I couldn’t find the best version of myself last week. I couldn’t shake any of the emotions. I could name the feelings of worry, fear, pain, irritation, frustration, but I couldn’t rise above them. I tried all of the tricks. I exercised. I stretched. I meditated. I read. I wrote. I made lists. I organized. I cleaned. I prepped. One evening, I even listened to Gerry Rafferty’s “Baker Street” on repeat. Don’t ask me why, but random lines had been stuck in my head all day, so I played it on repeat in hopes of shaking the emotions. It worked, yet only temporarily. It didn’t matter that every night I went to bed telling myself to get up and try it again tomorrow, to get up and try it differently and do it better. The tomorrow would come and with it all the emotions remained. It was like a week of bad weather, only all in my head.

It was also my first week physically back to work as a special educator in a public school system, since the closure in March of 2020. It was a swampy, humid week weather wise. But as I sat in my classroom and logged into virtual meetings, what was thicker in the air was my worry. How was I supposed to do my job? How would I stay safe? How would my students be safe? How would I help them to make academic progress? As a special educator, I would be responsible for both hybrid students and remote students, simultaneously. How would I make that work?

I moved through my virtual trainings. I sat in virtual meetings. I sat in physical meetings. I sometimes provided comments. I listened to others. I read the chats. All the while, I tried to calm the chatter in my head, tried to sort out the emotions. But although there was nothing on my desk other than my computer and my planner, there was so much clutter in my mind, I could barely think. In conversations with other teachers, they would share the same thing. We were united in our concerns. Where do we start? What do we even need? How will this work in reality? What is [that] going to look like? What is [that] going to look like if XYZ changes? And it was reassuring that I wasn’t alone in my concerns, but even that didn’t quell the emotions. 

I just couldn’t be my best self. I couldn’t find my best self. I should also acknowledge that my daily dose of Tamoxifen, to suppress cancer recurrence, was having a field day with my hormones, contributing to the overwhelming degree of emotions. But all the same, I just wasn’t who I wanted to be, despite my best efforts.

At the beginning of the week, I was asked to share my favorite inspirational quote, which is Churchill’s “If you are going through hell, keep going.” I must have repeated that quote to myself a million times throughout the week. I spent each day just putting one foot in front of the other and trying (yet not completely succeeding) to make sure that foot didn’t end up in my mouth. I was in a constant battle with myself to be present and productive. I just tried to keep going in hopes that this hell of an emotional overload would pass.

Unexpectedly, one day I found myself tearing up while in a virtual department meeting. It was the oddest thing. I was sitting there scribbling notes, trying to keep track of all the expectations and timelines for special education teachers, and out of the blue, just found myself crying. Not the ugly sob, not out of control, just tears. Unexpected tears puddling in my eyes. And I would be remiss to say that those puddles didn’t occur multiple times after that throughout the week.

The end of the week brought with it a celebration with colleagues and the start of a trip to Cape Cod planned for Labor Day weekend, both of which were helping to ease the surge of emotions. On the drive down to the Cape, a friend/former colleague and I caught up via text messaging. Her worries about the year were identical to mine, but what I heard in her message was that “can do” attitude that I’ve always admired about her . . . and which I had been trying to summon all week, but couldn’t filter out of the emotional worry.  

Slowly, over the weekend, I felt the emotions begin to lift. The new environment, and conversations, provided time for me to process the week’s events and expectations. The “can do” message from my friend seemed to echo along with the waves. And moments for breath and reflection seemed to allow the emotions to finally pass. 

In those moments of reflection, I realized that Friday, September 4th had marked one year since my last infusion and Monday, September 7th marked two years since my bilateral mastectomy with reconstruction. It had been a full year since treatment ended and two years since [most of] the cancer was removed. 

Two years! And in the emotional chaos of the week, it almost slipped by me. Two years ago, I certainly couldn’t have predicted where I’d be now- rethinking how to be a public school special educator amidst a worldwide pandemic. But I also couldn’t have ever predicted that I’d have battled cancer or that I’d call myself a cancer survivor.

It’s amazing what we can do when we look at it right.

