Revealing Grace

After my previous relationship I had a lot of body issues. My significant other was always harsh on my body and when he left, I got serious about fitness. It was partly for me and probably in part to prove that he should have stayed. Either way, I got in shape.  When I moved to Dallas a year ago I was therefore in the best shape of my life, something that probably saved my life in multiple ways as I entered cancer treatment. I was thin, I was strong, I was toned. I was finally happy with my body.  And then I had chemo.  And I gained 20 pounds.  People said once I was no longer on steroids it would just fall off.  It hasn't.  Granted, with my work schedule, surgeries, and recovery I haven't been able to go to the gym every day, but I have been eating healthy and being mindful of movement. Still, I seem to be stuck with these new curves.  I take pictures and my face does not look like my own. I see more signs of wear and tea...

After my fourth chemo I got on a plane and when it landed I headed straight for the beach. With my luggage on my back I walked straight onto the sand and down to the water. I bathed in the sunshine and for a few hours, everything was quiet. Nothing is quiet with cancer treatment. There are so many conversations with doctors, peers, well-wishers, family, and strangers. There are a barrage of appointments mixed with work responsibilities, taking care of a home, and in my case, a dog. Everything is busy and rushed and challenging. While in chemo, I worked hard to not let it slow me down. Now, I am still in tri-weekly infusions, recovering from a surgery, and attending appointments, and I am exhausted. I am soul tired. I long for quiet. I long for rest. So much feels not ok. I am quietly afraid that the cancer will come back and next time, I won't be able to fight it. I am afraid that my life will be cut short. I am afraid that this nagging pain in my side is actually so...

It is odd to think that I will always have these scars, these reminders of the cancer that once was. Everyone rejoices with you that it is "over," but so much of it never ends. There are always more appointments, more check-ups, more ways you have to heal. Your body is the most tangible piece of it all. Your muscles have to wake up and your mind has to clear. Your new chest has to settle in and your eyes have to get used to seeing a new and foreign body in the mirror. It is odd to think that this is now me, that I will never look like I did before. Before . Life will forever now be divided by before and after. What was. What now is. Your mind is the less tangible piece of healing. The exhaustion from the last few months of treatment, the quiet that gives space to realize what has just happened. There is a funny mix of fear and relief, anxiety and peace. There is no more cancer. My goodness there was cancer. But the journey has taken its toll. I haven't foun...

No one really prepared me for what it would be like once chemo ended. I guess I never really thought that far ahead. For months it has been a constant cycle of treatments and recovery. It was all I could do to propel myself into that chair again. I had to be short-sighted. It was how I survived. And then chemo ended. And the future opened up. You would think the resulting emotion would be some insane joy that the worst of treatment was over. You would imagine that I would feel free and full of life. But where I expected joy, I found anxiety. Where I expected freedom, I felt trapped by fear. For the first time I had time for the reality to sink in: I had cancer. I'm 29 years old and healthy, and I had cancer.  For the first time I realized that no matter what, I cannot go back. No matter how hard I try, my life will never be the same. For weeks, I worried that every little twinge or pain, every weird and probably normal thing, was a sign of something deadly. As I looked t...

Dating while in cancer treatment is weird.  When you have recently had breast cancer it gets even weirder, considering one of the first things you discuss is your boobs.  See?  It just got weird.  My point exactly.  So when my friends asked if I would be open to being set up with their favorite cousin, I was only cautiously optimistic. With our busy adult schedules, we planned a date at our friend’s home in San Antonio for a month and a half in the future. A month and a half to worry about all the normal things like, will I even have eyebrows when we meet? Like I said, dating while in cancer treatment is weird. So last weekend, just days prior to my final chemo, I put on my cute high-waisted jeans and a funky t-shirt to make me feel cute and wa-la. I was ready. Except I don’t think I was ready. I don’t think I was ready for him to find me beautiful, even though I didn’t feel that at all myself. I don’t think I was read...

I wanted it not to have an effect on anything. I wanted to believe that even though I was in cancer treatment, it didn’t have to touch the rest of my life. I pushed to never miss a day of work or do a job halfway. I traveled and hiked and drove halfway across the country. I started to date and pretend that everything was normal and the cancer was just a little thing. But the pressure of treatment was quietly doing a number on my resolve. The fact was, cancer treatment did have an effect on everything . With only the expectations that I put upon myself, I pushed myself to the breaking point. Constantly confused about why my white blood cell count never rose above the absolute minimum of acceptability since chemo #2, I pushed away rest and tried to continue on with my pre-cancer life. I put undue pressure on myself to perform when no one was asking me to. I took a trip to California and spent half of the weekend sprawled out on my friend’s couch.   I spent weeks commun...

I cannot believe that on Monday I go in for my final chemo. I can scarcely wrap my brain around the fact that slowly, slowly, I will become "me" again.  Those pieces that have been dormant will wake up. In time, my energy will return, my eyebrows will grow back, my hair will try to find its rhythm again. Slowly, the steroid puff will leave my face and the constant fear of having to endure another treatment will subside.  When I began treatment in August, I couldn't imagine making it here.  Yet, my anxieties have not subsided with the end of chemo in my sights. I worry more about a recurrence, about what it means to be past the active part of treatment. I stay up at night fretting about my next reconstruction surgery and the permanent changes in my body, my mind, my will.  In treatment everything seems temporary. Post-treatment you have to come to terms with the fact that some things are now with you forever.  What a freaking mind-game ca...