“There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature. The assurance that dawn comes after night, and Spring after Winter.”
– Rachel Carson
Spring has always been by one of my favorite seasons, falling second only to the crisp days of Fall. It’s the season of new green grass, blooming flowers and the time to plant new seeds, both in our gardens and in our lives.
Spring 2016 was a season filled with what would one year later be referred merely to as a “blip”. It was the season of my cancer diagnosis; the season that my cancer treatment would be decided. It was the season a pool full of tears would be shed by not only myself, but family and friends. It was the season full of fear, questions and hearing answers we didn’t want to hear. It was the season of test after test; overjoyed with positive results only to be knocked down with negative ones. It was the season I would cut my long hair in preparation to lose every single strand. It was the season that would lead to the following eight months filled with chemotherapy and radiation. It was also the season I made a choice. It was the season that I decided this blip called cancer would not define me, nor would it stand in my way of being the person I always wanted to be.
Easter 2016 was a holiday that will likely stay in my mind for many years to come. We carried out our Easter plans of having 20+ family members to our house, already in the mindset that this new title that was all of a sudden given to me was not going to be our focus. We were looking forward to celebrating our first holiday at our new dining room table; a table Mark had built with his own hands. We knew the table would be the focus of the day: this beautiful, dark, live edge wood table that so much time, effort and sweat had gone into. A table that was big enough to hold the majority of our family members; where they would join together to eat the amazing food that was made for the day, entertain each other through stories and conversation, and be thankful for all that we have. It was a day that we did not want filled with sadness and burden. Our goal was to get through that day; enjoying ourselves and leaving the fear behind, if not just for a few hours.
The day we got the call from my surgeon, and after an emergency visit with the magnificent Julie to have a small counseling session, Mark and I visited the local Pier One knowing we needed to finish getting everything in order before we could enjoy the day with our family. Still in a stunned and dazed stupor of being told that my tumor was in fact cancerous, we stood in front of that wall of perfectly placed placemats and napkins, looking through aisles of matching dinnerware and straw bunnies adorned with whimsical Easter egg. I remember my eyes were cloudy, my contacts dry from crying. My focus would drift back and forth between thoughts of chemotherapy and which shade of burgundy would go best with the gold table runner we had picked out. I wondered how I would pull myself together to enjoy the day; to play Easter Bunny for my kids. How would we hide the fear from our family; how would I stop the tears. We hadn’t shared my diagnosis with anyone outside of our immediate family, and hadn’t planned to do so until we had a hold on the exact plan for treatment. With the little information we did have, we tried our best to stay strong for the family we did tell, to shield them from the fear that was consuming our own minds.
My dad showed up unexpectedly the night before Easter. I was angry; I had so much to do still and convincing him I was okay was not part of the plan. I had place settings to set, flowers to arrange, rooms to clean. He was scared; he had just learned days before that his oldest daughter had cancer. I know that in his mind cancer equaled something awful, maybe not death, but something close enough. I know he felt helpless and his only solution; his only way to take control of an uncontrollable situation was to see me face to face to know I was okay. So, without telling anyone, he traveled almost five hours to do just that. I didn’t get that then. Or maybe I did, but I was just to busy convincing myself that everything was going to be okay that the thought of having to convince him face to face was too hard of a task to do. I remember keeping myself busy that night, not making too much eye contact. I knew he was hurting and wanted to ask so many questions, but he didn’t, not until I was ready to give the answers. My dad: a beacon of physical strength, someone who could scare you with just a glance or his firm handshake. The man who once walked onto my school bus and threatened the bus bully that the next time he bothered his daughter, he would be dealing with him. A United States Marine, consumed with pride for his country. He was now vulnerable to the unknown. Seeing his fear face to face was as hard for me as hearing the words over the phone that I did in fact have cancer. I knew I was being selfish by being angry that he was there; I also knew that my anger was just masking my own fear. I later compared that day to the reaction a child has when they fall down. They are fine until they see the look of worry and fear on their parents face. I had turned back into a child, knowing that the fear and worry was real and was not something I could ignore, or even control. I knew that being angry, about his unannounced visit or what was to come, was not the answer.
