April 13, 2022
April 13, 2021.
Well, I lied again. I promised the next post would be about remission. And it’s still, not really. I mean, a little, but it doesn’t dig into the moments following the good news. Below is something I wrote yesterday that was too long for Instagram. The portrait series continues every day, despite how hard it is to see some of the photographs for myself, my family, my friends, I’m glad I had the instinct to take and follow through with the daily self-portraits throughout my cancer treatment. I’m thankful Willis would nudge me awake from the couch at night and say “it’s time.” We’d walk over to the same spot every day and snap. Then I would smile, or laugh, or stare blankly, brush my teeth and fall back to bed for another full night’s rest.
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Last year on this day I looked like this. My skin was starting to turn a sickly colour. My once dark pink lips were becoming paler and paler. My hair was almost entirely gone from the top of my head. Each day was a varying struggle.
Today, on April 13, 2022, I'm late posting this photograph because I was celebrating my dad's 78th birthday with him and my mom. After which, I fell asleep with my son as we happily chatted about the day. As we made faces at each other, cracked big smiles and chuckled.
This morning I met my cousin for breakfast. I sat with her and laughed until we almost cried about how many ridiculous, random hardships we've endured as a family and how good we are at knowing anything can happen to anyone at any time.
I saw my cancer doctor in person for the first time in many months. Waiting for this appointment is met with trepidation every time. As I realize we'll check my bloodwork to make sure my blood cancer is still gone. I wonder when the nervous feeling will pass, but I know, not yet. I just know I woke up with it this morning and pieces of nerves remain with me for the day.
Each time I am in that hospital I remember the steps I took before. When it was hard to take one step at all. I remember the first time I had to get bloodwork and didn't know where to go or what to do. I see the other cancer patients, those mid-treatment, with their telltale hats hiding their bald heads, with their ports exposed. Those who just began and need to be pointed in which direction they should go. Today I know when I arrive at the hospital to do the COVID screening on the app on my phone. I flash it to one of the COVID monitors at the entrance, who you have to speak to before you get past that point. He looks at me and says thanks for doing the screening ahead of time. He can tell I know what I'm doing. I've walked these steps many times before. "Know where you're going?" he asks. "Yep!" We share a squinty eyed smile as we wish each other a good day and I carry on my way.
Though the trauma follows me today — as I suspect it always will — I walked easily through the cancer hospital. I strode happily up the stairs to my doctor's clinic. I brought a book because I know the wait is long and because it's easy for me to read now that I have no physical pain haunting me as I wait. I remain there for 2.5 hours. The wait is long today. I never complain at the wait, not when I was ill and certainly not now. I rarely complain about small inconveniences like this anymore. I recognize their frivolity. I'm just happy to be there waiting. I head home with the knowledge my bloodwork is normal, my levels a-okay. I’ve lived through another anxious moment. Another anxious day.
Today, I gave my dad the best birthday present: I'm still here. I look well. I feel well. I'm healthy and capable. I put dinner in the oven. I set the table. I serve it up. I put a candle in one of the cupcake’s my mother made. I bring it to the room and we sing. I couldn't have done this on April 13, 2021. I have a new perspective. I wish I could pass it along. I wish it could stay with me in every moment.