Well, it looks like almost a year has gone by since I last posted. So much for not letting the blog fall by the wayside as I continue the march through remission.
Frankly and fortunately, there’s not a whole lot to report about my health in tangible terms. I am fortunate to still be in remission from primary mediastinal diffuse large B cell NHL. I’ve had a few CT scans during the past year (two scheduled and one due to psychosomatic scanxiety symptoms and a heavy dose of caution on the part of my oncologist), and all have come back clean. I recently had an appointment with my oncologist that was almost two years to the day from my last chemo treatment, and happily my blood counts looked great. My next appointment will fall right around the two year anniversary of completing radiation, and if I’m still in remission at that point, the likelihood of recurrence drops again to less than 5% or so. I will only have two check ups and one CT scan per year for the next three years, and then I will be considered “cured”. It’s all really kind of amazing.
Although I haven’t been as active on here as I would like, I am staying in touch with the cancer community and current events, especially issues surrounding blood cancers. As a patient in remission for almost two years, most of what I deal with now are the emotional and psychological effects so blog posts and articles related to this are of particular interest to me.
A month or two ago, a really great article was posted in the NY Times blog by Suleika Jaodad, a young leukemia patient who recently went into remission. It is an insightful and honest look at what life can be like after cancer. While our paths and outlook are not entirely the same, like Suleika, I’ve struggled with the emotional and psychological side effects of cancer and treatment. Reflecting on this article, and listening (for probably the 10th time) to a wonderful talk given by a hilariously funny, honest, and gifted co-worker of mine, Ann Velenchik, entitled, “How Cancer Changed My Life…and Didn’t”, made me think a lot about how my own life has changed in the past two years, both practically/logistically and emotionally/psychologically, and how it hasn’t changed.
(Let me preface all of this by saying that one constant in my life as a cancer survivor in remission is that I preface almost every comment, or even thought, about my own cancer experience with, “I know I’m very lucky to be in remission, but…”. I’m not going to do that in this post but please know that the underlying genuine sentiment is there. It is exhausting to feel like you have to validate/qualify every thought, feeling, or statement you have about your own cancer experience by announcing that you know you’re lucky you didn’t die.)
My friend Ann asserted in her talk that while some things have changed in her post-cancer life, many things have not. In my experience, this is true to some degree. I am back at work full time. I have bills to pay and mouths to feed (they’re the mouths of our two cats, but still). Most day to day interactions are similar to those of my pre-cancer life in that they don’t revolve around, or involve, cancer. I have to clean the apartment, I have to do laundry, I have to grade papers, and I have students who I love but who can simultaneously drive me batty. Basically, the day to day is normal and generally ho-hum.
Very little has changed about me physically besides the fact that I discovered I REALLY like keeping my short hair, and chemotherapy and radiation have apparently killed my metabolism. I lost 40 lbs. in a few months about a year before I was diagnosed after transitioning to a low-carb diet. I gained all of that back and then some during treatment. Emotional eating and not being able to move will do that to a person. The trouble is, I’m now back on the same low-carb diet and added in walking on an almost daily basis, and the scale still isn’t budging an ounce. I feel good internally, but it’s not showing up in terms of weight loss, which is SO frustrating. I know I’m not alone in this among cancer survivors either. Cancer can really make you feel ugly, if you let it.
On the other hand, I feel like a lot of things have changed in my post-cancer life. I’ve felt a remarkable shift in my outlook and what I want from the rest of my life. This sounds cliched, I know, and oddly beautiful in an Eat, Pray, Love sort of way, but it’s not always ideal. While I have this renewed sense of wanting to get out and “Do, Do, Do!”, this doesn’t necessarily jive with how Jeff and I approached life pre-cancer. That can be really hard to rectify, especially because I would like to “Do, Do, Do!” with other people, whether it’s Jeff or other friends but I don’t really know how to initiate that very well. I wouldn’t say that I have a bucket list per se. In fact, like my friend Ann, I don’t really like the idea of having a bucket list. This makes it sound like I have this static check list of things that I must do, and if I don’t, my life will be unfulfilled. I’m always adding to my list of things I’d like to do or places I’d like to go. I just struggle with making it happen.
Unfortunately, I’ve also found new and exciting ways for my anxiety to manifest itself (not surprising). Scanxiety sets in the week or two leading up to a scan and the days between a scan and my check up with my oncologist. I’m obsessed with my overall well-being and constantly monitor every pain, bump, rash, and sleepy day occurrence. However, I’ve now asked my primary or oncologist for a referral to specialists for a couple of things that are bothering me that likely have nothing to do with cancer, like a constant ringing in my ears, but when I get the call to schedule an appointment, I end up deciding not to go after all. I just don’t have it in me to visit yet another doctor and have yet more follow ups and tests. The thought is exhausting, and I’m sure this is a subconscious (or maybe not so sub-) avoidance tactic, because I’m afraid that a seemingly benign symptom could be due to something more serious.
As I’ve mentioned before, I struggled with anxiety/OCD prior to my cancer diagnosis. Yet, I had a remarkable sense of clarity and calmness during my diagnosis, treatment and recovery. I’m sure there’s some clinical psychologist who would love to get their hands on my brain, because I think having OCD allowed me to so singularly focus on doing what I needed to do to get well that there wasn’t the room in my brain to obsess over anything else. I wouldn’t say that I obsessed over getting well, but I think I was so tired and had such an immense sense of resolution regarding my position in life during that time that I couldn’t focus on much else and didn’t care to. It was as if my life had been categorized with a big, old CANCER stamp and nothing else could shoehorn its way into my mind.
Quite frankly, I yearn for that sense of clarity and calm now. I hoped it would stay with me, but it is long gone. I would just love to feel that sense of calm again and I don’t really know how to get there without a catastrophic life event. Consider me unadventurous, but that’s one thing I don’t want to “Do, do do!” again.
My sense of self has changed. That cancer stamp branded me, and I’m definitely a different person coming out of the experience than I was going in, probably in ways that I still don’t understand. What I want from life has changed, I think. I want to have more fun, I want to be more passionate about everything important in life, I want to be the best possible version of me that I can be. I also, probably unfairly, want more from the people in my life. I knew how to be a cancer patient – and quite honestly, I was a really good cancer patient. I think I’m having trouble figuring out how to be me after cancer, and what to expect from the people in my life.
There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t think about the fact that I had cancer. Sometimes, my thinking about it revolves around the fact that it feels like it didn’t happen to me at all. Did I really have cancer? How could that have possibly happened to me? How is it possible that life could return to normal in some way? On the other hand, some days, having cancer is all I can think about, especially when I’m coming up on an appointment or I have a scan or I’m just generally not feeling well. Why did that happen to me? Why did I survive and so many other people are not as lucky? Why is cancer so seemingly random? A random whiff of windshield wiper fluid reminds me of the burn I would get in my nose from the “red devil” IV push during chemo. I get a look at my scars or radiation tattoos in the mirror. Even the short hair that I love reminds me that I only discovered I like having short hair because cancer didn’t give me another choice.
Yikes, this all sounds like a lot of griping from someone who should be really grateful. Here’s the bottom line, I guess – I am grateful. I’m happy to be cancer free. My life is different in a lot of ways now, for better and worse. I suppose I’m now just lucky to have the time now to figure it all out.