During a routine oncology visit, my physician reassured me that one day, I would look back on this chapter of my life as a distant memory. His words elicited a bittersweet laugh from me—how could I ever forget such an experience? Yet, as time moves on, I find it increasingly feasible to envision a future where my cancer journey is just a whisper in the background. There are even moments when I momentarily set aside the profound grief that accompanied my diagnosis. Did I truly experience such overwhelming despair? Was it genuinely that difficult to breathe? The answer is yes, and my physical scars are the testament to that truth.
Five distinct scars trace my journey. There’s a small incision beneath my left collarbone, the site of my chemotherapy port, which rested within me for 361 days. Two crescent-shaped scars mark the absence of my breasts, while two additional lines linger beneath my armpits, remnants of the drain tubes placed post-surgery. Five scars, each telling a fragment of my story.
There are days when memories resurface, filled with the anxiety of medical appointments and the dread that accompanied them. I even avoided scheduling my children’s dental check-ups to escape the waiting room, a space that now fills me with unease. Every three months, I return to the cancer center for an injection that suppresses my ovaries—my heart races, my stomach churns, and pain pierces through me. I take a daily medication to block estrogen, waking up drenched in sweat, yearning for the days when my body felt wholly mine. Yes, those days are unforgettable.
Yet, there are also days when I forget I am a cancer survivor. While pushing a cart at the store or sipping coffee, I become frustrated with traffic jams and long meetings. In these moments, I may be short-tempered with my children, irritated by the scattered Legos on the floor, or searching for missing socks, bewildered by the laundry that seems to multiply. On those days, I forget.
Then, I pause and take a breath, reminding myself of how fervently I prayed for ordinary days like this. I longed for the mundane moments of this extraordinary life.
Sometimes, I am struck by a wave of emotion—a familiar scent of coconut shampoo from my child’s hair while reading a story, the gentle grip of a small hand crossing the street, the soothing sound of rain, or the sight of my partner sleeping peacefully under the moonlight. I am here. I am still here.
And in those moments, I realize I do not wish to forget. I do not want to distance myself from my five scars or the memories of my deep sorrow. I have experienced both the depths of despair and the heights of hope.
Recently, my son Leo showcased his artwork at a local exhibit. As he enthusiastically pointed out the details of his creation, I felt a lump in my throat. What if I had missed this moment? We celebrated with ice cream, gazing at the clouds, and in that moment, this ordinary yet extraordinary life felt like pure bliss. For more insights on this journey, check out this blog post that discusses the emotional aspects of family building.
In conclusion, while the scars of my past serve as a reminder of my journey, they also ground me in the present. Each moment—mundane or significant—is a reminder of how far I’ve come and the life I cherish.
Keyphrase: cancer survivor journey
Tags: [“home insemination kit” “home insemination syringe” “self insemination”]