My Two-Year Cancerversary

Labor Day weekend.

The unofficial end of summer and the start of a new season.

For most people, it means back to school and pumpkin spice.

For me, it signals my pending anniversary – this October will be two years since I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

I’m asked if I will have a hard time when it arrives. I’ve been having a hard time since August.

The date hovers in the air. The anxiety leans into my chest. Sometimes it’s hard to breathe.

The pain of that day bobs on the surface of the everyday as if to say, “Did you forget something?” When you were getting dressed or reading emails or feeding the cat, did you forget that you aren’t like other people anymore?

Ignorance was bliss. I don’t feel free.

I try to push the fears to the back of my mind – to the space in my head I’ve reserved for them. But it gets crowded there and they quickly spill out onto everything else.

That ache or pain is probably from my workout, but what if it’s not?

Could I carry this with me into a date? Would he still want to be there if he knew?

I draw fresh boundary lines around myself in the weeks leading up to my mammogram and people don’t understand why. This time is sacred. I’m selective in how it’s spent.

The tests will most likely be clear, but I’ll tremble in the waiting room until they read me the results.

There’s a new weight to decisions now, almost like I’m supposed to live every moment on purpose - as if that somehow honors those who lost their battles with cancer.

Some days I just want to hide.

I still have a shopping bag overflowing with papers, resources, books the doctors gave me on symptoms to watch for, how to cope. Pamphlets for support groups and classes on reducing stress. They will sit there until I make sense of them all - or maybe just make peace with them.

I read the story of a woman whose cancer has returned with a vengeance. But several years ago, she was just like me - same stage, diagnosed at the same age. 

I tell myself that’s not me and try to shut the story down in my mind, but that’s the thing about cancer - once the floodgates have opened, you can’t put the water back. 

The old me who could power through and suck it up and figure it out is gone.

I’m told that’s what trauma does, and that most cancer patients experience some form of PTSD. 

The new me doesn’t feel quite so steady, takes a little longer to decide, moves at a slower pace, none of which are bad - just not how I ever remember being. 

Mourning the loss of yourself may be one of the most difficult things to grieve. 

I thank God for what he’s done; what he continues to do in this season even as I lament. 

I stopped wrestling with the idea that there’s no way to experience gratitude and all these other emotions at the same time. 

They can and they do co-exist. 

I take each day as it comes and allow myself the space to feel what I’m feeling – no apologies. Some days are easier than others. Maybe one day they will all be easier.

But for now, this is two years.