Today is my 10-Year Cancer-Versary.
It was December 26, 2007…the
microwave clock read 5:17…when the doctor who had done the biopsy only a
handful of days before called to let me know that the results were exactly
opposite of what he expected. At the
time the most common demographic for thyroid cancer was women over 40 from who
had a “Pacific Island” ethnicity…primarily those who had been exposed to a
significant degree of radiation. I am…female. So, I had that going for me. Up to 50% of Americans are expected to have
spots on the thyroid. In 2007, approximately 5% of the spots were suspicious
and far less were cancerous.
Statistically, thyroid cancer wasn’t really something I, a 19-year-old
college sophomore, should have had to worry about. But there it was.
And 10 years later, here I
am.
It was part of my picture all
through Sophomore and Junior years of college. It lingered (without a surgery
or radiation attempt) into my Senior year.
My bloodwork said to hold tight until the remaining cells either died or
grew. I felt like a time bomb until 2011 when my bloodwork said I was finally
free.
10 years later, and here I
am.
Cancer is part of my history, my
story, but not part of my days. If it
weren’t for the occasional questions about my slightly faded 6 ½ inch scar and
the need to mark yes when asked “have you had any kind of cancer” when donating
blood, there are many days I wouldn’t think about it at all.
But here I am. My heart and mind a muddle of memories from the last ten years.
I was trying to decide how to
commemorate the last 10 years. A post
seemed obvious as it was during my first processings with cancer that my blog
was begun. In those days my fingers
flowed over a keyboard, trying to keep up with the way my brain just wouldn’t
stop. And yet…how does one commemorate something like cancer? Do you?
It’s not typically something you necessarily celebrate…
Still, here I am.
So much has changed. Yesteryear feels like yesterday today and yet
no part of me could have imagined that this is where life would bring me. And still…I know that where I am is, in many
respects, a direct result of the role cancer played in my life. For good or for bad, I am who I am because of
the journey which began a decade ago… People don’t typically celebrate cancer,
but, I suppose, in a way I do. Cancer
sucks. I wish it upon no one – not my
worst enemy. But I am sitting here
puzzling over the last ten years and knowing that, given the choice, I would
not erase it from my past. I wouldn’t
change the story. I would again allow
something so painful and hard to be in a place for God to work in me and
through me and around me. To see the way
God’s strength was and is made perfect in my imperfection.
And maybe that’s enough. That realization is enough. Yet, with a head and heart full of memories,
I’ve decided to commemorate my 10-Year-Cancer-Versary with 10 of the things I
feel like cancer has taught me in the last 10 years. The pieces which have, in some way, shaped me
and continue in their own ways to influence who I am and who I’m becoming. Some of them are specific to [my]
cancer. Some I think apply to many “hard
things” and “painful storms”. All of
them leave me giving thanks for the places I’ve been, the place I find myself,
and the way God continues to be the Beauty in my storms…
10 Things I’ve Learned from Cancer Over the Last 10 Years…
1. Time doesn’t heal all wounds…but it does lessen the force of impact. Fall semester of my Junior year, with another surgery on the schedule and more questions with answers unknown, a professor spoke of his good friend, for whom days were limited as cancer ravaged his body. My hand immediately went to my scar (a common occurrence which I later realized I did when I felt vulnerable – like I had to protect the rawest part of me), my breathing quickened, and my head started to spin. I remember that I was standing and that I wished I could sit down without drawing attention to myself. The idea of cancer consumed me. A movie with a cancer plotline could leave me in pieces. A book with cancer left me out of sorts for days and wide awake at night. But they don’t anymore. There are times when I am still deeply affected. For the most part, however, there is now just a light sting where the gut wrenching inner destruction used to be. There is something beautiful about the way God uses the richness of life to slowly but surely begin to heal the places that hurt.
