ten twenty four ten

it has been four years. four years ago i closed my eyes and when i opened them things had changed dramatically, and not at all. in the days that followed i didn’t do too much thinking about whether i would still be here two, four, or ten years down the road. i am not sure i thought anything at all for a little while. one day i just woke up and knew i would be alive. at least until i wasn’t.

almost everyone i meet who has been on the patient side of things says, “i didn’t/don’t want cancer to become who i am”. a disease cannot define a human. but, it is, afterall, part of our dna; it becomes part of what makes us who we are. whether that person is one who ignores it all and soldiers on without mention of the cancer or the person who just can’t stop talking about it at all hours of the day, it is impossible, i think, to have this disease and not have it be part of who you are. it is not a defining force. but it does affect so many things – our relationships, our habits, our daily rituals. in four years there is little the cancer hasn’t touched. but i am NOT my cancer.

that said, i have arrived at a place where i can almost get through a day without thinking about my cancer, even though it is there in my ribs, in my body. four months into this year it came raging back and i began to seriously wonder whether i was long for this world. i asked whether i would be here in october, and meant it. how many people have had a serious conversation inquiring into the very real possibility of their own death within a calendar year? right now, thanks to this drug, i wake up, meditate, go running, do yoga, ride a bike, go to work, walk the dog, visit friends, hug my family, vacation in far away places, and come back again. they talk a lot about “quality of life” and not “quantity” of it; right now, at the end of another year, every three weeks the drug company asks me to rate my quality of life and it is very high. sometimes a bit lower, depending upon whether i am waiting on scan results. not a day goes by when i don’t reflect upon how lucky i am. by some wild roll of the dice i am still here, and i think of it every time i lace up my shoes, climb on my bike, or stop to admire a gorgeous view.

i will let you in on this; it has been a difficult ride. four patients i have met along the way passed away this year. each was diagnosed after me; yet i am here. one had become a particularly close friend. she was so enormously full of life, she packed more joy into a couple hours than i can explain. i am so heart-achingly sick of this happening to beautiful people and the people who love them. one of my chemo nurses says there are always a handful that capture your heart; there is no doubt she was one. i cannot articulate how difficult and consuming it has been to process all of this. if anything, i am reminded how fragile a thing this life we’re given is. it is important to be happy.

and that is the best thing about the past year. i have been happy. from start to finish there have been so many days that i’ve gotten to share with family or friends. i started in austin, made it to new hampshire, utah, puerto rico, boston, boston, boston, boston – you get the point – and tokyo, hiroshima, kyoto, minneapolis, state college, and so many places in between. i’ve gotten to see my friends often, even some of the long-lost variety. i’ve read countless books. and i’ve taken naps, just for fun. last night i sang and danced until my voice was gone and my legs were killing me. i got to see my brother get married. happy.

they talk about the five year mark being a momentous occasion. i’m not one to make long-term plans. as i look off into the distance, it is nearly impossible to see beyond a few months. this is the way i plan my life. it is how i live, because it the most i feel safe biting off. it is odd to balance it all when you know you’re walking around with cancer nestled in there. i hope it doesn’t get a head of steam about doing anything too crazy, but i know too well the possibility exists.

four years. here i am. i almost can’t believe it. and that thought alone is what dredges up the tears, both sad and happy. here. i. am.