Woke up excited. It was my first day of chemotherapy. Yes, excited. I realize now it was the wrong emotion, but the sense of what I would gain in this new adventure enthralled me. I imagined the people I would meet: these amazing people battling for their life and inspiring mine. I, too, would be strong.
Not that I should have been excited. I had 2 types of breast cancer, not a ticket to an amusement park. I was a 34-year-old mother of 4 little boys, and a wife. I had baseball games yet to witness and broken bones to kiss. But it was my mislabeled emotion that conned me into the cancer center. Well that, and my pocket full of tumors.
A genuine grin latched onto my lips. My hair bounced and twisted with excitement matching the spark in my eye. A beam of sunshine fell on those horrid chemo bags. I’ve got this.
I settled into a buffalo colored leather chair (how appropriate) and posed for a selfinduced photo shoot. The scent of rawhide filled my nostrils; it would soon be connected to a memory that would lurch my stomach, but right now it was fresh and new.
I couldn’t imagine the blessings that cancer would bring to my life. But, first I had to pay a price: tears that spurred from inadequacy, fear, pain, suffering, and exhaustion. I could not fully know the beauty without these rainstorms, and the rain didn’t hold off for long.
A tiny needle punctured my skin and pricked at my eyes. This day, and the remaining 7 treatments, would battle with that tiny needle. A nurse wiggled it, couldn’t get it to engage, and called for backup.
The uninvited “what if” game began. What if I don’t get a silver-lined halo for hair? What if I never own eye-watering floral perfume and a pair of crinkle top pants? And what if I never get bathwater skin and give squishy hugs. What if?
For as long as I can remember I’ve always wanted to be 88 years old when I grew up. The reality of what might not be hit me. The sudden uncertainty caused my wall of tears to break.
Immediately, my nurse navigator Cheryl was at my knee. “I was going to be so strong,” I said. The only sparkle I carried now was the reflection of a soggy face. Cheryl shook her head and said, “You don’t have to be strong, especially here in this room. This is reality.” She left and returned with a cantaloupe orange blanket. In the corner was stitched a perfect condolence, “faith.” Yes, that was it; life wouldn’t be left to chance. There was no way, I was going to live life with faith instead, faith that each day was a gift, and it was going to be jam-packed with meaningful moments.
My perspective on life was a gift of cancer I’ll never forget. And just like my first day at the chemo dumping grounds, I came to realize that the hardest thing in life gave me some amazing gifts. I cherish my cancer gift cards. Each gift was purchased with a tear, possibly the precursor to anything grand.
Stolen Feminine Identity Gift Card
A mastectomy, commando hairstyle, and dropping eyelashes and eyebrows stole everything identifiably feminine about me. Because my beauty markers took a hike, I had to send out for the search and rescue team.
I thought I was appropriately equipped. My most complimented skirt and shirt was packed for my postmastectomy surgery. Yes, I would have some gruesome, glitzy scar, but I would look like a princess. The right outfit always tops off the confidence jar. It does, unless you have a mutilated body. The mastectomy somehow altered my face. Tears trenched lines over fresh makeup. I didn’t like this girl in the mirror. For some time, my scar misdiagnosed who I was.
Not long after the surgery, I lost my hair. I was actually glad to shave my head. Not because of the split ends (that came as an added bonus), but because my hair was dropping and slopping everywhere. It was a mess, reshagging the carpet, weaving its way into the folded laundry piles, and wallpapering my bathtub. And that chilly, bald head didn’t thrill me either.
The real gift from these moments came later, much later. I had to relearn my self-image. How I felt about myself wasn’t about the clothes I wore, my hair being done just right, or even if I had hair. Beauty radiated from an inner light, and it was hidden in the bundle of goodness all packaged from the inside. I had to see myself differently now. And what a gift that was to see me for me—the real deal.
Reloadable Relationship Card
As a mother, at times my focus was all wrong. I spent time and energy on perfecting the house. I had personal projects, good neighbor deeds, attending to hunger pains, and laundry stains. Not that that was bad, it wasn’t. But with cancer, my to-do list took a shift. People, not things, padded my list.
I didn’t just hear, I listened. I didn’t just scrub at scabbed-over pots. I was caught hugging my scabbed-over tots. I was attending to the knees and needs of my kids, and trying to ignore the messy house deeds. I changed the way I thought about mundane mommy days. So, yes, my relationship gift card actually came with the gift of a messy house, but my relationships were so much more satisfying.
Many acts of love loaded with service bonded my heart to others. Strangers snapped family photos, a nearly 90-year-old neighbor brought me homemade soup, freezer fairies dropped off meals, and persistent phone calls and text messages were sprinkling me with hope. There were prayers powering my difficult path; kids concocting a bake sale on my behalf. And perhaps the sweetest of all was that in connections where barriers were built, these barriers were now standing as protective walls keeping me safe. Days are a gift, yes, but the people in them are really what matter. But still, many days were very lonely, for this was a path that only I could walk. These days I worked on my relationship with God. This gift was my most cherished cancer gift card of all: more meaningful relationships.
All You Can't Beat Buffet Card
I was warned about the possible side effects of the drugs in my treatment plan. These little gems included nausea, vomiting, and tingling fingertips and toes. But, oh, the buffet of side effects that would accompany my chemo treatments: my body reacted boldly to these foreign drugs. I couldn’t beat all the side effects, so I had to exercise my power to endure. But, I believe in whatever the circumstance, a journey endured has greater rewards assured.
The illness was no surprise to me, and I was prepared for that. It was the pain of fiery hands and feet that took me off guard. It felt like I had grabbed a casserole pan out of the oven with my bare hands. My feet mimicked burns from walking across sun-baked pavement, and the buzzing radiated up to my knee.
Sometimes a reaction like this will change a patient’s treatment plan, but the consensus was that it was more important to kill the cancer and live with nerve damage. I couldn’t agree more, so we continued.
Today, I only have a little dull buzzing; most of my nerves have regenerated, but it flares up every once in a while. This buzzing is a reminder that I did something hard. I’m not just enduring the burning, but I’m enduring my journey through cancer. It’s my token to remind me what I have gained: endurance, strength, and compassion.
There’s an internal spark that comes from enduring the fiery furnaces of life. We are added with light and warmth when we endure hard things. What a gift!
No Expiration Date on Gift Cards
Now, nearly a year after treatment, I wake up excited. I smile as I realize I get to make my mark on the world today, one more glorious day. It’s the right emotion this time. At the end of day I can enjoy another sunset that’s colored with perspective, self-worth, relationship glue, and tingling that is amplified with meaning. I like that.
Who knows, I may never get my fire hazard birthday cake. So, maybe I’ll just go swipe my card for a pair of crinkle top pants that I can enjoy now. There’s no need to wait. Today is my gift, it’s a blessing I count every day. There are many gifts awaiting you if you choose to see them, especially in a journey through cancer.