2. Life changes. If you’re hoping that you can be a 20-year-old college student who has classes to take, grades to make, extracurriculars to pursue, a job to keep, and an identity to preserve…who merely happens to also have cancer, you might be a little crazy. And you might be me. I was so convinced that the best kind of kid with cancer was the kind of kid who acted like she didn’t have cancer at all! While God taught me SO much when life crashed in on me, it crashed it harder than it may have had to because I was secretly convinced that nothing needed to change. I wish I would have been more open to the inevitable change so that I could have helped direct the reconstruction. Instead there are still a couple pieces out of place! What’s the modern beatitude? “Blessed is the flexible for they won’t be bent out of shape?” For good or bad, I’m not the person I was on December 25th of 2007. Sometimes I miss the old Anika. Our cores are the same though…the Anika I am and the Anika I was. Life changes. It’s gonna be okay.
3. It’s okay to have hard days. It’s okay to question. It’s okay to doubt. It’s okay to know one thing in your head but feel another one in your reality... It’s okay to know God is as near as my next breath and still scream into the darkness, asking Him to show up. I caught a lot of flak – especially early on – at my Christian Liberal Arts school where questions and doubts were a sign of spiritual weakness and a deteriorating relationship with God. REAL Christians ALWAYS had the joy of the Lord and NEVER were angry at God or enquiring or unsure… But they are. Real Christians are real humans – and as such have real feelings and real emotions that require real responses. I didn’t want to go through Christian-ese motions... I wanted my faith to be real – one that didn’t say “God is good!” because I should but because amidst life that wasn’t, I could search and find and know God’s goodness amidst the pain. I wanted to be to walk through hard stuff and come out on the other end knowing the God I serve is big enough to handle my questions, my doubts, my fight, my storm, and me... And somehow, through it all, God reveals Himself nearer than ever before…
4. The reality of cancer is hard to digest…especially for other people. Cancer has this awesome way of affecting absolutely everything. Health and identity and relationships. And when that effect is felt by those around you, some will rally. The others will flee. It used to bother me that so many “left”, that when I needed people the most (but couldn’t always articulate that need), I looked around to find previously occupied presences gone. The reality is…many just don’t know what to do. For reasons valid and not. There is a sense of guilt (they are healthy and you’re not); there is a fear and uncertainty around the idea and the future and the pieces; there is a realization that the role you played in their life has suddenly and drastically changed; there is a lack of knowledge of what to say or do or be, a helplessness… And so, they leave. Does knowing this mean it didn’t hurt? Not a bit. Do I think it was my job to help them grieve and cope? No. I couldn’t even if I had wanted to! Have I been the friend on the other side of hard stuff that wonders about the balance between presence and space, perceived need and actual need, their grief and my own? Yeah. It’s not easy. Things like cancer are hard. There are people who, to this day, take a step back when they learn I once had cancer. It’s not something everyone can handle. Cancer was hard for me to stomach. But it was hard for those who cared about me too…
5. If you want to be a good friend, be present and listen. Show up. Do things that don’t involve whatever painful thing is going on in her life (because life is already about it). But be willing to get in the trenches too (because there are times when she will be dying to talk about it and feel like no one wants to hear about it). Give her space when needed without getting offended. Learn the phrases “do you want to talk about it?” and “is this a time you want me to give advice and feedback or do you just want me to listen?” Don’t answer all the questions. Don’t tell her she has no reason to question or doubt. Tell her instead that God is big enough for questions and doubts. Ask what God is teaching amidst the storm. Help her look for joy. It’s not an easy job. I would like to think that cancer has helped me see with different eyes, hear past my ears, and love beyond platitudes. I’ve tried to be the friend I needed. I often fail. But I would rather fail than not have tried.
6. Not everyone gets the whole story. This is twofold…a “gets” in terms of reception and in terms of comprehension. It is ALWAYS a journey to decide how much people get to know about the truest pieces of you. There are times I overshared. There were times at the beginning when God was giving me glimpses of Him amidst the crazy and I would spill them to anyone who would listen. And there were times I didn’t want to share at all. At the beginning people would find out about “cancer” and would want to know…how I found out, how I was doing, how I was “feeling”. I hated that question: “How are you feeling?” I was attending classes fulltime. I kept my on-campus job. For many onlookers, I was any normal college sophomore/junior. When someone asked how I was feeling, it was almost always a polite way of making a surface level connection. When I responded in kind with a surface level, “tired but okay…good…making life happen…one day at a time…” it was almost always followed by a “well, I’ll be praying for you!” before turning and walking away. Most never asked beyond my “okay”. I became protective of my story to save it from the people who didn’t truly care. And so there were times – many over the last ten years – where people would find out I had cancer and a piece of me would scream on the inside, secretly pleading with the other to ask. Wishing they would be a safe place to tell my story. My story isn’t a secret. But not everyone needs it. Some I share with don’t get it. And they won’t. It’s okay. Sometimes God nudges me to share with someone I honestly think could care less. Sometimes I listen to that prod. Sometimes I share a little. Sometimes a lot. And over the years, some people have come to know the whole story. And they get it. And they get me. It’s an incredible gift.
