Grieving Cancer

On November 15^th of 2011, I went in for my “yearly” – an appointment at the good ol’ University of Michigan hospital with my surgeon and the doctor who has been monitoring my cancer care on a macro level for the last three years – since fall of 2008. 

Oh yeah,  now might be a good point to mention that I had thyroid cancer (just in case you didn’t already know); diagnosed at age 19, the day after Christmas of my sophomore year of college. 

Nearly four years later after signing my life away on a “Five Wish Form” – just in case via hospital protocol, two major surgeries, four notable hospitalizations, a ridiculous dose of radiation, several biopsy stabs to my general neck area, numerous scans and ultrasounds, literally hundreds of blood draws, later and I still had what I declared for the curious was an “existent but non active thyroid cancer diagnosis”.  The medical science aside (you’d have to talk me later for more of my story and the details), I had existent protein levels in my blood work pointing toward thyroid cancer tissue that was unidentifiable on my scans...meaning we couldn’t treat.  While the levels were negligible for the average person, they were dangerous for a person such as myself... without a thyroid and with a cancer diagnosis. 

Basically my options were to either a) hope it would gradually clear out by itself, b) wait for it to grow so that location could be identified and properly treated and eradicated, or c) live in limbo (my self-proclaimed “sabbatical”) as if life were normal until ‘a’ or ‘b’ could be established.  When after six months ‘a’ failed to come through – we moved into ‘c’ and hoped for ‘b’... essentially eliminating the hope of ‘a’.  And such it has been. For two years worth of sabbaticals.  And such I anticipated it would remain as I went in for my yearly this last November.  At the rate I was going – I could die with a diagnosis.

Imagine my surprise, then, when my blood work came back with indistinguishable levels.  The ‘a’ option which disappeared some time in 2009 was suddenly the answer.  I go in anxious...and prepared for anything.  But I wasn’t prepared for a “blood work looks excellent! In fact levels are unidentifiable!”  I nearly jumped out of my seat.  “So I’m cleared then?  My levels have never been unidentifiable!  Am I cleared?”  My doctor laughed “maybe after five reports that look like this one we can officially clear you.  But for now, know you’re in good shape and don’t have anything to worry about for a while.”

I was far more excited in my shock than I imagined.  I eagerly called and texted the extent of my world.  I ran back to work to tell my coworkers (some of whom had only known this part of my story for a month or two...and for a couple, a day or two) – they celebrated with me in a way I wasn’t quite expecting.  I wasn’t prepared for how excited they would be for me and I shook telling them my news and nearly cried later realizing the depth of their care and the rest of my world’s joint rejoicing. 

And then the 16^th came and life went on. 

Quite literally.  That’s how the story goes.  Life went on.  That’s the way it always went with me and cancer.  Life went on and so did I.

At Christmas time – the 4 year anniversary of my diagnosis – I realized that I never dealt with the “clear” because I never really dealt with its presence, not where it matters.  I’ve felt propelled ever since to again watch the movie “My Sister’s Keeper”.  I have only watched it once and haven’t thought or dared to play again since.  The story, while quite different from my own, was too close to home.  The narration of the family, the thoughts of the girl – I wept.  It was my response the first time and I watched it.  And I think I want, maybe even to need to watch it again for the same reason.  I need to cry.  And I’m realizing I need to grieve.

Cancer is a funny thing.  At least mine was... During the thick of things, I hated it.  When it was its worse, I loathed it.  And so I did what I did best, pretended that nothing was wrong and there was nothing I couldn’t handle and life went on.  “Life went on and so did I” really was the best summary.  Mostly, I stuffed and repressed grief. I have two compilations of writings – ponderings, journals, reflections – pieces written to help me process when the “stuffed and repressed” built up.  The first “Glimpse...” was my first four months trying to deal, confident my “all clear” was just around the corner, watching God show up.  The second, “The Sequel” (its title referring to something different than what you might be assuming), was compiled nearly two years later and was the combination of what was going on beneath the surface of my “life went on and so did I” exterior.  To read these compilations one might see some of my bitterness and hurt and resentment – especially over the pieces of life that it had touched without permission...my family, friends, school, finances, relationship with Christ...  Then it ends.  Generally speaking, as far as anyone on the outside could tell, I handled it quite well.  But I haven’t processed much of anything cancer related in a long time and I never spent much time grieving cancer when I had it.  And only limited time grieving the loss of the things it touched. 

But cancer is a funny thing.  At least mine was.  And now that it is gone.  I miss it.  It was such a huge piece of me that losing it was a relief – a burden lifted.  And yet, its loss also left a gaping hole.  Sounds crazy doesn’t it?  Despite living as if it didn’t exist, despite the fact that unless I tell you – people have spent time with me over the course of two years before they find out – you probably don’t know, part of me doesn’t really know who I am without that diagnosis.  It has been such a part of my life for the last four years that it just...is.  And while I get excited to explain that I’m ‘clear’ to people who ask... I also feel like a piece of my identity is missing.  I learned so much with cancer – figuring out who I am and who God is and what it means to be part of a bigger picture and now it’s just gone.  It was a painful experience but I would go back and do it again (I processed this out some 18 months ago).  It was a hard friend, a hard teacher, but that teacher was my friend and I miss it.  I miss it being my secret giver of tough lessons (my own Miagi); I miss it being my secret super-human strength (“You seriously graduated with honors and went through cancer the whole time??” “yep...”); I miss it giving me a secret sense of purpose (“Anika, wait! Because what no one else knows is what you know you fight against every day.  What you fight over.  What you strive to be more than.  No one needs to.  But look who you’ve become despite it?  Look what God’s done in and through it?”).  It seems silly to grieve the loss of something like cancer – especially the wimpy form of cancer I battled. But it’s there. 

Grief.  I feel grief.  Sorrow and pain and heartache.  And I’m processing two kinds of grief all at the same time in two different ways for the same thing.  The thing I am realizing is that grief comes when a piece, a person, an endeavor, meant something.  I wouldn’t be grieving anything right now if it wasn’t such a big part of my life...

And I bring it up now, because maybe I am supposed to.  Maybe I am supposed to grieve it. Maybe there is more that God needs to do in and through this part of my story.  Or maybe it is finally time for me to move on.  Maybe it is time for this chapter to see its last page.  Maybe it’s time to be free to just breathe...