Reflections From an Imperfect Joyful Survivor
Two years ago on this day I had what I hope with every last molecule in my body was my last round of chemotherapy. Milestones have this way of forcing me to reflect on my experience and life in this chapter that I would like to call “after cancer.” Today I am overwhelmingly grateful. I also acknowledge the bittersweet way in which this day fits into my life.
Cancer changed my life profoundly. I absolutely resisted it in every way. At thirty seven, I was finally at a point where I accepted myself as a person before I was forced down this path. I loved my life. I didn’t want it to change. I am certain that two years ago when I wrapped up chemo I thought of myself as the same with a horrible hair situation.
I was so naive.
The ways in which my life has been altered are nuanced and hardly noticeable, unless you knew me closely before cancer. My relationships with literally every human have shifted. The notion that at some point this cancer could be back and deprive me of the privilege of raising my kids drives my decision making at every level, and frankly, has probably altered my personality.
On the one hand, I hardly think about it. I don’t worry endlessly that I’ll have a recurrence. It is not in the forefront of my mind at all. Unfortunately, I am not out of the woods. Although fear doesn’t paralyze me, it has not been vanquished in the ways I hoped or expected.
At the heart of my life are my children and I indulge them unashamedly. We have made trips to Disney World over and over and will do so into the future. These family trips are delightful for them, but I have to admit that watching the three of them goof around and giggle together is absolute bliss for me.
And while it’s an obvious joy for any parent to see their kids having fun, there is something deeper motivating me to accelerate these relationships. If I die young, they will need each other. They will need memories of us together to think back on and reminisce about in their adulthood if I am absent before I’d like to be. If I’m not around to pull my kids together as a family I need to show them how it’s done right now so it’s ingrained into every one of them.
Three kids with the types of careers we have is extremely difficult. We are exhausted and complain about being exhausted endlessly. But I am so grateful there are three of them. So grateful they have each other. So grateful I made this decision long before cancer entered the chat. So grateful I was able to complete my family before my fertility was compromised.
“At least they’ll have each other,” I say to myself more often than I care to admit.
I’m troubled by the unrest in the world but I no longer consume myself with every one of life’s problems. I have been shown how valuable and limited my time on this earth is and while I’d like to make this place better for the sake of humanity, I know full well how easily humanity would move on without me.
My kids would not be able to move on quite as easily. My inclination prior to cancer was to create a perfect environment for them to bloom in. I have been forced to confront the uncomfortable fact that I cannot fix the world for my children in my absence or in my presence, but I need to make sure they know that they are loved and supported. I can try to teach them not only how to blossom, but to thrive, regardless of the environment around them.
Focusing on the relative smallness of family life is a liberating escape.
I was an extrovert to the highest degree before cancer. A people pleaser. Type-A to a fault. Hard-wired for success at any cost. Some of my sharpest edges were worn down by motherhood, but cancer freed me from the obligation that dogged me to be perfect. I allow myself to slow down. I let my kids slow down. We take days off of school or extracurricular activities. We turn down long commutes. I try to be home for dinner more. We get fast food and pizza and we let ourselves off the hook. We enjoy each other and we are all better for it.
I resisted the change and I certainly hated the process, but I am alright with the result.
My reflections may seem odd if you have not spent time counting down the days until the physical and mental torture of chemotherapy would end. You should know that these reflections are not from a place of sadness. These reflections keep me grounded.
Reflecting brings me closer to my family, my kids, and myself. Reflecting reminds me of the joy that I am so unbelievably lucky to have in my heart and around my table. It reminds me to continue to seek out small joys in moments I once passed through.
It reminds me to book another Disney trip for my kiddos.