I stepped over a dead worm on my morning walk the other day. It was about halfway across the paved part of the path. I don’t know if it had been washed onto the path by rain or if, as my son’s hockey coach likes to say, it took a gamble and lost. I don’t know. I do know that Madonna’s “Open Your Heart” was playing on Pandora and I also know that I almost stopped dead in my own tracks when, after stepping over the worm, I caught myself thinking, “Death is just everywhere right now.” 

I mean, it was a worm. And, I know, I know, all creatures big and small. But still. It was a worm. 

It was a powerful thought, though. A powerful realization. And not one in the depressing, doom and gloom, we’re all going to die way. But one more existential in nature. In these COVID-19 times, death and its possibility hover so thickly, yet transparently, in the air.

That same morning I had literally woken up to a COVID-19 death toll broadcasted from the radio station on my alarm clock. 

The day before, multiple friends on social media had posted about the deaths of loved ones due to COVID-19.

On that walk, I was intermittently removing and replacing my mask, because I just didn’t know where COVID-19 was lurking and if it would or would not kill me. Or the person I passed along the path.

We are living in a period of time surrounded by the threat and the reality and the likelihood of death. We have completely (and appropriately) upended our entire way of life to fight this death causing disease. We have quarantined and new-routined. We have adapted to socializing and working through screens. And we are right and smart and educated to have done so. But in the process of stopping death by disease, we have also had to let die all of the many celebrations, experiences, opportunities, businesses, dreams, milestones, and so many other joys of human and social existence.

There was a feeling of loss, much like grief, as my 10-year-old shed tears over missing all of his fourth grade graduation celebrations.

There was a mournful conversation with my 12-year-old as he learned that not only was his week-long, overnight, rite-of-passage-as-a-sixth-grader, school trip cancelled for the year, but his first ever overnight camp experience that summer would be cancelled too.

There is a grief that surfaces when you look at calendars and see all that was cancelled, or never finished, or didn’t have the chance to develop.

There is deep sadness, worry, fear, and concern as businesses face economic death and families face the death of independence in paying bills and putting food on the table.

The human experience is facing so much death in order to maintain life. How will it survive?

“Fortunate Son” by CCR began playing a few songs later on my walk [I know, bizarre Pandora shuffle]. My mind moved away from the worm and began to recall a character, a mother, from Hildebrand’s “Summer of ‘69.” In the story, the fictional mother, whose son had been drafted and was in active duty, would watch the news each night to receive the Vietnam death toll and latch on to any hope of learning about the welfare of her son. My own father did not see active duty during Vietnam, but was stationed overseas. I began thinking about how my grandmother, similar in age then as I am now, and her friends parented during war. I began thinking of how then, too, death was everywhere. The evening news death tolls. The knock on the door death announcement. The death of children, siblings, relatives, friends, partners, dreams. 

When I returned to my house that morning, I hung my mask on its hook by the front door. In doing so, I saw the clock hanging nearby that had once been in the office of my grandfather’s factory. The clock doesn’t match my decor and has never worked since the day my grandmother passed it down to me, but it reminds me of my grandfather who is now almost eleven years deceased and so I keep it hanging. I stopped for a moment in front of the clock and was reminded of his time in service during WWII. He was a Purple Heart recipient and had fought in the Battle of the Bulge. He had told me once, or many times, as grandfathers do, of coming face to face with the enemy and, in that moment, realizing that he was just another young man, a boy really, like him. He was human, like him. But it was war and war meant surviving death. His generation had also lived, as did those before him, during a time when death was everywhere.

I moved about my morning. I showered and got ready for work. I ate breakfast and while drinking my tea, scrolled through photos in search of one for a particular project I was working on. In doing so, I came across an image I had seen on someone’s FB page during those months not immediately following treatment, but a little further out. Those were tough months, maybe tougher than I had even wanted to admit to myself. Those were months of wanting normalcy again, not wanting to wait to resume activities, not wanting to have to cancel plans, not wanting to live with fear of sickness, not wanting to be faced with limitations. 

You can see, I’m sure, the parallels to what we are living with today?

Managing cancer, like managing this COVID-19, required that the idea of death be faced and confronted. It also required many sacrifices, and losses, in order to prevent death and maintain life. It required one, like COVID-19 requires now, to recognize challenges as opportunities and to develop a true belief in one’s ability to do hard things.

