I’m at that stage of cancer treatment where people ask me how I’m doing with the clear and obvious expectation that I’ll say “doing great! Everything is wonderful!” They’ll say something like “so you’re OK now, right? The cancer is gone, right?”
The thing is, that’s not how this works. While my long-term prognosis is good, there’s absolutely no way to know if I’m cancer free. Cells are tiny, and even with surgery you can never be sure all of them were removed. That’s why most of us get additional treatment too: radiation to kill anything left in the surgery area, chemo depending on the kind of cancer, and drugs taken long-term to help starve any cancer cells that escaped the other treatments. As one article I read put it: you’ll know you’re cancer-free when you die from something else.
And now I’m dealing with physical, emotional and mental fallout from the cancer. I’m a survivor of childhood sexual abuse, and did a lot of work in my 30s recovering from that. Much to my horrified and complete surprise, this diagnosis and especially some of the tests or procedures has brought back the PTSD with a roaring nasty vengeance. I’m back to the hyper awareness that served me well as a small child but is completely exhausting as an adult. I’m having to dig back into the past, not a fun place to go, and recategorize and recode all of those memories in light of some of the procedures I found so traumatizing. All very vague, sorry not sorry—here’s a small example. I’ve had I don’t know, three or four MRIs of my head and did just fine with those. But the breast MRI about undid me—backwards and face down. As I told my radiology oncologist when she questioned why I asked for something to calm me down, that was a bridge way too far.
And I’m still trying to find my new normal in the physical sense. As I told the psychologist I’m seeing through the breast cancer center, I see the evidence of this disease every single time I get into the shower and get out of the shower. I still have limited range of motion in my left arm despite doing everything I’m supposed to do. My running is impeded by both my reduced stamina from radiation and from the continuing pain in my left pec (which also got radiated) and my left arm. You know it’s bad when I tell you that I often have to sort of hook my left hand into my waistband to give everything a rest.
I’ve been seeing the OT for about 6 weeks; on Friday (which should have been my last appointment) she recommended another 4 weeks. Unfortunately, I think she’s right.
I’ll also say I am not looking forward to the pinkification and sexualization of breast cancer next month. Please, I implore you, say no to the pink, worry less about saving the tahtahs and more about helping us save our lives.
The thing is, that’s not how this works. While my long-term prognosis is good, there’s absolutely no way to know if I’m cancer free. Cells are tiny, and even with surgery you can never be sure all of them were removed. That’s why most of us get additional treatment too: radiation to kill anything left in the surgery area, chemo depending on the kind of cancer, and drugs taken long-term to help starve any cancer cells that escaped the other treatments. As one article I read put it: you’ll know you’re cancer-free when you die from something else.
And now I’m dealing with physical, emotional and mental fallout from the cancer. I’m a survivor of childhood sexual abuse, and did a lot of work in my 30s recovering from that. Much to my horrified and complete surprise, this diagnosis and especially some of the tests or procedures has brought back the PTSD with a roaring nasty vengeance. I’m back to the hyper awareness that served me well as a small child but is completely exhausting as an adult. I’m having to dig back into the past, not a fun place to go, and recategorize and recode all of those memories in light of some of the procedures I found so traumatizing. All very vague, sorry not sorry—here’s a small example. I’ve had I don’t know, three or four MRIs of my head and did just fine with those. But the breast MRI about undid me—backwards and face down. As I told my radiology oncologist when she questioned why I asked for something to calm me down, that was a bridge way too far.
And I’m still trying to find my new normal in the physical sense. As I told the psychologist I’m seeing through the breast cancer center, I see the evidence of this disease every single time I get into the shower and get out of the shower. I still have limited range of motion in my left arm despite doing everything I’m supposed to do. My running is impeded by both my reduced stamina from radiation and from the continuing pain in my left pec (which also got radiated) and my left arm. You know it’s bad when I tell you that I often have to sort of hook my left hand into my waistband to give everything a rest.
I’ve been seeing the OT for about 6 weeks; on Friday (which should have been my last appointment) she recommended another 4 weeks. Unfortunately, I think she’s right.
I’ll also say I am not looking forward to the pinkification and sexualization of breast cancer next month. Please, I implore you, say no to the pink, worry less about saving the tahtahs and more about helping us save our lives.
4 comments:
I know all too well the feeling of having to cope with a new normal, physically. Wishing you strength and patience.
I thought of you when I got out a pair of flat sandals I bought while recovering from my most recent knee replacement, two years ago. They are so perfect; a kind I feel like I have been looking for most of my adult life. For a while they worked as incentive to do really well at physical therapy. But I still can't wear them because the knee (and therefore the ankle and foot) are still too swollen. I was told that the swelling would go down, but it hasn't. Now I'm looking at my closet and thinking that I should get rid of them so they can't continue to make me sad that things never got back to what I'd hoped would be "normal."
That makes me sad for you :'(
Well, it's a new normal...just got to get on with it. You can too, and yours might be better.
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