I submitted this piece for publication on a blog featuring positive-outlook stories. The editors there wanted a more developed finished product. This is too rapid-fire, they shared, and apparently, it doesn’t allow the reader to fully absorb the content. I like it as is, though, so I am publishing it here instead of elsewhere.
I was diagnosed with cancer at the age of 34. I was a married mom of two little boys—3 years old and 18 months at the time my fingers slid across a hard, pea-sized lump in my left breast during a morning shower—and at the time, I was pretty sure my days were numbered. I was most certain of this at night when I watched my babies sleep and tried to breathe away the crushing anxiety that filled my chest. Nighttime led me to create a turnover document for my husband—you know, the kind you’d leave for the person taking over your job. Instead of explaining a workplace filing system or a list of key company people, I jotted down the names of the schools our children would attend, the best places to buy shoes for growing feet, the times at which to schedule doctor check-ups. I was prepared to leave my family, and I wanted everything in place before I departed.
It’s been eight years since that November day when a doctor told me over the phone, “Unfortunately, cancer cells were found” and my medical madness began. There’s been surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, more drug therapy, physical therapy, antidepressant therapy, two hospitalizations, one blood transfusion, side effects, and more. I’ve been bald, bloated, and bitchy over the whole ordeal, but mostly, I’ve been inspired and maybe even a little thankful cancer crashed into my world (I know, gasp!) because without the disease, I might have just plodded along through life not really appreciating the beauty of every breath.
My anxiety started turning to calm the day a mommy friend anonymously left a bundle of spirit-lifting books on my front porch. This gift was followed by comfy socks in my mailbox; brownies sent from across the country; meals delivered to my doorstep; a quilt lovingly crafted and autographed by friends; and a whole string of presents, flowers, cards, emails, visits, and phone calls too numerous to list.
Cancer has given me more than overwhelming love from others. It gave me better hair; less stress; friendships with all sorts of cancer warriors; a writing and editing career (it all started with my ramblings on my Breast Cancer blog); a ninja-like ability to navigate the medical system for every ache, pain, itch, or twinge; a true admiration for life-saving doctors, the ability to push my body to new limits (I never thought I could run a half-marathon, but a few years ago, I did); and a relationship with my kids (now 11 and 9) that while sometimes characterized by chaos and conflict, is mostly beautiful. The beauty sinks in at night, when I watch them sleep and realize the anxiety is gone, and the turnover document has no place in our lives.
Some may think I’m wacky, thinking of cancer as a gift, and I admit, if it comes back, I am certain I will change my tune. For now, though, having survived for much longer than I’d anticipated, I’m thankful.