What It's Like One Year After Cancer Surgery

There is no return to normal

Yesterday was my “cancerversary”. Yay me. Feel free to send me roses and concert tickets to Greta Van Fleet.

A dear friend asked me, “What did you do to celebrate?”

I didn’t buy any flowers though I may do that later today.

I danced my heart out in Zumba, that’s what I did. But I was also a little cautious because I broke out my tank top given the heat and realize if it moves around a little bit, my not-so-pretty port scar was there for God and everybody to see. It’s also quite obvious that I am as flat as an ironing board.

Being flat I don’t mind, but that port scar (that’s where I had my Borg implant to receive chemo last year) is sort of gnarly looking. I have a second dermatology appointment to get more steroid injections in it to hopefully soften and flatten my war wound.

In a way, I am proud of my scars, but I’m not quite ready to announce them to the world.

But anyway. I digress. It was one year ago I reported to Mayo Clinic at dark o’clock. My sweetie, Tom, was with me, holding my hand every step of the way.

I was came home, chest swathed in what felt like a mattress, to two of my kids, and dinner. I felt surprisingly normal. Well, except for those nasty drains.

The initial news after surgery was good. The cancer was caught early, my lymph nodes were clean. To my extreme disappointment, the later pathology revealed I would benefit from chemo. No need for radiation. And then 5–7 years of hormone blockers.

And now here I sit pondering these things with a massive WHAT THE HELL hanging over my head still. It’s still all surreal. But glaringly real every time I see my scarred chest. It looks like an atlas leading to nowhere.

Time has felt like one of those Salvador Dali paintings of melting clocks. Weird and distorted.

Yeah. Weird and distorted. That has been the last year. I crave the life I had before cancer. But that is gone.

There is no returning to normal, whatever the hell that is.

My oncologist told me it would take at least a year to recover from all this and indeed, I feel like I am just now climbing out of the trauma and re-engage with life. I’m not “there” yet, by any means. The mental and emotional toll from the hell I went through is still a work in progress to heal. And I’m sure it will be there for a while. But I am learning to be patient and kind to myself.

After cancer treatment, there is this collective sigh and things said like “Phew! That’s behind her now. All is well.”

I get that. I have felt that when I have watched loved ones struggle with health issues or other life crisis.

Nothing to see here, folks. Move along. All better. Alrighty then, what shall I fix for dinner?

For the survivor, though, it is anything but a return to normal. We have faced our mortality, and it shakes you down to your very core. You got cancer once and now you know well that you could get it again. Maybe not even a reoccurrence, but a brand new, weird cancer like some of my friends have gotten.

Medical appointments can trigger a panic attack. I have random thoughts when I see a woman’s breasts and ponder, “I wonder if there is a tumor in there.”

I am acutely aware of how fucked up things are in the good ole United States of America too, as we dismantle the social safety nets for those living on the edges.

Not looking to make a political commentary, by the way. Bear with me.

What almost scares me more than a reoccurrence is knowing if I can’t work, I’m screwed. Being deathly ill in January with pneumonia underscored this, too.

The bills don’t stop coming in because you have a chemo appointment. They will become a tsunami.

I’m one of the lucky ones, I have good insurance. And for last year, the generosity of so many and my ability to live frugally kept me floating all of last year.

I think it’s a sad state of affairs that for a cancer survivor -especially for a single person lacking a portfolio, financial survival is a genuine challenge.

Now, here’s where I can hear my mom telling me, “Don’t borrow trouble!”

Then I try to take a deep breath and remind myself that RIGHT NOW, I am okay. RIGHT NOW, I have enough.

The anxiety is creeping up again as I start a new job tomorrow. It’s actually at the company I worked for before the breast cancer. Great people, solid company, and the supervisor is thrilled to get me back. And I am thrilled to get her back as well!

I’m only going to work part time, as stress management is my number one priority right now. It doesn’t take a great deal for me to get overloaded. I take avoiding stress seriously because I absolutely believe it played a pivotal role in developing breast cancer.

I’m lucky that I can squeak by on part time for right now. My life style is frugal and modest, I have no debt, and am abundantly rich in friends and loved ones.

My writing and coaching practice continue to grow, ever so slowly. But it’s growing. I hope eventually, I will do nothing but write, coach, teach and lead Zumba classes.

This is where I am at one year later. It’s nice to feel excitement about life reemerging after so many dark days.

To you, my beloved readers, I am grateful for each and every one of you. You, too, have played a role in my healing. When I get comments saying you’ve been encouraged by what I have to say, it brings more healing to me. I endeavor to turn my mess into a message so others dealing with similar issues can find hope and encouragement. Just like so many other writers have done for me.

Thank you!

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 contribute to my wishlist.