7. "Cancer” is a deep layer and I am in charge of protecting the way others respond. While not everyone gets the whole story, it was still my reality. It has become a natural part of my story. For me, simply stating I had cancer is like saying I also had a dog – who died. Is it a little sad? Sure. Is that declaration deep? Not for me. For me, that’s a pretty surface level disclosure. For others, simply saying “I” and “cancer” in the same sentences sounds like I’m bearing my soul. They aren’t ready to respond to perceived deep layer with one of their own. (It’s the onion principle of mutual communication). Sometimes I hold off on sharing cancer because I don’t want to scare people away. Sometimes I guard the truth to protect others. When I worked at camp or in the schools and kids would ask me about my scar, I would tell them about the thyroid and how important it is and let them know mine was “really sick”. Because a word like cancer is scary. And not every person is in a place to emotionally handle the baggage attached with it. Some say it’s not my job. But cancer isn’t just about me…
8. In the midst of storms, always look for reasons to laugh. Cancer can be funny! Do you get to make fun of cancer? Not without an “in” (aka: a relationship with someone with cancer who participates in the humor and says it’s okay). Could I? Yes. But only of my own (unless given an in with another individual). And under those parameters, it’s not only okay but even healthy. One of the greatest balms to my soul early on came in the friends who would joke about cancer and my scar and the ridiculousness of things with me. I wasn’t dying! Let’s laugh about being radioactive and the “cancer card” and pity puppy eyes. I had a resident in my building during my senior year of college with a prosthetic. The two of us could laugh until our sides hurt exchanging the stories we’d encountered, experienced, and (upon occasion) provoked. I was most okay with cancer when I could laugh about it…
9. The un-surrendered life isn’t worth living. Henry Nouwen tells the story of a women who was committed to a facility for the sake of her mental health. For her safety she had to be stripped of everything in her possession. In the end, she clutched something in her hand so tightly her nails dug into the flesh of her palm. Hours later when, finally, they managed to loosen her grip, there was single coin. Of almost no value. Nouwen talks of how we do this with God. How we hold onto things which have no value and it keeps us from opening our hands to the One who wishes to fill them. Ultimate surrender asks us to hold everything we hold dear in open hands and let go that we may take hold. Hold of the hand of the One who already holds our hopes and dreams, hurts and fears. Surrender, is ultimately about trust. It’s terrifying. But it’s worth it…
10. God is Faithful. When people ask me what cancer taught me, I respond with three words: God is faithful. It’s one of those phrases that explains everything and yet I can’t explain it. All I know is that God is faithful. That it is He who sustains. It is He who guides. It is He who exists as the purpose amidst something without. God is faithful. When the rest of the world slips away, He is constant. God is good. God is present. And His faithfulness gives way to hope. “Yet this I call to mind and so I have hope: Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning. Great is Your faithfulness!” (Lam 3)
1. Time doesn’t heal all wounds…but it does lessen the force of impact. Fall semester of my Junior year, with another surgery on the schedule and more questions with answers unknown, a professor spoke of his good friend, for whom days were limited as cancer ravaged his body. My hand immediately went to my scar (a common occurrence which I later realized I did when I felt vulnerable – like I had to protect the rawest part of me), my breathing quickened, and my head started to spin. I remember that I was standing and that I wished I could sit down without drawing attention to myself. The idea of cancer consumed me. A movie with a cancer plotline could leave me in pieces. A book with cancer left me out of sorts for days and wide awake at night. But they don’t anymore. There are times when I am still deeply affected. For the most part, however, there is now just a light sting where the gut wrenching inner destruction used to be. There is something beautiful about the way God uses the richness of life to slowly but surely begin to heal the places that hurt.
