Life After Cancer Is a New Normal
Today marks four weeks since my final chemo infusion. All good and ready to go now, right? Not so fast. It’s not quite so done and dusted, as the Brits would say.
My hair is still shedding. I get terrible aches in my legs and sometimes I feel like my brain simply locks up and I can forget-mid-sentence- what I was saying. Yeah, yeah. I know. You do that too. And yes, I understand that your hair has thinned too.
But people, I am telling you. I appreciate the “yeah, me too” sort of noises, but the truth be told, you don’t have a clue until you’ve been on the cancer roller coaster. I appreciate the reach for commonality, I really do. But cancer treatment recovery is a different game entirely.
The cancer experience doesn’t just bring an isolated case of hair loss or temporary aphasia. It is a wood chipper to the entire body, mind and soul. With each strand of hair that drops from your scalp, you are reminded, once again, of THE REASON for the hair loss.
Not trying to be dramatic. Or maybe I am. Because this has been dramatic shit. Surgery. Chemo. Hormone suppression for five years. Scar care. And let’s talk about re-entry into the world with an immune system that is a bit wobbly.
Because my hair and follicles are still fragile, I wash my hair twice a week. And when I do shampoo, only a light touch is recommended. No thorough scalp scrubbing; just pat down the paraben free shampoo and rinse carefully. It drives me nuts. Prior to chemo, I washed my hair almost daily. I will continue this protocol until the shedding stops. That can take up to six weeks or longer.
Overall, I feel good physically, except for the wicked leg aches. (Oncologist said this is typical.) And there is the annoying 20 pounds I gained that I am eager to lose. And yes, I am trying to be patient with myself. But no, I do not feel the best wearing tight clothes.
Mental health is another matter. I like how one woman put it. She said she felt like a stuff animal with all the stuffing ripped open. I could relate to that immediately.
I have often said that it I felt like I had the drive and ambition of three people. I’m a tightly wound woman. Probably a combination of trauma history and a personality with “type a” leanings. I wish chemo could have settled my nervous system down a little, but that is not the case.
I still have the drive. But that is not serving me well right now as I try to calm down. Stress is a risk factor for cancer recurrence, so I know I need to settle down. (Add that to my to-do list.)
Loved ones and friends are happy to breathe a sigh of relief when I tell them I am done with treatment. That the doc tapped a metaphorical sword on my shoulders and pronounced me “survivor.”
Let’s just move on to business as usual, shall we?
I’m grateful the doc told me this will take a good year to recuperate. Because otherwise, my drive and unrealistic expectations I place on myself would only further condemn me.
It will take a year. One. Year. Or longer.
This doesn’t mean I’ll be reclining on a Victorian fainting couch with an attack of the vapors.
But it also doesn’t mean I’m ready to jump back into life before cancer. Which is only an illusion, anyway. Any cancer survivor will tell you there is life before cancer and then life after cancer. There is an impenetrable line of demarcation between the two.
For the rest of my days, I will have knee-jerk reactions to every pain or bump, wondering if IT has returned. I will see scars where my breasts once were. I will also appreciate any hair regrowth with profound gratitude.
It’s difficult. But neither was the treatment, so I will sojourn on!
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