During one of my numerous oncology appointments, my doctor reassured me that one day, this would all be a distant memory. He mentioned that I would hardly recall the time I spent battling cancer. I chuckled—a bittersweet, sarcastic chuckle. How could that ever be possible?
As time goes on, I find it easier to envision. There are even moments when I temporarily forget the profound sadness that once enveloped me. Was I truly submerged beneath the waves? Did I really struggle to catch my breath? Yes, yes I did.
My scars tell my story. Five distinct marks serve as a reminder. A small incision below my left collarbone, where my port was placed for chemotherapy, lived there for 361 days, shallow yet undeniable. Then there are the two curved scars beneath my missing breasts and two additional small lines just beneath my armpits, remnants of the drain tubes after my surgery. Five scars.
Some days, the memories come rushing back. The dread of every doctor’s appointment, even canceling my kids’ dental visits due to my newfound aversion to waiting rooms. Every three months, entering the cancer center for an injection that puts my ovaries on hold. My heart races, my stomach twists, and I feel that quick stab of pain. Not to mention the daily pill I take that blocks estrogen, along with waking up soaked in sweat in the middle of the night. I miss when my body felt like mine. Yes, there are days when I remember.
Then there are days when I forget I’m a cancer survivor. I push my red Target cart, sip coffee, and get frustrated by traffic jams and lengthy meetings. I find myself short-tempered with my kids, annoyed by the Legos scattered across the floor, questioning the whereabouts of matching socks, and sighing at the laundry that somehow multiplies. Some days, I forget.
Then I pause and breathe, reminding myself that I once prayed for days like these. I longed for this ordinary, yet extraordinary life.
Sometimes, I feel a shiver of joy. Just catching the scent of coconut shampoo in my seven-year-old’s hair while reading him a story. Feeling my four-year-old’s small hand squeeze mine as we cross the street. Listening to the rain tap against the window or watching my husband asleep with moonlight illuminating his face. I’m here. I’m still here.
And I realize I don’t want to forget. I don’t want to distance myself from my five scars or the memories of my deep sorrow. I’ve plunged deeper into the earth while reaching for the sky.
Recently, my son Noah showcased his artwork in a local exhibit. As he pointed out the details with enthusiasm, I felt a lump in my throat. What if I had missed this moment? We celebrated with ice cream and gazed at the clouds, and this ordinary, extraordinary life felt like pure paradise.
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In summary, life after cancer is a blend of remembrance and forgetfulness, where moments of joy intermingle with scars of the past. Each day offers a chance to reflect on the journey while embracing the beauty of ordinary life.