2. Life changes. If you’re hoping that you can be a 20-year-old college student who has classes to take, grades to make, extracurriculars to pursue, a job to keep, and an identity to preserve…who merely happens to also have cancer, you might be a little crazy. And you might be me. I was so convinced that the best kind of kid with cancer was the kind of kid who acted like she didn’t have cancer at all! While God taught me SO much when life crashed in on me, it crashed it harder than it may have had to because I was secretly convinced that nothing needed to change. I wish I would have been more open to the inevitable change so that I could have helped direct the reconstruction. Instead there are still a couple pieces out of place! What’s the modern beatitude? “Blessed is the flexible for they won’t be bent out of shape?” For good or bad, I’m not the person I was on December 25th of 2007. Sometimes I miss the old Anika. Our cores are the same though…the Anika I am and the Anika I was. Life changes. It’s gonna be okay.
3. It’s okay to have hard days. It’s okay to question. It’s okay to doubt. It’s okay to know one thing in your head but feel another one in your reality... It’s okay to know God is as near as my next breath and still scream into the darkness, asking Him to show up. I caught a lot of flak – especially early on – at my Christian Liberal Arts school where questions and doubts were a sign of spiritual weakness and a deteriorating relationship with God. REAL Christians ALWAYS had the joy of the Lord and NEVER were angry at God or enquiring or unsure… But they are. Real Christians are real humans – and as such have real feelings and real emotions that require real responses. I didn’t want to go through Christian-ese motions... I wanted my faith to be real – one that didn’t say “God is good!” because I should but because amidst life that wasn’t, I could search and find and know God’s goodness amidst the pain. I wanted to be to walk through hard stuff and come out on the other end knowing the God I serve is big enough to handle my questions, my doubts, my fight, my storm, and me... And somehow, through it all, God reveals Himself nearer than ever before…
4. The reality of cancer is hard to digest…especially for other people. Cancer has this awesome way of affecting absolutely everything. Health and identity and relationships. And when that effect is felt by those around you, some will rally. The others will flee. It used to bother me that so many “left”, that when I needed people the most (but couldn’t always articulate that need), I looked around to find previously occupied presences gone. The reality is…many just don’t know what to do. For reasons valid and not. There is a sense of guilt (they are healthy and you’re not); there is a fear and uncertainty around the idea and the future and the pieces; there is a realization that the role you played in their life has suddenly and drastically changed; there is a lack of knowledge of what to say or do or be, a helplessness… And so, they leave. Does knowing this mean it didn’t hurt? Not a bit. Do I think it was my job to help them grieve and cope? No. I couldn’t even if I had wanted to! Have I been the friend on the other side of hard stuff that wonders about the balance between presence and space, perceived need and actual need, their grief and my own? Yeah. It’s not easy. Things like cancer are hard. There are people who, to this day, take a step back when they learn I once had cancer. It’s not something everyone can handle. Cancer was hard for me to stomach. But it was hard for those who cared about me too…
5. If you want to be a good friend, be present and listen. Show up. Do things that don’t involve whatever painful thing is going on in her life (because life is already about it). But be willing to get in the trenches too (because there are times when she will be dying to talk about it and feel like no one wants to hear about it). Give her space when needed without getting offended. Learn the phrases “do you want to talk about it?” and “is this a time you want me to give advice and feedback or do you just want me to listen?” Don’t answer all the questions. Don’t tell her she has no reason to question or doubt. Tell her instead that God is big enough for questions and doubts. Ask what God is teaching amidst the storm. Help her look for joy. It’s not an easy job. I would like to think that cancer has helped me see with different eyes, hear past my ears, and love beyond platitudes. I’ve tried to be the friend I needed. I often fail. But I would rather fail than not have tried.
