“Sometimes, I’m the mess. Sometimes, I’m the broom. On the hardest days, I have to be both.”–Rudy Francisco
The cancer metastasized. One little nodule that popped up on the peripheral edge of the lower lobe of my left lung in October, and was growing by late April. The risk of metastasis was always there. The correlation between how low your rectal tumor is and spread to the lungs is significant, and the late stage diagnosis meant that quite probably more than one microscopic cell had caught a ride on the lymphatic highway leading to my liver and/or lungs. Despite knowing all this, it never crossed my mind that the adjuvant chemotherapy they did following surgery hadn’t annihilated each of those tiny invaders. It had most certainly come close to annihilating me. They aren’t really invaders, though, are they? Isn’t it just the same process that makes us grow in the womb? Cells dividing multiple times over, except for these are altered, and they are the enemy.
Initially, because of the positioning of the nodule above my diaphragm, my doctors didn’t know if the lesion was cancerous or not, but it was growing, they had confidence that they could locate and resect it, and eventually consensus was that it needed to come out. I imagined them apologizing profusely for cutting me open only to find a benign spot of pollen on my lung, and pushed the thoughts of malignancy so far down that for a couple of weeks I thought I might go crazy with the effort it took to conceal this possibility from myself. Always pragmatic to the outside observer, I told those who were bold enough to ask that I was prepared for it to be malignant, because that’s what strong, courageous people say, when in truth I was telling myself completely the opposite. You see, I’m actually a bit fragile, and I wasn’t mentally prepared for this, but losing one’s mind isn’t an option for the middle class.
Hearing the lesion was metastatic threw me into a dark tailspin, the greatest fear being that this is the beginning of them cutting pieces out of me bit by bit until there’s no more left, because doesn’t every tragic cancer story begin with mets to the lungs? And the greatest frustration being that this was one more setback to overcome. I was mad and sulky and apocalyptic about my life. This was supposed to be over. I had done my time and been paroled only to be thrown into the clink again. Except cancer is more like the super-max New Mexico state penitentiary in Santa Fe than anything that could ever be called the “clink.” It has a dark, heavy current of pain, grief, and fear that I had purposefully chosen not to explore my first time around. I was a goddess! I was going to rise above! Whether I was chronically nauseated, cut from pubic bone to sternum, or stumbling around because I couldn’t feel my feet, I grabbed onto any sliver of light I could find and created a blinding sun. It worked at the time, but apparently the universe felt that I hadn’t fully examined the shadows of my emotional depth, and decided to invoke it’s no stone left unturned clause. Tyrant.
Last week the word “submit” kept coming up: in an article written by a young woman who recently died of Ewing’s Sarcoma, by a dear friend at her book signing (“White Fur” by Jardine Libaire is this summer’s must read), by the Dalai Lama in an audiobook. I know how to take a hint. I’m practicing submission to this new rhythm of my life, anger and annoyance included. There will be scans every three months for a long time, if they cut me open I will heal, we will watch and wait, and in the meantime I will keep myself as healthy as possible because that is probably what has gotten me this far in the first place. Somedays I will be the mess, and I’m alright with that because I’ve been the broom for a long time. I continue to believe that this will potentially be the last cell to activate, but I won’t delude myself with the possibility that it won’t. Those tiny little microscopic cells are lying cozy and dormant in my spongy lung tissue, we are traveling companions, and I can accept this, but they don’t get to take over. I love what Elizabeth Gilbert once wrote about fear:
I recognize and respect that you are part of this family, and so I will never exclude you from our activities, but still—your suggestions will never be followed. You’re allowed to have a seat, and you’re allowed to have a voice, but you are not allowed to have a vote. You’re not allowed to touch the road maps; you’re not allowed to suggest detours; you’re not allowed to fiddle with the temperature. Dude, you’re not even allowed to touch the radio. But above all else, my dear old familiar friend, you are absolutely forbidden to drive.
Currently, I’m getting focused on exercise oncology. My brilliant lung capacity made this surgery possible, the fact that I rehabilitated myself past pre-cancer strength allows me to recover not only quickly, but well, and I’m reading some fascinating articles about how exercising during certain types of chemo is actually recommended to help the drugs do their job. I have developed a very specific skill set (when life gives you lemons) revolving around surgical recovery, exercising through fatigue, and how to do Pilates with a chemo pump. I’ll be writing more about all of these things, and probably more about how I’m learning to submit. Rome certainly wasn’t built in a day.