the pillow i say it, often out loud:

today
was
a
good
day.

i've learned many lessons. i don't know if i am a better person because of them but i am different. i am more patient than ever before. if something isn't really going the way i wanted it to, i can adapt. i've learned to say no even when i don't want to but need to. i listen to my body. i can sit quietly in a group of friends or family and just soak it all in. i'm not afraid of doctors. in fact, i have a new admiration and respect for them. i have at least five who saved my life. not to mention the countless other residents, nurses, aids and social workers who got me through. it sounds morbid, but i'd most likely be dead without them, or still very sick.

my family amazes me and i love them. it might be hard to believe, but we laughed a lot in the past year. sometimes there was little else to do. it was great medicine. it must have been hard for them, because when i holed up and didn't want to see anyone else, when i was at my worst and weakest, they were who saw me. i turned my nose up at their hard-prepared food, i broke down and cried at the most mundane things, and got angry because i couldn't get other words to come, the ones to describe what i was going through or needed. sometimes i didn't even know what i needed. mom and dad took me for a walk one day, it was a saturday, it was grey outside. we took the dog and walked down the pond road. i wanted to turn around. it was during my chemo and radiation in the spring and i just couldn't do it. but we kept going. i was practically leaning on them. but we made it. i was exhausted when we got home. but they made me get out and do it. sometimes that's what it was about. making me do it. and then jimnerd, in the fall, when it first happened, would ask me "how's your cancer today?". he was always hilarious at the hospital especially, and always willing to run and get a snack or drink for us. he is the best guy i know.

and my friends. near or far, old or new. sometimes i think i didn't even have to do any work because everyone was just carrying me along. and sometimes i know i wasn't doing any work, like at new year's where each night i took a nap and when i woke up dinner was ready. and the dishes were done without me. i owe, i owe. we laughed a lot too. and when it all ended, no one left me. you helped me heal and feel a bit more normal again. you have no idea what it all means to me. you made me so strong.

so.

today.

no cancer! it is rainy but i hope to ride my bike, or at least get in a trail run, mud splashing at my legs, rain, not tears, running down my face. i'll go to bed grateful and happy and content. a year, today. thank you for being here. thank you for taking care of me. thank you for not letting me give up, not for a second, ever.

good years, more of them. my only wish. for us all.