It goes without saying that having cancer isn’t any fun. If you’re “lucky,” you get the kind of cancer where you get chemotherapy and radiation and then you get to be “done.”
You know, the kind of treatment where people get to pat you on the back and say “Hey! You made it! You did it! You got through it!”
And then, there’s stage 4 cancer.
Stage 4 cancer is the incurable kind. It’s the kind where they tell you you might not make it, but then if you do, it makes people confused.
“You’re still getting chemo? I thought you were done with that.”
The word remission is another word that is a contradiction. It technically means you’re all better, but really you’re not. Remission to a stage 4 patient often feels like a clock is tick tick ticking in your ear. Every day becomes something that should feel like gratitude, but often feels like nothing but a time bomb.
How long? How soon? When will it come back? Will it come back?
Being in remission is the kind of thing that should make you happy, but instead, it’s often the opposite. You’ve made it through the toughest part, and as they should, the people you know carry on…Business as usual. Even your family carries on, business as usual. My kids, like most, want to spend endless hours playing their video games, tweeting, and watching YouTube.
“Want to go to the beach? To lunch? To walk the dog?” “No, Mom.”
I guess to any other Mom this would feel normal, but in my case, it often turns into major anxiety. I raise my voice. I get agitated. I accuse everyone of being wrapped up in stupid electronics. They look at me like I’m crazy, so I head into the bedroom, shut the door, and cry. I resist the urge to shout at them. I want to tell them I may not be here soon. I want to say that it might be a good memory, to remember us walking the dog, or having lunch. I want bottle up the memories for them, because they are so oblivious to the fact that I may not be here in a year, or two, or three… But I don’t tell them that.
I run my house. I feed the cat. I do the laundry. I watch my baby Eliza as she tumbles in her gym class, as she laughs on the swings, as she pets puppies and watches Elmo. I try to enjoy these moments, but every minute I’m wondering, “Shouldn’t I be taking videos or pictures?” I wonder if she’ll remember how we watched Dumbo together. I think about her getting on the bus to kindergarten and wonder if someone will remember to fix her hair the way I like it. I wonder who will bake her cupcakes for her birthday and sing her lullabies at night.
My husband likes to joke that I am not an early riser, and that it’s super hard for me to wake up. What he doesn’t know is that I reluctantly come to bed each night, knowing that I will toss and turn for hours as little thoughts creep into my head about my children and how they will manage if I’m gone. I worry that my chemo isn’t working. I worry that my medications will cease being effective. I worry that I will join the ranks of the millions before me who have succumb. I google clinical trials in the middle of the night. I try to breathe. I try not to wake my husband with the soft hiccups that come from silent sobs. I drift off to sleep before the sun rises. And then I get up to start another day.
I get my tests. I get my scans. I get my shots. I take my pills. I become immune to the various nurses who take my blood pressure. I breathe deeply through the endless needle pricks. I look past the sick people in the chairs next to me. I wear nice clothes and do my hair. I look healthy. People call me heroine, survivor, miracle.
There never seems to be a moment to come up for air. Surviving is a daily business, so there’s no let-up. It feels like endlessly swimming upstream. The emotional drain can be exhausting. Yet, there is so much to be grateful for, so much to laugh about, and so much life to live. And don’t get me wrong; I do live. But it does feel a bit like treading water every day, bobbing in a constant sea of uncertainty. You get on with it quietly, hoping no one pays you too much attention. Yet sometimes, there’s that wistful ache, when you want to gently remind the ones you love not to ever forget.
