Several months ago, I quietly celebrated the two-year mark since my metastatic breast cancer diagnosis. I didn’t do anything special, just prepared myself for the waves of emotions and allowed myself to feel them. Allowed myself to feel tremendous gratitude for how far I have come and where I am now. Acknowledged the hard work I have done, as well as all that I have left to do. Remembered how very lucky I am.
Allowed myself to think back to that day, the day I got the call. Allowed myself to grieve.
July 29, 2017, marked the beginning of a new way of life. A shift, a breakdown, an awakening. It was 8:30 a.m., on a Friday. Mike was home, had taken the day off because we had plans to head out to the beach house for the Mettler Classic, our annual family golf tournament and gathering, named for my grandmother, who loved a good party. Lucy lay asleep in bed between us. I was awake, expecting the call.
I’d had a biopsy of a 1.4 cm lesion on my right hip bone earlier in the week, and I was waiting for my oncologist to deliver the results. Several weeks prior, I’d asked for a bone scan because of an odd discomfort in my leg and an unsettling feeling in my gut. I’d been responding well to chemo, the tumor in my breast had shrunk significantly, and I had surgery and radiation scheduled. I was in the home stretch of my treatment. But something didn’t feel right, and so I asked for the scan. I figured if it was clear, it would alleviate my anxiety and help me finish strong. I could get through my last couple of infusions and focus on getting well. I wanted to put my fears to rest.
But the bone scan was not clear. So my doctor ordered a PET scan and a biopsy, and here we were, waiting for the results, hoping, expecting, even, that they would be negative, that the blip was some old injury or a cyst or something that had been there for years. The PET scan showed low metabolic activity in the hip lesion and no additional areas of concern: great news. So we were just waiting on the results of the biopsy.
My phone rang on my bedside table, and I picked it up.
“Good morning, Dr. Kundra, how are you?”
“I’m good, I’m good. So the biopsy…it came back positive, actually.”
“Oh.”
Not good, not good, not good. Panic setting in, heart racing, eyes welling up. What does this mean? I know what it means. A nightmare. Metastasis. Stage 4 cancer. I’m going to die. I have to be on chemo for whatever is left of my forever. I’m never getting my port out. I’ll never be well again. What about my family? What about Lucy? I’ve let everyone down. I’m so sad and so ashamed and so disappointed. And so scared. Oh, my God.
And then, emptiness.
My doctor rattled off some more information, used words I couldn’t process, asked if I had questions.
“Not right now,” I answered.
I hung up. Let it sink in, head down. Breathe. “It’s cancer,” I told Mike. Lucy snoozed away, sprawled out across the bed. My precious, barely two-year-old, girl. What would become of her childhood?
“Huh.” And he held me, hugged me, let me cry.
I got up, called my mom. Asked her to please let my dad and sisters know, because I couldn’t. Cried some more.
We decided not to go to the beach. I didn’t think I could handle being around so many people, not with this huge unknown hanging over me. I didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to darken the weekend of fun. I wanted to stay home, where I felt safe.
Mike got up and went to the store. He came home, inexplicably, with a dozen doughnuts, something we never have. Fuck it, I thought, and ate one. Let Lucy have one all to herself. What difference would it make?
Somehow we got through that day, and the next. Mike and I went to a baseball game that Sunday. The Mariners were playing the New York Mets, and I commented on the strange coincidence of that matchup…my home team battling the Mets while I took on my own personal mets. I took it as a good sign that my boys won that game. Glimmers of humor, of hope, beginning to shine through cracks in the walls of my fear.
In the weeks and months that followed, I researched, read, learned, talked, planned, and moved forward. I advocated for myself. I convinced my doctors to proceed with my full treatment protocol, including surgery, radiation, and reconstruction. I implemented a number of complementary therapies to support my overall health. Somewhere along the way, I found hope again. And, unexpectedly, I began to feel excited and happy and even grateful for the position I was in and the path ahead. I began to believe that I was going to live.
And day by day, I did, and I am. Alive. Living. Some days I barely survive, others I thrive. It’s okay. I struggle with fear. A lot. It makes me anxious and impatient and short-tempered. Sometimes I feel depressed, sometimes I feel explosively angry. Sometimes I feel isolated and so alone. Sometimes the fear makes me lash out at the people I love most. I make a lot of mistakes. But I have a lot of help, and the fear fades. I reflect. I learn. I apologize. I talk about it. I reconnect with my people. And I have moments of utter peace, of complete contentment, of deep joy and wonder for my miraculous life.
I am learning that these big emotions come and go, that we have an unlimited number of chances to pick ourselves up and forgive ourselves and try again. That the people who matter will love us, even through our lowest, most vulnerable moments. That I deserve that love and that I can give that love to myself, too. I guess that’s resilience, though it feels much more awkward in real life, in the thick of it, than it does when you read some sparkly inspirational quote about never giving up.
I was watching Lucy at her swim lessons last week, noticing how she goes rigid when she’s practicing her floats, even though her teacher tells her to relax. Sometimes she panics, kicking and splashing, trying desperately to keep her head above water, forgetting that she’s held, that she’s completely safe. It strikes me how like life her practice is. The more we try to tighten, grasp, and control, the more afraid and anxious we become, and the harder it is to find peace; we sink. But when we relax and trust—even thought we may be scared—we find ourselves carried, cradled by the currents of the universe, by God, by whatever it is that supports us and keeps us afloat.
I’m practicing too, at this very moment, as I heal from my most recent surgery and await my latest scan results. Although I’ve enjoyed good health and no evidence of disease for nearly two years now, I still find myself grappling with fear, with the unknown, with the “what-ifs.” I’m fighting to keep my own head up when deep down I know that I’m protected, buoyed, and propelled by love, hope, and faith.
There is so much beautiful uncertainty in life, and our landscapes are always changing. Maybe the trick is to get comfortable with that truth, to find freedom in it, to let go and float.
pruneandpear 