Blessings in Disguise

When I was first diagnosed, of course I was livid with God. How could he do this to me? Why was the rug being pulled out from under me yet again? How was I going to deal with this and why was I being punished? Hearing the word "cancer" connected with your name for the first time, conjures up all sorts of dark thoughts and images. Namely the Grim Reaper. (You were all thinking it, I just said it.) I was mad, I was distraught, I was numb....all of those things. I can't really describe it, other than to say that it was like having the wind knocked out of you. It hurt, but you couldn't do anything about it, you were frozen, and scared, waiting for time to start moving again, the air to come back to your lungs. For you to be normal again...however, being "normal" again, is not really an option anymore.
My first encounter with the cancer, there was no beauty to it. I couldn't see past the mortality of it, the doom and gloom of forever facing a disease. There was nothing to be thankful for, in my mind. I was facing a terminal illness at the prime of my life. How could there be any silver lining in that?
That first doctor appointment was a chaotic whirlwind of terms and treatments. I left with a week full of dates with oncologists, nurse practitioners, surgeons, and the chemo needle. I tried to keep my wits about me, tried to keep the positivity in check, put a brave face on, and put my best foot forward. I had family, old friends, and new co-workers rallying around me telling me I was going to win this battle, that they were in it for the long-haul with me.
I began writing this blog in late December, around the time of my second round of chemo. The whirlwind had died down, I understood what chemo was going to be like, and I had settled into my identity as a person with cancer. My hair was starting to fall out with a vengeance. And although I had such a tremendous support system, I couldn't help but feel alone at times and angry with God. People, with the best of intentions, just couldn't understand how I felt inside. Even if they had lost a loved one to this dreaded disease, it wasn't the same as living with it, seeing it in the mirror every day, waking up with a smile on your face, only to have that lump in your stomach return when you realized you were still stricken. So try as my sisters, my parents, and my husband might, they were never going to identify with me. It just wasn't possible.
I started the blog as my outlet. I always liked to write and had been told I actually had some ability, so I thought that maybe it would be cathartic for me in some way. I have always been one of those people that never truly gets over something unless I say it out loud or write it down. One thing I told myself, I was going to be honest. I would be the Kim Kardashian of cancer. This blog was going to be honest and raw, with bits of humor interspersed, because that is how I am as a person. No, I'm probably not going to tell you that you look fat in that outfit, but I will tell you if I think you are headed down the wrong path. That was my idea behind the blog, maybe I could share my story and help other young people with cancer to deal. Maybe I could make myself laugh at my journey, or show people the reality of cancer. Maybe it would help me rally more support or make some sense for caregivers. I don't know. All I know is that my blog turned into a blessing from the first stroke of the keys.
In the darkness of this diagnosis, I was able to find some rays of light, and some of the camaraderie I was looking for. People from all over started reaching out and responding to me, my words hit a chord in some, or opened the eyes of others. I wasn't asking for sympathy with my blog, or even a pat on the back. What I wanted was to see I wasn't alone. I got my answer late one night after writing a few entries.
Her name was Michelle, and she wrote me on Facebook. She said, "I hope you don't think I'm a stalker...." which made me laugh. I had never seen her name before, and continued to read her message wondering why on Earth this woman with long blond hair and a sunny smile was writing me at such an hour. Michelle, it turns out, was looking for a comrade too. At 48, she had been diagnosed in mid-December with stage IV cancer. She had been turned onto my blog by one of my high school friends, Jill, who worked with her. She wrote that she stayed up late one night reading my entries and marveling at all we had in common. Her journey had many of the same bumps and turns that mine had had. As I sat reading her message that night, I felt a strange connection to this woman with the long blond hair. We were both facing the fight of our lives and determined to win.
We wrote back and forth for while, not meeting each other due to our chemo schedules and then our bad days overlapped the other's good days. Finally, when I was at HemOc for a round of hydration because I didn't take care of myself, she was there for bloodwork. I was in a private room, quite out of it, with my sister Kathryn taking care of me. Michelle came to our room and opened the curtain as I was in and out of sleep. She smiled that smile, and in true Michelle form, did not want to bother me if I was sleeping and not feeling well. I, being groggy, wasn't the most delightful person in that moment, but I was glad to finally see her in the flesh. And true to form again, she was more concerned about me, than she was about herself and her own scans that she was waiting on.
So began a friendship with a person that "got" me. Finally, I had someone to talk to about my fears, my anxieties...my frustrations. Michelle was on the cancer train with me and was holding my hand through it. We both were going to Johns Hopkins, days apart, for second opinions. She had a grandson that was close in age to Sammy, so we both had something to fight for. Yes, she was older, but she was still young....too young to be facing this ordeal. We felt a kinship to one another and I was so glad to have her in my corner.
We were able to meet at Jill's house one Saturday and talk for a few hours. I got to know more about her family and what had brought her here to this moment. She talked about her daughter, how she had lived on the North Side for many years and had recently moved in with her daughter right up the street from my house! It was so strange how our lives were somewhat intertwined. I watched as she talked, she still had the long blond hair and still smiled as she spoke of things. I was wearing a scarf on my head, was feeling bloated from chemo, and not a stitch of makeup was on my face. But despite all this, I felt comfortable around her. Like she was an old friend. She was leaving to meet up with old friends for dinner that night and was so excited. It was the last time I would see Michelle outside of a hospital setting.
