In one of my many visits to the oncology clinic, my doctor assured me that one day, all of this would be a distant memory. He claimed I would hardly recall my battle with cancer. I let out a sad, sarcastic chuckle, thinking, “That’s impossible.”
As time goes on, though, it does become a bit easier to envision. There are even moments when I forget the profound ache I once felt. Did I really sink beneath the waves of despair? Was it truly that difficult to breathe? Yes, it was.
My scars serve as constant reminders. Five distinct marks tell a brief version of my journey. There’s a small incision just below my left collarbone, a port scar from where chemotherapy was administered. It lingered just beneath my skin for 361 days. Then there are the two half-moon cuts under the curves of my missing breasts and two more small lines beneath my armpits—places where drain tubes were inserted after surgery. Five scars in total.
Some days, the memories flood back. I remember the dread of every doctor’s appointment, even canceling my children’s dental visits due to my newfound aversion to waiting rooms. Every three months, I return to the cancer center for a shot that suppresses my ovaries, feeling my heart race and my stomach twist with anxiety. There’s the daily pill I take to block estrogen, those sleepless nights drenched in sweat, and the nostalgia for the way my body used to feel so entirely mine. Yes, there are days when the memories come rushing back.
Yet, there are also days when I forget I am a cancer survivor. I find myself pushing red carts at Target, sipping coffee, and cursing traffic jams and lengthy meetings. I sometimes snap at my kids, getting irritated by Legos scattered across the floor, questioning where all the matching socks have vanished, and shaking my head at the laundry that seems to multiply overnight. There are days when I lose sight of my past.
Then, a moment strikes me, and I catch my breath. I remind myself of how I once prayed fervently for days like this. I begged for the chance to experience this ordinary yet extraordinary life.
And then, there are times when chills run down my spine. A whiff of coconut shampoo from my son’s hair as I read him a chapter from Harry Potter, or the gentle squeeze of my daughter’s hand as we cross the street. Listening to the raindrops falling outside or catching a glimpse of my husband asleep with moonlight illuminating his face. I am here. I am still here.
I realize that I don’t want to forget. I don’t want to detach myself from my five scars or from those memories of ocean-deep sorrow. I have plunged deep into the earth and soared high into the clouds.
Recently, my son David had a piece of his artwork featured in a local art show. As he enthusiastically pointed out the details of his creation, I felt a lump in my throat. What if I had missed this moment? We celebrated with ice cream, gazing up at the sky and admiring the drifting clouds. In that moment, this ordinary yet extraordinary life felt like pure bliss.
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In summary, while the memories of my cancer journey are etched into me, I cherish the moments of joy in my daily life. I don’t want to forget, and I embrace both the scars and the blessings that come with my survival.
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