When Easter Day arrived, we were prepared and thankful. We had colored Easter eggs, we had decorated the house, and we listened to the shrieks from the kids as they joyfully awoke to Easter Bunny tracks leading up to our front doors. We went to church, and we prayed. Adorned in a new spring apron to add some Easter cheer, I carried on cooking my famous sweet potato casserole and taking in the roasting maple syrup sautéing my carrots. And we celebrated and ate and shared stories around that new table just as we had planned. For those few hours, there was no fear. There were no burdens. My Easter wish wasn’t much different than in years past. I continued to wish for health, love and good fortune for all, including myself. I wished for the motivation to move forward, and to bravely take on the days to come. I wished for strength, and to be as strong as my father’s handshake.
Fast forward one year, to 2017, and my Easter wish was the same. Except for this year, my wish extended to my “cancer family” and all of those who I have met throughout this journey who have come forward with their own stories of pain, resilience and strength. I thought about my new, dear friend Kelly, who was brought into my life because of cancer. I thought about the young girls who I had recently spent time with at a support group put together by our fearless and mighty Dr. T; most of whom are still trying to navigate their way through their own cancer journey as they sit in those big brown chairs hoping that with every drip of chemo going through their port is bringing them one step closer to being cancer free. I thought about all my family and friends, who had spent the last year by my side, supporting me and giving me the strength and motivation to stay focused.
Someone recently referred to my cancer as a “just a blip on my radar”, adding that it probably felt like it had never happened. She was well intentioned, so I refrained from acting out the thoughts I had in my mind of shaking some sense into her. Without saying anything, I’m sure my wide, brown eyed stare with eyebrows raised surely made her rethink her words. In a very small way, she was right. It was a blip; a hurdle that was jumped over. And there are some days that I am able to look back and wonder if it all actually happened, or if it was just a bad dream. But anyone who has ever endured anything that has made us question our faith, driven us to heartbreak or scared us so badly we prayed to a higher being that we would never do anything wrong again in order to prevent continued hardship, knows that whatever that was, was much more than a “blip” on our life’s journey. It has changed us; in both good ways and bad. It has challenged us; made us cry in agony and shout out in pain. But those blips, those hurdles we have to climb over to find peace, are what link us all together and provide us the strength to feel compassion for others. Our journeys, our hardships, being defeated, and everything we have conquered. They all allow us to feel, and they remind us that we are not alone. They don’t discriminate; they don’t pick and choose. They are meant for each of us, and while they may not all have a positive ending, they are sure to teach us a lesson. A lesson about compassion, lessons about pushing through and overcoming obstacles no matter how difficult, and lessons about who we really are as individual people and what we really want out of this life we only get one shot at. Those blips, no matter how big or small, are ours. We own them and we have every right to hold on to the fear and pain, the same fear and pain that may very well never go away.
The truth is, we all have “blips”. An unexpected and typically temporary deviation. Hardships, heartbreaks, hurdle that we may never share with others. We fear our hurdles are not bad or large enough in comparison to others, so we hold the pain in without sharing. We fear others don’t want to take on the burden of our hardships, so we stay quiet and sometimes isolated. As I write this, I fear there are others who believe that once the treatment ends, there should be nothing left to write about. That our grieving associated with our life events have an expiration date. But we all know that’s not true. Long after the initial shock and pain of a lost one, long after that last burst of poison pumped into your veins, long after a broken heart, the fight is still there. We fight internally, on a mental level. We fight on a physical level, scared that our bodies will fail us. Each of us has had or has something that has kept us or keeps us up at night. As the quote says, “When you look at a person, any person, remember that everyone has a story. Everyone has gone through something that has changed them.” My hope is that at some point in our lives, none of us will feel alone. My hope is that at some point in our lives, we will learn to listen more and talk less; support more, and judge less. Show compassion to everyone’s blips; their hardships, heartbreaks and hurdles. No matter how big or how small; no matter if their outcome is victory or defeat. No matter how they may appear on the outside. No matter how strong their handshake.
My blips over the past year have brought me fear, a sense of loss, concerns for my family’s future. But, just like the April rain has helped my beautiful purple lilac bush bloom, these blips have also brought me new beginnings. They have brought me love, courage, strength, protection, motivation, compassion, inspiration, clarity, and new friendships and experiences. They have allowed me to share my journey with others, which in turn has given something cold and dark new light and hope. It has given me an outlet to express fear with others; fear that can eventually be turned into the very thing that makes us stronger. After all, it is our blips on our life’s radar that can change us for the better.
