Things I’ve Learned About Cancer Recovery

It’s Not Rainbows and Unicorns But…

Introduction

So, you’ve rung the bell or, in my case, a handful of nurses filled my cubicle wearing party hats with little noisemakers to celebrate my last chemo treatment. All done, right?

Not so quick. The party is only starting.

Support is a critical part of the healing process.

I am one of the lucky ones. I received world-class treatment at The Mayo Clinic. Their comprehensive approach to cancer treatment and their efficient systems were incredibly supportive.

Then there’s the emotional support. The friendship capital I have would put me in the top 1% of the wealthy. (My-cough, cough-finances are another thing.)

When I announced to my friends and family my diagnosis, I was completely gobsmacked by the outpouring of love and financial gifts. The GoFundMe set up for me by my daughter, brought in $7,500. Enough for me to cover my rent, expenses and miscellaneous medical costs.

I cannot understate the value of this. I was newly divorced, and working part time. The organizing business I had planned on growing in the new city I moved to came to a full stop.

I was terrified over how I would survive, knowing major surgery and chemo would affect my work schedule.

The outpouring of love was something I wish everyone could experience without a cancer diagnosis or some other life shattering event. Cards, flowers, texts, phone calls poured in.

I was a puddle of tears many times as I considered the love and generosity of people.

Even during my time in the recovery room after the double boobectomy. I saved the text thread that got me through. My bladder didn’t want to give up its voluminous amount of blue-colored pee (because of the sentinel node dye) so my discharged was delayed.

Enter a hilarious texting exchange with loved ones. Pictures of toilets, waterfalls, prayers, laughter, and encouragement. Yes, laughter hours after cancer surgery.

My bladder finally emptied, and my heart was filled with love and strength.

Then there’s my Tom. Prior to the diagnosis, Tom appeared in my life from the ethers. We were high school friends 100 years ago and reconnected through some pretty crazy circumstances. (You’re going to love hearing our Hallmark story!)

He drove 2,000 miles one way to be with me (twice!) and was there through it all. He was with me when I removed the bandages and looked at my surgical wounds and drain tubes for the first time.

I cried.

He held me. And kissed my wounds and told me I was beautiful. (Must reach for a tissue just recalling this.)

I don’t know how I would have made it through without him. Or all the beautiful souls that rushed in.

Ongoing treatment is no cakewalk.

Now that the dust is settling, there is the, oh god, must I say this overused phrase-a new normal. It’s been six months since the girls got lobbed off and I can still get caught off guard and feel shock when I see my chest.

The hair shedding continued for two months post final chemo. (That’s “pfc” for those in the cancer-know.) This was very difficult. One morning, I woke up and saw my eyebrows finally went to see Jesus. I could number my eyelashes with one hand.

I am uber happy to say the hair is returning. Almost too much, but I will never complain. (Hello, Groucho Marx eyebrows!)

The biggest challenge is this.

My biggest challenge so far is the hormone blocker I am supposed to take for 5–7 years. Because the tumors were estrogen fed, the medication mops up estrogen. No food supply, no future tumors, so the reasoning goes.

My oncologist started me on this right away, before surgery. I felt nary a hiccup from it, even though side effects can be significant. She had me quit taking it during chemo and for several weeks afterward in order to give my body a chance to recover.

So, I resumed a month after chemo. Holy.Shit. What happened to the nary a hiccup response?

Now, not yet being 80, I can’t speak with true authority on this, but I have felt like I am 80 years old. The joint pain is unreal. My face developed rosacea, because, uh, duh, the sparse eyelashes and absent eyebrows weren’t enough to make me feel like a freak.

I see memories from last year, thank you Facebook, and feel like crying. I was fit and in the gym most days. My face is blemish free. Thanks for reminding me.

Right now, even my gentle walks are more of a hobble. The hip pain is unrelenting. Small joints ache too.

Okay, enough about that. I meet with the doctor tomorrow regarding switching this or even discontinuing it. If it reduces reoccurrence by just a small amount, I am getting off this train. I’d rather have quality of life over a little insurance against recurrence 10 years down the road.

It’s a lonely journey.

Yep, it’s lonely. When the drama has settled down and you’ve been graced with the “Survivor” title, it’s time to resume life. Back in the saddle girl! Get back into the workforce ASAP, there’s bills to pay!

And then there’s the big WTF. Pre-cancer WTFs pale compared to the WTFs about life after cancer.

I still have loving support from Tom, my family and my dear friends (oh my god, I love you people so much!).

But when it comes down to all, there I go by myself. I am the one wearing the scars. Feeling stabs of anxiety over every stitch and ache. When I wake up at night with a spinning mind, I must comfort and calm myself. Others can’t see the emotional scars cancer has imparted. (Ditto for the injuries and trauma scars you bear, dear reader.)

You obsess over survival statistics too. You feel cheered when you hear from a 28-year breast cancer survivor, and crushed when you hear of a young mom who wasn’t so lucky.

I’m not sharing this out of self-pity. It’s just the reality.

But there is a silver lining. And it’s a beaut.

I am enough. And I believe in the goodness of people.

Boobless, confused, scared, yep. But wait, what is that shimmer, the spark, that I see in the pile of ashes?

Why, why…it is I. And I get glimpses of the real me. Theresa, who is whole, happy and grateful. But not because I’ve done anything right. Or because I am “strong” (a cancer patient’s favorite thing to hear, “You are so strong!” NOT).

All the roles I’ve played, the careful mask I have hidden behind for so many years, are crumbling. They served their purpose in their time, but now they must be set aside. It’s time to embrace my True Self.

My True Self is confident, connected and calm. She is loving and patient. Again, not because of anything I’ve done. My True Self isn’t afraid of death either. Take that cancer.

It’s in my nature, and it’s in your nature too.

At their core, people are magnificent, kind, and loving. This is the lens I endeavor to see the world through. The cancer experience has underscored this.

If this is a Polly Anna attitude, so be it. I find life a lot more enjoyable vs being outraged and cynical every day.

Sure, people behave like assholes. Just like I can.

But then I return to my mantra: I am enough. (Pssst, so are you!)

Conclusion

If you have just completed treatment, I see you. And I will remind you of what my oncologist told me: Be patient. Recovery takes at least a year.

And even though it may feel lonely and hard, you are never alone. I know, I know. It feels like you are. And this feeling won’t last forever.

You are enough, beloved.

Thanks so much for reading. You can find me around the internet at www.theresawinn.com, on Facebook, LinkedIn and Instagram. If you’d like to support my writing in a small way, feel free to buy me a coffee.