10 Years a Survivor

Ten years ago today, I received a call that changed my life forever. It wasn’t exactly unexpected, I’d had my suspicions, but waiting for that call had me anxious like I’d never been to that point in my life. That day, that afternoon, with my close friend over for what she thought was a regular catch-up visit but was in fact a ‘just in case I need her support’ visit instead, while my ten-month old baby played in the room, I picked up the call I’d been waiting for and received the answer I’d been expecting. I had cancer.

If you want to know more about my cancer story, you can read about it here. But this post isn’t about that. It’s about survivorship. So what does ten years of survivorship look like? Well, let me tell you.

The last few years, I barely registered the date as it came and went, and isn’t that amazing? But this year, at the ten-year mark, I can’t stop myself from remembering what the last ten years have looked like. Sure, it looked like six grueling rounds of chemo that stole much of my energy, vitality, hair, and weight, that left me so sick I couldn’t get out of bed. It looked like a 75% survival rate for living the next 5 years. It looked like my panic-driven husband racing me to the ER when he kissed me goodbye as he left for work one morning only to notice I was burning up, lethargic and mostly unresponsive. We are forever grateful he was scheduled to work that weekend, otherwise, I fear what might have happened if he’d had time to sleep in that morning. And yes, it looked like ugly scars, multiple surgeries, a rejected implant, and tan lines from radiation that only became unnoticeable a couple years ago. It looked like seven long years of hormone repression therapy drugs that pushed me into a medical menopause and left me with life-long side effects. But that’s the fight. That’s what the fight looked like for me.

Survivorship isn’t just about the fight, it’s about the win. So, what has winning looked like these last ten years after diagnosis? It looks like crocheting in the chemo room and surprising the nurses with my progress each visit and working on my baby’s first birthday party decorations. It looks like taking then four-year old Mr. A to his first day of preschool, his first field trip, volunteering in his first classroom and answering questions about my lack of hair with things like, well, I didn’t eat my vegetables. It looks like Mr. A playing doctor and making up games we could play together while I was bed-bound. It looks like ten-month old Mr. J pulling the hat off my bald head in a game of fun or him again at one and a half telling me I needed a hair cut when my hair started to grow back out longer than he was used to. It looks like a sassy t-shirt that reads “Heck yes, they’re fake, the real ones tried to kill me” that makes my uncle laugh and shake his head. It looks like birthday parties, visits from out of town family and friends, and family vacations. It looks like people showing up in unexpected ways. It looks like a f*ck cancer trip with HBW Hubby to England. It looks like camping trips and long hikes my kids complain about. It looks like watching movies snuggled up next to my love on the couch. It looks like potty training a puppy who then follows me everywhere, even to the bathroom. It looks like funerals and weddings and a new niece. It looks like cheering loud at soccer games, track meets, basketball games and cross country meets. It looks like helping Mr. A through his first relationship and breakup. It looks like watching my kids grow into these amazing humans and recognizing how blessed I am to get to see it.

The last ten years have been a rollercoaster of emotions and experiences, and this war has most certainly left me and my loved ones with scars both physical and emotional. But as I sit here writing this post, I find my eyes tearing up with immense gratitude for this life I get to live. This life is beautiful, even when it’s hard, and it’s always worth the fight. So keep fighting, friends, find the good and be the good, live out every messy, beautiful moment in vivid technicolor. When I sign off posts telling you to live la belle vie, that’s what I am referring to. Do it for those who can’t. Do it for those who lost. Do it for the people you don’t even know are fighting–no matter what they’re fighting.

In a world that can be so bleak, get out there and live la belle vie. Embrace this life, it’s the only one you’ve got.

PS: If you or someone you know is battling breast cancer and would like to get the full details on my experience, I kept an online journal. I used it as a way to keep friends and family informed and to help others who may be going through the same thing.  The first post can be found here. If it can help even one person, it’s worth it.

PPS: If you want to support others battling cancer by crocheting hats, be sure to check out the hats and beanies here on the blog, particularly those I’ve designed as part of the Crochet Cancer Challenge the last several years. If you purchase the PDF pattern of one of the Crochet Cancer Challenge hats, 50% of the sales go to the American Cancer Society to directly support patients and research.

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