6. Not everyone gets the whole story. This is twofold…a “gets” in terms of reception and in terms of comprehension. It is ALWAYS a journey to decide how much people get to know about the truest pieces of you. There are times I overshared. There were times at the beginning when God was giving me glimpses of Him amidst the crazy and I would spill them to anyone who would listen. And there were times I didn’t want to share at all. At the beginning people would find out about “cancer” and would want to know…how I found out, how I was doing, how I was “feeling”. I hated that question: “How are you feeling?” I was attending classes fulltime. I kept my on-campus job. For many onlookers, I was any normal college sophomore/junior. When someone asked how I was feeling, it was almost always a polite way of making a surface level connection. When I responded in kind with a surface level, “tired but okay…good…making life happen…one day at a time…” it was almost always followed by a “well, I’ll be praying for you!” before turning and walking away. Most never asked beyond my “okay”. I became protective of my story to save it from the people who didn’t truly care. And so there were times – many over the last ten years – where people would find out I had cancer and a piece of me would scream on the inside, secretly pleading with the other to ask. Wishing they would be a safe place to tell my story. My story isn’t a secret. But not everyone needs it. Some I share with don’t get it. And they won’t. It’s okay. Sometimes God nudges me to share with someone I honestly think could care less. Sometimes I listen to that prod. Sometimes I share a little. Sometimes a lot. And over the years, some people have come to know the whole story. And they get it. And they get me. It’s an incredible gift.
7. "Cancer” is a deep layer and I am in charge of protecting the way others respond. While not everyone gets the whole story, it was still my reality. It has become a natural part of my story. For me, simply stating I had cancer is like saying I also had a dog – who died. Is it a little sad? Sure. Is that declaration deep? Not for me. For me, that’s a pretty surface level disclosure. For others, simply saying “I” and “cancer” in the same sentences sounds like I’m bearing my soul. They aren’t ready to respond to perceived deep layer with one of their own. (It’s the onion principle of mutual communication). Sometimes I hold off on sharing cancer because I don’t want to scare people away. Sometimes I guard the truth to protect others. When I worked at camp or in the schools and kids would ask me about my scar, I would tell them about the thyroid and how important it is and let them know mine was “really sick”. Because a word like cancer is scary. And not every person is in a place to emotionally handle the baggage attached with it. Some say it’s not my job. But cancer isn’t just about me…
8. In the midst of storms, always look for reasons to laugh. Cancer can be funny! Do you get to make fun of cancer? Not without an “in” (aka: a relationship with someone with cancer who participates in the humor and says it’s okay). Could I? Yes. But only of my own (unless given an in with another individual). And under those parameters, it’s not only okay but even healthy. One of the greatest balms to my soul early on came in the friends who would joke about cancer and my scar and the ridiculousness of things with me. I wasn’t dying! Let’s laugh about being radioactive and the “cancer card” and pity puppy eyes. I had a resident in my building during my senior year of college with a prosthetic. The two of us could laugh until our sides hurt exchanging the stories we’d encountered, experienced, and (upon occasion) provoked. I was most okay with cancer when I could laugh about it…
9. The un-surrendered life isn’t worth living. Henry Nouwen tells the story of a women who was committed to a facility for the sake of her mental health. For her safety she had to be stripped of everything in her possession. In the end, she clutched something in her hand so tightly her nails dug into the flesh of her palm. Hours later when, finally, they managed to loosen her grip, there was single coin. Of almost no value. Nouwen talks of how we do this with God. How we hold onto things which have no value and it keeps us from opening our hands to the One who wishes to fill them. Ultimate surrender asks us to hold everything we hold dear in open hands and let go that we may take hold. Hold of the hand of the One who already holds our hopes and dreams, hurts and fears. Surrender, is ultimately about trust. It’s terrifying. But it’s worth it…
10. God is Faithful. When people ask me what cancer taught me, I respond with three words: God is faithful. It’s one of those phrases that explains everything and yet I can’t explain it. All I know is that God is faithful. That it is He who sustains. It is He who guides. It is He who exists as the purpose amidst something without. God is faithful. When the rest of the world slips away, He is constant. God is good. God is present. And His faithfulness gives way to hope. “Yet this I call to mind and so I have hope: Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning. Great is Your faithfulness!” (Lam 3)
10 years later and still I am
here. And by the grace of God, go
I.
One Year and A Lifetime Ago - AK 2008
One Year and A Lifetime Ago - AK 2008
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