The quote said, “You have been assigned this mountain to show others it can be moved.”*

We, as humans, have lived in times of death before. We have lived in times that some, possibly many, would say are much worse than now. Generations before us have lived through, and with, and in spite of great loss and death and deprivation. We have each battled our own wars and faced our own various versions of death. And we have each had our own mountains to climb and to move.

And how we survive this experience, or how we move that mountain, all greatly depends on how we look at it, look back on it, and look forward.

*Quote credit given to inspirationalquotesmagazine.com

Z didn’t move throughout my entire pregnancy. I had more non-stress tests and ultrasounds than anyone I knew. I would show up for NSTs having eaten something. Then, I’d be given a cup of cranberry juice. Then a popsicle. Then ice water. Then two-year-old B, who often had to come with me because I was visiting the office so often, would be given a popsicle. And then he would start moving. But Z, in the womb, stayed still. He was always healthy. He just didn’t move. And my providers, I could tell, thought there was something wrong with me for not being able to understand if I felt my baby moving. And then they’d watch him (or her, at the time) on the NST or ultrasound and see that he just did not move. The tests always showed that he was thriving and he was healthy. He just didn’t move.

I was a week past my due date when we decided to induce Z. I arrived at the hospital at seven o’clock in the morning. We started the induction and I labored the entire day. And every hour, regardless of the contractions, I was wrapped in a belt so that we could complete another NST because, even in labor, Z just didn’t move. It became laughable because he continued to be healthy, but he just didn’t move.

And then, he did decide to make his move. Dave remembers my ob-gyn almost not being ready, with the gloves, because he was so quickly descending. Z arrived at 6:01 pm. Healthy, heavy, and alert [and surprisingly, smelling like corn flakes]. He was put in my arms and he latched and we were cleaned and all the normal expected events happened. We were elated.

A few days later, we returned home, and began adjusting. We learned how to be a family of four and parents to two. And we’d laugh because we realized as we watched him sleep that he didn’t move. He would wake from his rest in the same position we left him.

When Z was a few weeks old, I got a terrible head cold. We had been planning to head up to New Hampshire to visit my parents for the weekend and Dave and some family members were going to do some work on my parents’ house. We decided it would be best that I stay home with Z and rest. Dave and B would head to New Hampshire.

I spent that day in bed sleeping and nursing both my cold and Z. I would move Z from the bassinet to my bed and back again. At some point along the way, after nursing, I lowered him into the crook of my right arm while I lay on my back. I cannot now remember the exact arrangement of blankets and pillows, but I remember checking for safety and then looking down at him, my precious baby, and realizing just how perfectly he fit in that position and, of course, how as he slept peacefully, he didn’t move.

As a family, we never co-slept. Both B and Z used the bassinet, then the crib, and then their beds. But while I nursed Z, there would be times when he’d land in that crook of my arm and stay [unmoving] for the night. And then, as a toddler, he’d sometimes be there to cuddle. And then, as a preschooler, he might get up on a Saturday morning and climb right into that crook of my arm. And then, as he got older, it became a special thing and we began to call it cuddles. We’d laugh with B when he joined us because, try as he might, he just couldn’t lay still and cuddle in the same way as Z. Sometimes, before Z fell asleep at night, he’d ask for cuddles and crawl into the crook of my arm. Sometimes, on the weekend, I’d hear him get up to use the bathroom in the morning and I’d call out, “Cuddles!” and he’d come running and snuggle into the crook of my arm. And it didn’t seem to matter how old he got, or how much he grew, or when he lost his baby chubbiness [Oh my gosh, he was so chubby! We used to have to clean out his rolls!], or when he developed muscle, or when his personality matured, or when his hair grew. When it was time for cuddles, he would crawl into my bed and into the crook of my right arm, and he would still fit, just as he did that very first time as a baby. His snuggly little body would go still and we would just lay there, comfortably, cuddling.

It was just the oddest, yet most amazing, thing to me that regardless of how he grew, he never seemed to outgrow this position. And as he grew, and the cuddles sometimes took a hiatus due to our busy schedules, when we did have time to cuddle, I’d find myself beginning to wonder if at some point soon, he wouldn’t fit.

