It was a blustery fall day in September, and I could feel the warmth of the sun on my skin as I looked longingly down at the gentle ripples of the lake, enveloped by tall Georgia pines swaying in perfect harmony with the wind, and birds effortlessly whirling through the bright blue sky. I envied their freedom.
I was beginning to tire again; it was nearly time for my reprieve to end and to return back to the confines of my bed, with the sun constantly peering through the windows, taunting me. Never one to sleep during the day, I finally allowed myself to surrender to the utter exhaustion which had plagued me for months. It had been seven weeks since my last chemotherapy treatment, and two weeks since my bilateral mastectomy and free tram reconstruction.
As I made my way up the stairs, I caught a glimpse of my birthday cards perched on the mantlepiece, the balloons slowly deflating. It had been such a privilege to turn 34, but I couldn’t help but wonder how many more birthdays I would have. While my pathology report would later indicate ‘’No evidence of disease’’, living with a 30% recurrence risk dangling overhead did nothing to lessen the tinge of melancholy I felt would accompany every birthday forever more. ‘’No evidence of disease’’, after all, means exactly that: No evidence. It doesn’t mean that the silent cancer monster is not elsewhere, dormant and sleeping, waiting to awaken.
My surgical drains pierced me, and I equated their existence to shackles, just as I had the chemotherapy I.V. which hooked up to the port once housed in my chest. Two protruded from each breast, another two in my abdomen. Heavy as boulders, carefully stitched back together like a masterpiece, my new breasts felt foreign to me. My abdomen was healing from microsurgery, cut from hip to hip, and glued. Moving was cumbersome, as was sleeping and showering, sitting and standing. Everything at this time was cumbersome. Looking in the mirror, I found myself barely recognizable. I was nearly hairless, except for a few remaining eyelashes and a bit of hair sprouting on the scalp where my thick, auburn tresses once lived. When I was brave enough to look at myself naked, to really look at myself, I was repulsed by the sight of my own body. I didn’t feel like a woman anymore. I didn't even feel like a human anymore. I felt like a medical experiment, a thing, poisoned and mutilated, just existing.
That time last year I was weeks away from giving birth to my third child. It was my favorite time of the year, and our house was decorated with all things fall, the porch brimming with pumpkins and hay bales, ready to welcome our new baby. This was one of the happiest times of my life. Yet here I found myself, one year later, unable to care for that same baby. Thinking I may never experience another fall with pumpkins and hay bales and being truly happy again. Having the dark thought that I may never live long enough for my baby to have a single memory of me.
During this time in my recovery, my breast cancer group, my tribe, became an invaluable source of strength for me. I learned how navigate this strange new world with their support. I became particularly close to a few, my tribe sisters. Some women in the tribe were celebrating their ‘’cancerversaries’’- a significant milestone of their cancer experience - and were opting for the quintessential solo trip. ’’Walk up the Tower of London!’’. ‘’Visit Stonehenge!’’. ‘’Go to the Colosseum!’’. ‘’Soak in Iceland’s Blue Lagoon!’’. While I chimed in with great suggestions, I also had a sobering realization: Despite all of the amazing places I had been, I have never actually seen most of my own corner of the world. Not the redwoods of California, or the purple sunsets of New Mexico. Not even the Grand Canyon, or the Pacific Ocean. I had decided in that moment that I, too, was going to take a quintessential solo trip. It would be next September, in honor of my own ‘’cancerversary’’ as well as my 35th birthday. I knew it would be somewhere absolutely wonderful, somewhere I had never been before, right here on my very own continent.
I had always fantasized about seeing the Mona Lisa at the Lourve, hiking up Machu Pichu, and exploring the Great Wall of China. Now, all of a sudden, those things don’t seem so magical. In fact, it seems like Mona Lisa is just a painting, Machu Pichu is just some earthen mounds, and the Great Wall of China is just one big, long, old wall. Now all I really want to do is take my children camping under the stars, splash in waterfalls, jump over waves at the beach. I want to visit with family and friends, and engage in conversation that leaves me with a feeling of joy and fulfillment. How could staring at a painting ever compare with that? How could I have ever thought that it could?
