Birthdays look different after cancer.
Many years ago (before my
diagnosis), I caught up with a writing mentor who had survived breast cancer
twice. She was maybe sixty, which to me seemed pushing old age.
“But isn’t every birthday just a joyful celebration?” I asked, thinking she
must feel grateful for each year added to her life.
She agreed, but I sensed hesitation. Now I understand.
I turned 56 last week. I’m not
happy with the changes and limitations that come with getting older. But I want
to be old, because it means I didn’t die young.
And just in case you thought I
did, I’ll follow up on my last cliffhanger post.
On March 14, 2023, two weeks
after my radical hysterectomy, Greg and I sat in my gynecological oncologist’s
office awaiting the pathology results. I knew all too well the fear that fills
the sterile room as you wait for the knock on the door, and the words to follow.
So I took my knitting and focused on each stitch. Busy hands, calm mind.
A knock. The physician’s
assistant entered. I froze, eyes alert to every non-verbal. “Hi!” she said. “I
have your results here,” tapping a manila folder. She sat down on a stool,
wheeled herself over to me. Then “Oh!” She noticed what was in my hands. “I’m so
glad you brought your knitting—or is it crochet?”
“No, it’s knitting.”
She laughed. “Well, I can’t do
either.”
“I can knit, but I can’t crochet.
My sister crochets, but doesn’t knit. I think maybe different peoples’ brains
work differently.”
“One of these days, I’m going to
have to learn,” she said.
I held my breath. Why are we
talking about knitting? Do I keep this conversation going? She’s killing time,
trying to soften the blow…
Then she turned to Greg. “I know
Doctor told you he didn’t see anything suspicious.”
Here it comes.
“But it’s still really good
news.”
Still?
“It’s all benign.” She opened the
folder and painstakingly walked us through all the things they had
found in me. My eyes skimmed the page, just in case it said “cancer.” Nothing.
Definitely a huge fibroid, and other issues with my endometrium and ovaries,
but NO CANCER. Relief came slowly; tears of joy were a bit delayed. A
long, painful recovery still lay ahead, but no chemo or radiation. I was
walking free! We celebrated with lunch at Cheesecake Factory, and I went home
to rest. And knit.
Now, eight months later, I sometimes
forget the gift I’ve been given. I take breath for granted. I struggle with life
and wish I didn’t have to do hard things.
But I don’t want to forget what
God brought me through. I don’t want my story to grow stale. May every
birthday, every anniversary, every doctor’s visit, every new scare remind me of
my blessings and the privilege of encouraging my fellow travelers on our
journey Home.