And then there was cancer and the bilateral mastectomy with reconstruction.

Two weeks after my surgery, I was given the all-clear to drive. [Although, I think “all-clear” might not have taken into account my true, limited mobility! I’ll never criticize slow, or elderly, drivers again!] The timing was convenient because the all-clear was declared on a Friday and that weekend, Dave and B were heading on a cub scout camping trip. As overwhelming as it felt to be the sole adult in the household for the weekend, we all knew that some Mommy and Z time was exactly what was needed. Eight-year-old Z planned a weekend that included painting pottery, breakfast at our favorite restaurant, mac-n-cheese and hot dogs for dinner, and lots of cuddle time. What we didn’t plan on was him getting strep.

Well, strep throat being diagnosed for a child in urgent care at 8 o’clock at night is hard enough to balance. Add in the fact that the child was supposed to be goalie at an 8am-ish game the next day and was in possession of the team’s only set of goalie gear. Add in the fact that the father, who held the hockey scheduling hat and contacts in the household, was camping and intermittently available by cell. Oh, and add in the fact that the mother was two weeks post-mastectomy, three weeks pre-chemo, and really couldn’t effectively turn a car or lift anything. 

That evening was one of those nights that helped solidify that cancer, every little piece of it, could either make me or break me. I could choose to cry tears of frustration or cry tears of laughter at the irony of it all. So, I chose laughter. And strength. We got Z his medicine. The hockey equipment got delivered [Although, I’m remembering now that I never apologized to that family for driving over a portion of their lawn when backing up without full mobility!]. Dave, and therefore B, was able to stay on his camping trip. And I learned how to call out for help and my parents arrived the next morning ready and willing to clean and help take care.

I invited Z into my bed that night for some cuddles before heading to his own bed. It was the first time we’d cuddled since my surgery and as he assumed the position, I was struck with the devastating blow that he no longer “fit.” I couldn’t stretch my arm the way I used to, my body was still healing and in pain, and, honestly, my implants landed differently against my body. He moved around and with pillows we found a happy medium, but I was absolutely crushed. Of all the ways I had planned for the day when he would no longer “fit,” I had never suspected it would be due to cancer.

Zach was thrown off by this, as well as the events of the day, and his tears, as well as all of his fears, came out that night, as they needed to for an eight year old. Our special weekend had been taken over by sickness. I had cancer. He had been afraid when I was away in the hospital. He was worried he would be scared of me when I lost my hair. He was hurting me when we snuggled. And, that which brought on the heaviest sobs, was that he was so sad because when I was in the hospital, he, B, and Dave had gone to “a really fun restaurant and you missed it. It was just so fun, Mom, and I felt so bad having fun.”  

There is always power in giving words to fears. We let the tears come. We discussed and named all the ways that cancer was scary, but that I would be okay and that we were lucky. We decided, then and there, together, that I would purchase the Paxman cap and attempt to freeze, and therefore save, my hair [I had been so amazed by the science of it, too]. We planned to go to the same restaurant as a family in the future. We recalled the fun parts of visiting in the hospital. And we adjusted our bodies and cuddled. In a new way. 

Z’s strep cleared up a few days later. As I moved further away from treatment, my mobility increased, yet my pain remained. My port was installed. Chemo and immunotherapy began. Treatment ended. And eventually immunotherapy ended. And finally the port was removed. And, slowly, the pain changed, yet it didn’t disappear. Cuddles continued throughout all this and as much as I truly wanted to believe that time could heal all wounds, Z just did not fit the way he used to. It was so challenging to make peace with this fact, to accept that cancer, not his own maturity or physical development, had done this. Cancer had taken this from me. 

But it hadn’t taken me, right? And it had always been about how I looked at this, right? I was still here and he was still cuddling with me. It took a lot of mental work, but I accepted that it was enough.

And then the Covid-19 pandemic came along and, while this very serious disease is harmfully impacting so many, [There is also another post in the making of what type of mind-game, cancer treatment deja-vu this whole situation is causing for me] this pandemic has also given our family a much needed opportunity to slow down and be together. And to have time for cuddles. And it was just this past weekend, days before Z’s tenth birthday, while we were lazily cuddling together in my bed, discussing that he wants to get a haircut like James Lynch of The Dropkick Murphys [What the what?!?] that I realized that he fits. Again.

