During one of my numerous oncology consultations, my physician assured me that one day, this chapter of my life would fade into the background. He suggested that I would scarcely recall the ordeal of battling cancer. I responded with a hollow laugh, tinged with sarcasm, thinking it was unfathomable.
Yet, as time progresses, the notion becomes less daunting. There are even moments when the profound weight of my grief slips from my mind. Did I truly experience that suffocating despair? Was I really submerged under such heavy waves? Yes, I was.
My scars are constant reminders. Five distinct marks tell a condensed version of my journey. One small incision just beneath my left collarbone, the port scar that served as the entry point for chemotherapy. For 361 days, it resided there, a shallow reminder beneath my skin. Then, there are the two half-moon scars under the curves of my absent breasts, accompanied by two more small lines beneath each armpit, remnants of the drain tubes used post-surgery. Five scars.
Certain days bring back vivid memories. The dread of every doctor’s appointment. Even postponing my children’s dental visits due to my newfound aversion to waiting rooms. Every three months, I return to the cancer center for an injection that suppresses my ovaries. My heart races, my stomach twists, and pain flares up. I also take a daily pill that blocks estrogen, and I often awaken in the night, drenched in sweat, yearning for the days when my body felt like my own. There are days when those memories resurface.
Conversely, there are days when I forget I’m a cancer survivor. Pushing the red shopping carts at Target, sipping my coffee, or feeling frustration over traffic jams and lengthy meetings. Days when I exhibit short tempers with my children, irritated by the scattered Legos across the floor, questioning the whereabouts of matching socks, and shaking my head at the laundry that seems to multiply between Sundays. There are days when I forget.
And then, a moment catches my breath. I remind myself that I once yearned for these ordinary yet extraordinary days. I prayed fervently for moments like these.
Sometimes, I experience chills—caught off guard by the scent of coconut shampoo in my seven-year-old’s hair while reading him a story or feeling the gentle squeeze of my four-year-old’s hand as we cross the street. Listening to the rain pattering against the window or watching my partner asleep, bathed in moonlight. I am present. I am still here.
I realize I don’t wish to forget. I don’t want to sever my connection to those five scars or the memories of my profound sorrow. I dove deep into my struggles, yet I also reached for the sky.
Recently, my son Leo had a piece of art displayed at a local mall exhibition. As he enthusiastically pointed out the details of his creation, my heart swelled with emotion. What if I had missed this moment? We celebrated with ice cream, gazing at the clouds above. In that moment, this ordinary, extraordinary life felt like pure bliss.
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In summary, the journey through cancer is marked by both profound sorrow and moments of sheer joy. Embracing the scars, both physical and emotional, can lead to a deeper appreciation of the ordinary moments that make life extraordinary.
Keyphrase: cancer survivor reflections
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