Six Years

I am not sure who is still reading this blog but,

apparently my father is because he keeps asking me to update it.

And I am not really sure what to write about.

Maybe about being brave.

Since my last post in November, Ryan and I went to Spain for business in February.

Exciting part was, we took Abby with us!

It was incredibly beautiful.

We spent 10 days in Barcelona and Valencia.

We saw ancient sights, breathtaking buildings and sacred grounds.

We ate lots of interesting foods and sought out the yummiest of desserts.

After a few days in Barcelona we headed to Valencia via a 3 hour train ride.

Now I am the first to admit - my sense of direction sucks.

Always has.

So while Ryan was working, Abby and I had two choices.

Sit and wait in the apartment or 

brave the subway system and taxis and venture into the city.

I really didn't know which one we would choose until that 1st day there.

I don't speak Spanish and I can't read it.  Neither can Abby.

To say we were nervous was an understatement.

But at least we were together, even if we did get lost.

Brave is not a word I would typically use to describe myself.

But in Spain, I felt brave.

We took a bus tour of the city, found city hall and the old guard towers.

We admired the unique architecture of the The City of Arts and Science buildings. 

We walked the long stretches of beach and collected shells.

We ate pastries or ice cream for lunch.  Everyday.

Ryan joined us on the last few days to explore Valencia on bikes, 

riding miles along the Turia, the old river bottom.

On the last day we kayaked through the water filled Coves de Sant Josep.

Such an amazing trip of a lifetime, it was a wonderful experience.

Then a few weeks after we got home - the world went crazy...

And here we still are.

Social distancing, mask wearing, distance learning, not leaving the house...

The last few months have been long and confusing.

Since lock down, I admit I have been spending 

way to much time on Facebook.

But the other day I ran across this... 

posted by another survivor in an online support group, 

Anna Gatrell Sanders.

People with cancer are supposed to be heroic.

We fight a disease that terrifies everyone.

We are strong because we endure treatment that can feel worse than the actual malignancies.

We are brave because our lab tests come back with news we don't want to hear.

The reality of life with cancer is very different from the image we try to portray.

Our fight is simply a willingness to go through treatment because, frankly, the alternative sucks.

Strength?  We endure pain and sickness for the chance to feel "normal" down the road.

Brave?  We build up an emotional tolerance and acceptance of things we can't change.  We pretend the things we can't change.  We pretend that life is going good so the kids in our lives won't worry as much as we are.  Faith kicks in to take care of the rest.

Abby helped me be brave in Spain.

She was unbelievably good at navigating.  

I got turned around every time we came up out of the subway.

I would show her places on my phone I thought would be cool to see, 

and she would get us there.

Sure we got lost a few times, 

couldn't understand our driver and just got out on some random street. 

We even walked past our destination, multiple times, 

not knowing it was right in front of us.

Eventually we always found our way.

All this got me thinking about my diagnoses.

And how much my family, friends and even strangers 

helped me to be brave.

Helped me get though things.

Things I wasn't sure if I could.

Everyone helped me become brave - so I could fight.

This week I remember the day I was diagnosed 6 years ago.

It was June 17, 2014

SIX YEARS!

Sometimes it feels like a lifetime ago

and yet some aspects feel like they were yesterday.

A number of years ago a family member was in an accident.  

She fell over 40 feet to the ground from a rope swing. 

 I followed her journey and progress online. 

Following are parts of an essay she wrote for a contest.

She starts out - 

6 years ago today I died. Time keeps moving on, but the feeling for me on this, the anniversary of my death never changes. Sometimes I wonder if there will be a day that goes by and I won't think about what happened. You'd think that after years it would start to fade, but it doesn't. My body is now covered in stitches and scars. But there is no therapy for putting your old life together again.

She spent 2 months in the hospital. She suffered a broken femur, twenty shattered ribs, a fractured spine (T12 and C7 discs), a frontal lobe injury with bleeding on the brain, a ruptured gall bladder and partial paralysis. With months of physical therapy and with occupational therapy she was able to learn to walk again.

Six years. My braces and crutches are stored in the cellar. The medication has long since run out and the unpaid mountain of bills have been pushed into a forgotten corner of the closet. Everything appears back to normal but sometimes my leg unexpectedly buckles, sometimes I catch myself, sometimes I don’t. My friends want to talk about boys, clothes, and TV shows.

I want to talk about my accident, about pain and death.

“So are you all healed now?”, well-meaning family and friends ask me.

What does being healed even mean?

Does being healed mean dealing with pain every day?

Does it mean replaying what happened over and over?

Will the world be able to look past my scars and love me anyway?

It is late at night. I pull the blinds aside and stare out into the dark night waiting for the pain in my legs to subside. The girl I used to be would be curled up under piles of blankets, sleeping. In the morning she would jump out of bed, humming along with her music as she combed her hair. That girl would run downstairs, gulp in a quick breakfast and head outdoors.

That girl had a reckless spirit, a thirst for life, and a yearning to be more.

That girl was a dreamer, and a romantic. That girl was naive.

I’m not that girl anymore. The truth is, that girl died the moment she jumped off the tower. I rose up in her place. I know too much to ever be her again. That other girl could never know the quiet strength that comes from suffering, the determination to never quit. She didn’t know that the brokenness would shape her into a better person or that scars could be beautiful.

That girl didn’t know she would die so that I could live.

So that I could be the me I always was.

The me I always wanted to be.

While we have not gone through the same experiences, her words feel like my thoughts.

My six year follow up appointment was last week.

The anxiety and stress leading up to appointments usually send me

into a downward spiral of "what if" questions.

But this year it felt different.

Even with mask requirements, hand sanitizer and

staff to take my temperature at the front door

before I was allowed to step into the cancer center, I felt optimistic.

I felt different.

Six years since my diagnosis.

Six years of learning, failing, and trying.

Six years of hoping, struggling and over-coming.

Six year later and I got the "everything looks good,

keep doing what your doing" from my oncologist.

Six years of fears but also six years of being brave.