“It turns out life isn’t a puzzle that can be solved one time and it’s done. You wake up every day, and you solve it again.” – Chidi Anagonye, The Good Place
After therapy, I always tell Joe whether I won or lost. Winning is when I make it through therapy without shedding a tear and, obviously, losing is when I cry. (I know this isn’t healthy, but it’s not altogether serious, either, so let me have this.)
Last week, I lost big time. It always comes out of nowhere, on the days I feel the most fine (well…”fine”) but it wasn’t all that surprising. Not only has it been a whirlwind couple of weeks, but I’ve hit a lot of one-year anniversary milestones during that time. The anniversary of my surgery. The anniversary of being told I was cancer-free, knowing now it wouldn’t last. The anniversary of losing my ability to speak and eat. The anniversary of the day I came home from the hospital and almost immediately passed out after being given just the tiniest bit of freedom (also known as the anniversary of learning to just ask for help, you complete moron).
I feel like I’ve been reliving a lot of it. I told my therapist it’s almost like having flashbacks, which is especially weird because a lot of that experience is still very much a blur. I remember some details very vividly, but there are things I know I’ve forgotten that I might never get back. She said it wasn’t unusual to be reexperiencing that time. That trauma hasn’t gone anywhere.
Still, it’s been a strange juxtaposition for this to be happening during happy occasions that, when compared to my surgery flashbacks, show just how far I’ve come.
***
We recently lucked into a stay at the most amazing beachfront property on Whidbey Island. As soon as we arrived, we saw ospreys and terns fishing, and I stood outside watching until Joe reminded me that I should probably eat dinner. In the following days, we saw more of both, along with eagles, herons, gulls, crows, swallows, and, unbelievably, white pelicans, which I’d never seen before.
During the day, we’d work quietly on our own projects, periodically looking out at the water (wouldn’t want to miss anything), watching the tide creep slowly back toward the house. After work each day, we’d head out to explore a bit. One day, we went to a new (to us) state park, did a short hike, and explored the beach, where a seal friend followed our path from the water as we walked along the shore. I felt happier, more normal than I have in a long time.
When we got back “home,” we sat outside, watching the water as the sun set. The water was so still and the sunset left a mirror of blues and purples on the surface, slowly rippling as the wind settled. The ospreys were back, diving into the water over and over, sometimes successful but mostly not. “It must be exhausting,” I thought. “To try over and over and never know what the outcome might be.”
I couldn’t believe what a difference the change in scenery made. Lately I’ve been feeling a bit bogged down (understatement of the century). Everything seems to center around cancer and sometimes it feels like I don’t have anything else to talk about. I never know how to answer the question, “What have you been up to?” when the person probably means, like, hobbies and work and stuff and likely wouldn’t respond well to “Slowly dying, how about you?” Cancer is a weird thing to talk about and an even weirder thing to NOT talk about.
We left the following day after a lazy morning spent spying on the birds feasting on low tide creatures. We eventually worked up the momentum to take the ferry home, where I took a two hour nap and started preparations for my next adventure: the group of friends coming to visit the next day (!!!), which turned out to be another thing I didn’t realize how much I needed until it was happening.
***
Seeing my friends after so long was honestly a surreal experience. After the events and disappointments of the past year, I was afraid to get too excited about it until all of their flights had landed, until I looked out the window to let the first arrival into the Airbnb, where we paused, smiling at one another, before squealing the squeal of 100 excited teenage girls (seriously, I have never made that noise before). It was a reunion, a celebration, a reminder that it doesn’t matter how long it’s been since you’ve seen some people: you’ll always pick right back up where you left off.
While they were here, there were even moments when I forgot I had cancer. Moments where I was laughing at some old memory, where I felt like the old me. One night I woke up, confused about where I was, and I completely forgot everything that had happened over the past year. I thought I was normal again. That forgetting can be magical, but when the memories come back, it feels like drowning.
A year ago, during treatment, I kept telling myself that the mental ramifications of the cancer would be completely removed once I was finished, as if it was going to be excised along with the tumor. It was incredibly naive to think everything would just return to normal as if nothing had happened. Some days the trauma feels like a dark cloud hanging over me, one I can’t shake off or run away from, but usually it’s more insidious than that. Much like the cancer itself, it’s woven into my life and body in ways I can’t always see and am not always aware of until it’s happening. In a way, these trips and reunions and forays back into “normal” life have served as both a reminder of how abnormal my life is right now and how much armor I still need to build up in order to be OK in these everyday situations.
It’s nothing that can be fixed, really. There are things that are always going to be difficult. I’m never going to enjoy going to restaurants. It’s never going to be easy to be in situations where I feel like I can’t fully participate. I might always be quiet in large groups, waiting for a moment of silence so I can throw out my imperfectly-verbalized comments and be understood. I’ll probably always feel a little bit lonely, even when I’m surrounded by people I love. But I’m figuring out that I can be OK in those moments. That I can feel all those complicated feelings and take a breath, remember the ghost of the person I once was, wish her well, and move along. It’s not always easy, but it’s doable, and as I’ve learned over and over this year, I can do hard things. Unimaginable things. And after what I’ve been through, sitting quietly and taking joy in the laughter and warmth of friend-conversation around me doesn’t sound that hard at all.