I don’t know when. I don’t know how. But at some point along the way, in the busyness of it all, my body healed. 

I worry sometimes that Z is the new millenium’s Ferris Bueller. But there is truth in the idea that, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around [at it right] once in a while, you could miss it.”

Happy tenth birthday, Z. 

Post under construction. Check back again.

Post under construction. Check back again.

I’ve always loved celebrating my birthdays. Looking back on my childhood, I have fond memories of birthday parties and sleepovers, decorations and party themes. My father always had work conferences, which we attended as a family, at the time of my birthday, and so hotel stays, indoor swimming pools, and all the other fun that comes with weekend getaways are also always present in my memory when my birthday comes around. In my teenage, college, and young adult years, birthdays always brought about a reason to, ahem, “celebrate.” I can only smile as I reflect back on the number of birthday shenanigans over the years.  And it doesn’t seem to matter how old I get, when my birthday comes around, all of those memories are there with me as I blow out the candles.

As a parent, up until a few years ago, my husband and I always used my birthday as a “shopping weekend” to get prepared for the upcoming holiday season. Our kids would stay with my parents for the weekend and he and I would attack the holiday shopping. Sometimes, we chose to shop out of town and incorporated a hotel stay into the weekend. Sometimes, we included projects around the house in our plans. Regardless, we had an opportunity to spend time together, get our holiday shopping organized, and take a break from the role of parenting. We also usually managed to avoid any form of cooking and included a nightly cocktail (or two!) throughout the entire weekend.

So, for as long as I can remember, there’s always been a bit of giddiness that takes over when I begin seeing my birthday approaching on the calendar. It has always had so little to do with the actual “Woo-Hoo! It’s my day!” and so much more to do with the memories and the traditions of the day. [And for some of you who may be reading this, it also absolutely always has to do with the frosting.]

Two years ago, for the weekend of my 40th birthday, my husband and I decided to skip the shopping retreat and spent the weekend in NYC, a place we’d both dipped our toes in a few times before, but had never really taken the opportunity to explore. There are so many precious birthday memories in my life. I will never forget, however, sitting across from Dave in a bar outside of Times Square, sipping a Moscow Mule and eating creme brulee, and watching the clock turn to midnight on the 40th year of my life. Dave snapped a picture of me at that moment which I always felt captured every elated emotion I was feeling.

I had decided for myself that 40 was going to be the start of a second chapter. In the same way I looked forward to New Year’s Eve each year as an opportunity to reflect and start again, I was looking at 40 as not just another year, but a new year. I’d already made some recent changes in my professional life. I’d had my eyes on starting a doctoral program. I wanted to pursue my love of writing. We’d begun plans to put a second floor onto our house. We were also down and out in the craziness of parenting an eight and ten year old and I was committed to figuring out how to make it all run smoother, to make more opportunities to enjoy the ride, rather than just hang on. I was so excited for what I planned for that year to bring.

I now look back at that 40th birthday picture with a sense of melancholy. I see all the joy in my eyes. I see all of the potential and plans. Sometimes, I just look at that picture and say to myself, “If you only knew what was coming, what was most likely already growing.” Other times, especially as I move further away from treatment and recovery, I look at that picture and say, “It’s still you. You’re still that person. You just took a bit of a detour.” 

My birthdays, though, just don’t spark the same joy. Last year, as I turned 41 and was in the middle of treatment, I saw the day coming and was just angry. I was so sick and miserable and sore, and all of the other “ughs” associated with treatment and the mastectomy, but I was also so, I don’t know, just mad that all of those plans for age 40 were wiped away. I was disappointed in myself. I’d set goals and achieved none. Yeah, yeah, I was conquering cancer, battling the breasts, finding my strength in the face of the storm. I knew all that and I was proud of that. But I wasn’t enrolled in a new doctoral program. There sure as hell wasn’t a new roof over my head. There were all these “other” things I had done with age 40, but none that I had wanted to.