Unfortunately, Michelle's journey became riddled with obstacles. I would get "good" news about my cancer, and it seemed that she was running into one road block after another. We were able to see each other at Hopkins, where she had to be admitted. I was able to meet her sister and sit and talk for a while before my appointment. I cried after leaving her room that day because I saw the evil that cancer was capable of in that moment. She struggled to breath, and if I could have done anything, anything, to make her more comfortable, I would have done it in a heartbeat. It was unfair. We were both fighting just as hard as the other. In fact, what I admired about Michelle, is she had no fear. I wrote her once that I was having terrible anxiety about everything and that I was depressed. She wrote me back that she, despite having fluid on her lungs, and going through some pretty awful procedures, was still not anxious. She wasn't going to let fear stop her. She didn't have time or energy for it, and I saw in her that I shouldn't let fear overtake me either. It was just wasted energy.
In March, when my cousin had her baby, I was at the hospital where Michelle had been transferred. Despite my reservations, I went to see her on the oncology floor that day. It was hard being on that floor, where I had stayed twice before. It's like you can smell the cancer when you get off the elevator. The sterility of the hallways, the blankness of the rooms, seeing family members with worried looks on their faces....it makes for a tough walk, especially when you are carrying the big "C" on your back. But I pushed my own fears aside to see my friend. I wanted to see her face, hear her voice, make sure she was still fighting.
I went in her room, which was like an ice box (as she wanted it) and was met with a movie star. I say that because Michelle was wearing some big Jackie O. sunglasses when I walked in. It made us both laugh and she was wearing them because the new chemo she was on made her sensitive to the light from the wall of windows in her room. It was a private room, thank goodness, because I could tell you some stories about roomies up there that would make your head spin. She was thinner, but her breathing was better, which made me relieved. She was funny and bossier this time and had become more assertive since her time at Hopkins. We spoke about our little boys and how her treatment had changed. She seemed less vulnerable and things were looking up. Her chemo was definitely causing her some horrible side effects....but it was working. She had had some setbacks, but there was still hope in her voice. And as always, she was more concerned about me and how I was doing with my treatments. I blew her a kiss before I walked out the door, and left feeling like things were on track to get better. That we would be looking back on this in years to come and laughing at her movie star hospital stay.
This cancer diagnosis wasn't all dark clouds and scary thoughts. There have been blessings on my journey, and Michelle's friendship was one such blessing. She came into my life when I needed her, when I felt that no one in the world was feeling what I was feeling. Michelle reached out to me when I needed her most, and held my hand through the cancer labyrinth. Michelle did leave the hospital, for one day, and I was able to text her how happy I was for her. She sent me a heart back.
On Thursday night, I was sitting in Maryland on my sister's couch and could not sleep for the life of me. Finally at around 2:30 a.m., I laid down and was able to rest. At 7 a.m., Friday, my phone was ringing and it was Jill. My heart sunk to my feet. I knew what was awaiting me on the other end of the line. "Michelle passed early this morning." I hung up, and couldn't help feeling like I did that day of my diagnosis....there was no air, I could not think, the shock numbed me from head to toe. I waited for my lungs to fill with air again, for my ability to speak to return. I looked at my mom and said, "She's gone." I blinked back tears and forced myself not to cry. Michelle would NOT want me to cry. She would want me to hold my baby, enjoy my trip, and keep fighting the good fight. So I did what she wanted me to do. I went on with the trip, I spoke of her to my family, I dealt with it quietly in my own head.
The night before we left for Syracuse, I again laid awake...unable to sleep. I went onto Facebook, and looked up that first email she sent me. As I read it, tears began to stream down my face....by the end of reading all of our emails, I was sobbing into my pillow. Damn you, cancer! You ripped her away from her beautiful daughter, her doting husband, her loving sisters, and her precious grandchild. Why? WHY? How can one with so much hope and life left to live be taken so easily and so devastatingly? Where was the fairness in that? I couldn't answer my questions. No one can. Cancer hurts you and it hurts the ones you love. Yes, it brings you blessings in terms of second chances, living in the moment, and making new friends. But at the end of the day, cancer has an agenda...and it isn't a happy one. No one knows why some escape its grasp entirely, or break free of its clutches when all odds are against them. No one knows why it picks who it picks. Cancer is a beast that cannot be tamed no matter how bright your smile and how much hope you have. Knowing that though, doesn't make losing someone to cancer any easier.
Cancer gave me a friendship, however, that I will never forget. A woman whose compassion was unmatched, and whose bravery knew no bounds. I entered her calling hours with a brave face tonight, shaved head unveiled for all to see because she would have wanted me to show everyone and cancer that I am not giving up. Her death gives me more reason to fight, more drive to show cancer who's boss, and now I know I have her right by my side. I knew she was there today because I didn't shed any tears. I even wore waterproof mascara because I was sure the floodgates were going to open. But it was as if she was putting her hand on my shoulder and introducing me to her family and making me be strong.
Now I sit in the quiet of my house, and once again, tears are streaming down my face. I have a PET scan this week, and I'm scared. My body hurts, I've started a new treatment, I ended chemo, and I have to meet with surgeons about a hysterectomy. These are all things I would have shared with my friend, and no doubt, she would have sent me encouraging words and helped me through it no matter what the outcome. She would be so happy to know that Marshall and Sammy are going to have a play date at some point, and that Doreen is actually going to be working with Bill next year. She's not here to hold my hand anymore, but her memory will live on, you can be sure of that. When I go on Wednesday for my scan, I will feel her beside me. If the sun is shining, I know she will be smiling and wearing her sunglasses, and I will smile and whisper, "We got this."