365 Days: Part 2

We commemorated our harrowing 2021 with family portraits by the incredible Niv at Olima Studio. This was shot in September 2021. The weekend before we sent the kids back to school. I was about 10 weeks in remission here. We don’t take a lot of pictures just the two of us. Willis has been my gift through this journey. A star of stars. And I’m so glad to have this captured.

Writing comes easily to me, it always has. I used to start essays at 2AM the night they were due, spit it all out and be in bed by 5AM. I’m not advocating for procrastination, and I’m only slightly humble-bragging, but it’s how I’ve lived my life. And most of the time, it works for me. But now, I’m staring at the “write here…” prompt from Squarespace and I’ve got nothing. Just sitting here, watching the cursor blink.

This morning my husband said “Happy Anniversary” and I said “thaaannnk youuu?” and said “I’m not sure that’s what you say.” We both shared an “oh well” look. Today is the anniversary of my diagnosis. Today I have known about cancer, officially, for a whole year. This is my inaugural diagnosis-aversary. And it. Is. Weird.

It is also the first day I have had the house entirely to myself since March 11, 2020. That was the last day both kids were at school before the pandemic began. Etta was home sick the last two days before March Break. It would be another day or two before I found out school’s were closing for 14 days. hahahaha. 14 days. Today, Willis returned to the office (they will only do two days a week with employers realizing the many benefits for those who work from home. For those of us with small families, it has been wonderfully ideal). It is his first day not working from home since March 13, 2020. And what a ride we have been on.

This time last year, we had arrived at the cancer centre for the first time. We were sitting in the waiting area and then in my hematologist’s office when I decided, I had enough time to zip to the bathroom before the doctors came in. Walking the 20 paces to the bathroom winded me. As we all know by now, I had a massive tumour in my chest squishing my already shitty breathing apparatus (thanks asthma for my tiny bronchial tubes).

This time last year my in-laws were playing with the twins outside with masks on.

This time last year I was about to find out I had Aggressive Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. I said “oh!” when Dr. K told me. “Isn’t that usually more common in the 75 and up age group?” He said “yes.”

This time last year we were talking about “treatment options”, about whether I could wait three weeks for a PET scan … um… no, I could not. I was waking several times a night coughing because I couldn’t breathe. Propping myself up on pillows to try and help the morning swelling I’d become accustomed to.

This time last year, I was about to get a bone marrow sample taken to “make sure it hasn’t spread to the bone marrow.” Luckily, it had not. Luckily, Willis was with me. I squeezed his hand as I did my best not to move for 30 minutes while the lovely Dr. Ibrahim wailed on my hip bone digging out samples. I still bare the scar from where the huge needle went in to freeze the area. I still remember the body’s instinct to jump forward to want to leap off the table and run the fuck away from that pressure. I remember my mind’s fortitude to keep me there on the table. My yoga breath for helping me maintain stillness. My husband for being solid as a rock. No worry that he would faint or be unable to take it. That moment and all the moments that followed.

Today, I have just arrived home from a long weekend away with my family.

A long weekend that saw us spend a few days snowmobiling (we have two now and it’s quite meditative. Also no one can talk to you while you’re on it and that silence… it’s beautiful).

A long weekend that took us to our favourite campground in a small town in Ontario. To our favourite campsite. Where the last time we were there, I had no hair. I was still in recovery. (I will always be in recovery).

A long weekend that saw me get on cross-country skis for the first time in 11 or 12 years. The first time I went was with Willis when we went to his parents’ place at Christmastime. That was the first time I met them. That was when I told them how grateful I was for Willis and how much I appreciated the human they helped him become. The first time, I fell so many times I was discouraged. I had a mini-tantrum. I may have cried (I did). It was harder than I imagined it would be and I was still shedding the spoiled little kid inside (she’s reformed now, mostly). But returning this weekend, there were no tears or tantrums. Did I fall? Yes. The first time I fell did I want to throw the skis and storm off? A little. But I didn’t. I got up. This time, I wasn’t all consumed by my own needs and discomfort. This time a couple of kids (mine) came over to help me up. This time I had three people, my beautiful little family, cheering me on. “Mom, you’re doing a great job!” All three of them said at one point or another. Despite the resilience I have always had, this time, I had a wealth of life inside me.

My cheering squad

“You’re doing great, Mom!”

The last time I tried cross-country skiing I was newly coupled. I knew Willis was the one, but we weren’t living together yet. He was still new to me and I was still new to him. We joke now about all the red flags we ignored in each other. In all the ways he drives me fucking nuts and I drive him fucking nuts. But the red flags were nothing compared to the solid ground we would build. Up to that point, I had weathered my fair share of pain and trauma. Dysfunction and loss. But I hadn’t really learned to stay grounded. To stand my own ground. I hadn’t yet quite realized my own power. This time, when I tried this new to me thing, that I was, let’s face it, really shitty at, the first time. This time I had been through moving in with my partner, learning how strong our foundation was and what we could overcome. I had a real teammate who has seen me through so much. Many years ago, pre-kids, I was under a lot of stress and I fainted. Willis was there, he caught me. This time I had been through changing jobs. Carrying twins to term. The sleepless nights of the first few years. The moments at 3:30 AM when you’re awake feeding babies and you are sure you cannot survive on this little sleep. But you do. This time, I know my power. This time, I trust my partner to love me through it all. This time, I trust myself. This time, I know there are so many things worse than falling down in the snow. And twisting your knees and ankles around to get back up. They won’t break. This time, it’s fun. It was my favourite part of the weekend and I can’t wait to do it again. With my kids telling me I’m doing great. With knowing that Willis will be there to catch me if I do fall and I want a little help getting back up.

So, today, I’ve had moments of grateful tears. I’ve had moments of silence. I’ve drank my coffee and eaten my breakfast in front of the TV. I’ve listened to music that uplifts me. I’ve said “to hell with work today” and I’ll do it tomorrow. Today, I’m honouring myself. Today, I’m doing whatever the fuck I want to do.

Because, this time last year, I didn’t know what the future had in store. I hoped that I would make it. But I couldn’t be sure.

So today, in lieu of work, I’ve brought up some images. I’ve mentioned before that I took a self-portrait every day from the first day of chemo to the last. I’m coming up on 8-months in remission — I still have yet to tell that part of the story — I promise, it’ll be the next one. But for today, I had the fortitude to open some of the images and begin editing. Tomorrow, I’m going to start revealing my project to the world. Every day I will share an image from the same day the year before. This will continue for 4.5 months. It will help me heal. It will help you to see the reality of cancer. The brutality of cancer. The joy of cancer. The pain of cancer. The vulnerability of cancer. The healing from the inside out of cancer. What starts off as a scared, tired, if somewhat relieved person, comes out as a well-rested, sure of herself, grateful for the day, survivor.

One who has the pleasure of telling her story.

One who knows if she falls, she has a safety net. An army of people behind her, willing to catch her if she needs it. Willing to help her get back to her feet.

One who knows despite the turmoil of life, the suffering involved in it, knows that when it comes down to it, mostly, there is love. And there is no shortage of it. And there is no length a person won’t go to to show a cancer patient how loved she is. How much she matters. How much she’s needed.

One who is grateful for February 22, 2021.

“Chemotherapy starts tomorrow at 8:30 AM.”

One who is forever changed.