|The view of the lake from the screened in porch|
|The view from the dock (with the boys lounging on the rocks)|
|Good beer. Good book. Good vacation.|
The ever-present dilemma I have with this blog is one I suspect most cancer patient/bloggers have: In the ongoing battle to keep cancer on the back shelf, out of reach, and out of mind, to blog about cancer feels a bit like losing. It feels like a daily admission that I have it. That no matter how good I feel, no matter how happy the dream of day-to-day life seems, I'm going to wake up soon.
But... to not blog feels like I'm squandering an opportunity to connect and to share, and an equally important chance to process and to heal.
So after a two-month or so absence, some thoughts:
June 30th came. June 30th went. I forgot something. It was my third canciversrary -- three years since initial diagnosis. And although I had this vague suspicion as the day approached that it had some significance, I didn't notice it until I started writing this post.
I take that as progress.
My recent quarterly visit was as uneventful as they come. It's now more than 18 months since my clean scan and with each day, the vision of my chemo regimen grows fainter in my rear-view mirror. Yet, cancer remains all but an obsession with me. Working at a cancer center probably doesn't help in that regard.
For years, the notion of getting cancer seemed about as far afield as winning the lottery -- perhaps even more distant. It just couldn't happen. But now that it did, I feel like nothing - a second cancer? is out of the question. Each passing discomfort, from indigestion to eczema seems like a sign of a lurking tumor -- just waiting for the diagnosis. Not just my good old follicular lymphoma ramping up, but the precursor to other more ominous cancers.
It's not logical. But once you uncork the bottle of potential illnesses, once your mind learns that the routine doctor's visit, routine blood test, routine biopsy can lead to a not-so-routine diagnosis -- it's hard to unlearn it, and to remember that there can be things wrong with your body that have nothing to do with cancer.
As anyone with a chronic disease knows, keeping your imagination in check can be a relentless battle.
One of my favorite bloggers, Glennon Melton at Momastery wrote this post after Robin Williams' death.
Her take on how people with mental illness process events such as WIlliams' death hit me smack in the face. Yes, I thought as I read it, this is how cancer survivors feel when someone famous or not famous, for that matter dies from cancer. We get that it's not our cancer. It's not our particular case. But we're reminded of our mortality.
* * * * *
At times I'll come across an old email from Carolyn, printed out and stored away in a folder with spreadsheets and other notes. Carolyn edited the Dana-Farber blog before I did and beyond that bond of transition, we worked together on other projects. I'd like to say we shared a similar sense of humor but she was much funnier than I am. Her email trail reminds me of that, and as my eyes scan the words, my ears hear her bemused tone.
Carolyn died in April. She was 45.
Her cancer was different than mine. Much different. And, as I do whenever I hear of sad cancer news, I try to create that diagnostic distance. It's not my cancer, I say over and over again. I'm not sure what I'll do when I hear the news of someone who has died from follicular lymphoma.
Cancer science is an ongoing process of understanding and discovery. It's an exciting time with new treatments and potential approaches in the news every day. But to read about advances in this cancer and that one, is exponentially more frustrating than it is exciting when you see people your age dying from the disease, and you wonder whether discoveries will come about in time for you.
They didn't for Carolyn.
Her blog, Writing about Eating, which she wrote under the name LimeyG, lives on for now. It was because of her that I ate chocolate with bacon (good) and a fried grasshopper (crunchy). More importantly, she inspired me and still does to blog better and more often. I miss her voice. I miss her.
Please take a read, particularly this post. I'll end by quoting from her blog.
In lieu of flowers, Carolyn has asked that you go have an excellent glass of champagne; tell your family how much you love them; buy yourself a book you've been meaning to read; do one nice, small thing for a stranger.