I’d wanted to bury my head in the sand and let the day come and go. There would be no weekend getaway, no party, not hoopla. Three of my oldest and dearest friends, though, said no way to that. They came from far away to take me out for that birthday. They brought their spirits, their stories, their gifts all piled into an overflowing basket. They are three of the most confident, and competent, women I know. I remember feeling so low going into that night. I will always remember how they [and everyone’s wishes that year] held me up.

Many of the wounds from treatment and recovery have healed since last year. There are lingering limitations, aches, and annoyances. But time really has, as they always say it does, healed many of my wounds. I didn’t realize, though, that there was a gaping birthday wound still needing my attention.

As the date approached this year, I had expected to be all “Yahoo! Look where I was last year at this time! Look where I am now!” I had considered organizing a party or hosting some sort of “thank you” celebration for all of the support I’d received over the year. I had considered going away. I hadn’t expected, however, wanting to wish the day away.

I hadn’t expected to be haunted by all that had happened since that glorious 40th birthday. I hadn’t expected such an emotional response to the day approaching or appearing. I hadn’t expected to have, on repeat, the thought running through my head, “If you’d just never turned 40, you would’ve never had that mammogram.” Somehow, everything about turning 42 was turning into about having cancer. It was so irrational . . . and irritating. The cancer was going to be there regardless of my age. Avoiding the mammogram would not have avoided cancer.  But still, I just couldn’t get it out of my head, if I just hadn’t had that birthday, I wouldn’t have had cancer. It just wouldn’t have all changed.

And then the actual birthday day and day after arrived and they were those non-stop-how-many-things-can-we-squeeze-into-48-hours days. My sons and husband squeezed in time to present kind cards and wishes. Family and friends sent wishes by phone, text, email, and social media. My students enjoyed the “gifts” I presented to them. My new colleagues, upon learning about my birthday, surprised me with a cake and song the day after. Yet, all the while, I caught myself on the verge of tears. This birthday meant it had been two years since turning 40, 16 months since the diagnosis, 15 months since the lumpectomy, 14 months since the mastectomy, 11 months since the end of chemo, 7 months since starting Tamoxifen, 2 months since the end of immunotherapy, 2 ½ weeks since the port was removed. It was all so irrational and pervasive and emotional and raw.  

After work on the day after my birthday, I had my first follow-up with my oncologist since my immunotherapy ended. My emotions were still running high and I could feel the tears just below my eyelids as I pulled into the parking lot. I swallowed them down as I walked to the entrance and passed by a person leaving treatment. We smiled at each other with understanding and it reminded me how, a year ago, that was me walking out of the door. It reminded me of what I had been through, excuse me, what I had accomplished, over the course of the year. It reminded me of where I was on this journey. It reminded me of who I am and what I am capable of. It reminded me of how much I have to be thankful for, of how many dreams I have in front of me to achieve. It reminded me of how wonderful it is to celebrate being alive. And then the damn tears were pushing on my eyelids for another reason.

If you look at it right.

I’ve hated my port (portacath) since the day I received it. I didn’t quite understand what it was. I wasn’t quite prepared for needing it. The insertion was painful. Different members of my medical team expressed concerns about how it had been placed, causing me to worry about it. And it was painful to the touch or accidental bump every single day of me having it. I would wake up in pain from it. The tube/wire thing that went up into my neck would sometimes get stiff and irritate me. Certain clothes would rub on it the wrong way.  I couldn’t sleep on my right side and bend my neck to the right without putting pressure on it. My port was the most consistently miserable part of this whole experience.

It also made every single chemotherapy infusion, immunotherapy infusion, and blood draw easier and less taxing on my body.  And for that, I am so thankful for my port.

And that’s how cancer works. You hate everything about what cancer treatment does to you, but you are so thankful for the treatment because it cures your cancer.  You hate everything about the mastectomy and how it forever changes your body, but you are so thankful that the tumor and its surrounding tissue can no longer grow in that area of your body. You hate everything about the cancer diagnosis, but you are so thankful that it was diagnosed and discovered. You hate all the things that cancer took away from you, but you are so thankful for all the amazing support your received and friendships you gained.