Soon I was at an impasse in my life; the heavy thumb of cancer slightly lifted, yet still left with the feeling of being totally lost in this new world. I felt a deeper connection to others who understood what it was to suffer, and admired those who managed to emerge from their suffering a better version of themselves. Being diagnosed with cancer unexpectedly and in the prime of your life has a tendency to really beat the innocence right out you. To find others who understand this, who never once made me feel as if I were isolated or crazy or weird, has been so powerful. As it happens, my tribe is based in the Pacific Northwest, a region I have always desperately wanted to live in. This was the first of many sways from the gentle hand of the Universe delicately guiding my solo trip in that direction. We always talk about re-connecting with others, but actually after what I had endured I found that, really, I deserved the opportunity to re-connect with myself. My new self. I deserved a chance to get to know her.
A few months after that blustery September day, I found myself getting on with my life. My head was now topped with a crown of thick curls, my eyebrows looked better than ever, my nails now glowed with shine. I went to the gym daily, studied for an exam, began applying for jobs. As I settled in to this new normal, I still couldn’t help but feel emotionally absent in a way I couldn’t explain. Around this time, I found a lump in my new breast. It turned out to be something they would ‘’closely monitor’’, but my oncologist quickly referred me to a breast surgeon, as if I were a piece of glass that was about to shatter. The next day I found myself waiting in the surgeon’s office, numb, thinking of past doctor’s appointments. Of all of the various medical professionals who had felt up my breasts, old and new. Of the pain of biopsy needles stabbing my tumors, the feeling of surgical drains tugged out from my body. When you are newly diagnosed with breast cancer, you are warned about the obvious things you could lose, like your hair, and your breasts. No one ever warns you about losing your autonomy. Your sense of full control over your own body. Your modesty. Just as I was beginning to feel strong and confident and in control of my life again, to some degree, I suddenly didn’t feel very much like a woman. I felt like a medical experiment all over again, waiting to be analyzed by a stranger with cold hands.
From the window of the surgeon’s waiting room I could feel warmth of the sun, just as I did that September day. I sat there, a lamb about to be led to the slaughter. I closed my eyes and envisioned the lake, and tall pines, and birds. I was startled out of my utopia when someone sat next to me, discarding a magazine on the table. There before me,Travel and Leisure magazine, with a front cover bold as brass; ’’2018’s Travel Destination of the Year: Canada.’’ Pride of place was a photograph of the Capilano Suspension Bridge, a structure I knew only vaguely about from my time as a geography teacher and the entire 20 minutes of lecture time I devoted to Canada. A moment later I was called back, and as I sat there on the examining table in my flimsy paper gown, felt up with an ultrasound’s cold jellied-wand, the feeling twenty fingertips of the two doctors marching up and down my breasts, I closed my eyes and imagined myself on that bridge. There I was, hugged by a canopy of trees, caressed by a breeze, warmed by a mild sun. This place which I had never given much thought to now seemed ethereal and freeing. It was in that moment, in my flimsy pink paper gown, I decided that my solo trip would be to the Pacific Northwest. It felt very right to me. I would be on that bridge in September.
I had determined that I wanted my trip to be the perfect marriage of solitude and companionship, new adventure and meaningful conversation. I would arrive in Seattle, rendezvousing with new friends and distant family before embarking on my journey to the Great White North. I would make my way to that magical bridge, and it would feel as if we had known each other forever. I would feel the rush of the Pacific against my skin and being in awe of her majestic beauty. I would enjoy explore the vibrant streets of Chinatown before taking in a film at the International Film Festival. I would wear my prettiest fascinator tucked in my hair and have High Tea at the fanciest hotel in British Columbia. Oh, yes, paintings and earthen mounds and big, long, old walls pale in comparison to the grand adventures I would have my solo trip!
As I welcome each new season, not just of the year but of my life, I realize how much I have grown since those dark days of my recovery. I am content in the knowledge that I, too, am a better version of myself. I take more care in choosing my endeavors, my words, my company. I am a strong, capable, beautiful woman who no longer sits by a window longing for freedom. I have realized that despite the precarious days ahead, despite being forever in the grips of the silent cancer monster, I am still free. Even on those days, I am free to get lost in the pages of a book, or the warm embrace of human connection, near and far. I am free to become enthralled in a film, or engaged in conversation. I am free to laugh and sing, happily and unbridled. I am free to fall asleep with any lovely things on my mind that I want to keep me company. I am free to love, fully and deeply. While I cannot wait to feel the magic of that bridge in Vancouver, really, I don’t need to. It turns out that I am free after all.
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