Today, I had my port removed.  My last treatment had been at the start of September and I could have had it removed any time after that.  I had just started a new school year, so being out of school was going to be a challenge and having to heal from something while needing to be on my A game was not in the books.  And then I just got so busy with all of the start of the school year, start of hockey, start of every extra curricular activity, that finding time to pause, have the removal procedure, and heal from it, seemed impossible.

But, today, November 1st, was the day. And, now I sit here in as much pain as the day it was inserted, with a huge swollen gash on my chest, still semi-loopy from the sedation medications, and I’m realizing that my delay in having the port removed did not have nearly as much to do with my schedule as I thought it had. Instead, it had everything to do with closure to this cancer chapter . . . and my real, deep-rooted, didn’t even know it was there, fear about that.

I expected my port removal day to be one of high spirits. I talked it up with friends and colleagues as “the final step!” I’d look in the mirror and imagine what it would be like to have it gone. I expected mental celebration. I expected relief.

Instead, I got fear. Fear about the cancer coming back. Fear about a different cancer developing. Fear about having to go through this all again. Fear about that port having to be put back in. Fear that this is all a mistake and I actually need more treatment.

And then, there is this other type of fear, that is surprising me the most . . . fear of who I am without cancer.  It’s really hitting me, hard, how I spent so much time coming to terms with cancer, managing cancer, staying positive about cancer, and really trying to accept cancer, that I now almost need to put the same energy into moving away from cancer. I don’t have to have a port. I don’t have to go to treatment. I don’t have to be on any restrictions. I don’t have to be a cancer patient anymore. I guess it is similar to when you are no longer pregnant or you are no longer a new parent or you are no longer planning a wedding or you are no longer a recent divorcee, you are now just you and you had that experience. 

And what an experience it was. And, clearly, continues to be. 

Tonight, I’ll go to bed having named the fear and therefore be able to move on. I’ll look at the enlarged, painful incision and remind myself that my body has healed before and it will heal again. That this, too, shall pass. I’ll remind myself that someday, in the future, I’ll run my hand over the scar without thinking and I’ll remember this time. I’ll remind myself that at some point, this will just be a memory.

I’ll remind myself to look at it right.

I had expected an onslaught of emotions when I hit the one year anniversary of my diagnosis.  I watched the Juy dates approaching on the calendar with caution. I kept them in the back of my head when making plans, unsure of what I’d be like when the days arrived. Time moved forward, as it does, and the days both came and passed. It was satisfyingly anticlimatic. It became just another set of days.

I then began seeing the anniversary of my lumpectomy pop up on the calendar and wondered how that day would feel. Happily, I moved through that day in the bliss of travel to spend the weekend with my high school crew on a lake in upstate New York. Other than the ever-present irritation of a seatbelt across my chest, thoughts of the lumpectomy were far from my mind.

And so, it seemed, as the summer wound down, that I was making it through the “anniversaries” much easier, and with much less hype, than I had imagined and planned for. I began to see that, just as I had approached cancer and treatment as something I just needed to move through, these dates were just another thing to recognize and then move along from. The present was happening. The past had already, well, passed.

So, the emotional response, when I arrived at our annual Labor Day weekend camping spot, kind of snuck up on me.  I hadn’t been ready for it and I certainly wasn’t prepared for it. We had barely driven through the gates, after a very, beyond busy, start of the school year, when all of a sudden I realized that not only was I days away from my very last treatment, but I was about to hit the anniversary of my mastectomy.  As we drove down the road to the campsite, I recalled how, as we left this same road last year, I had been preparing for surgery and treatment. I remembered actually looking at the campsite as we drove away and thinking how it would all be different the next year. As we set up camp, I couldn’t escape the recollection of the emotions I had been managing last year while sitting under the willow trees in our tranquil site.  And as I sat there in front of the fire, all of the emotions that I had been expecting, planning for, waiting for all summer, really, in relation to these “anniversaries” came to the surface. 

A whole year later.

It almost doesn’t seem possible that this day, this time, has actually passed.  When thinking about this anniversary, I had expected to feel sadness for what had been lost, exhaustion from what had been endured, stress from what had been experienced.  It’s almost silly, now that I’m in the moment, that I didn’t plan to expect the relief that it’s almost over, the awe in what I managed in my life while going through treatment, the accomplishment of, perhaps, one of the most challenging things in my entire life.

I am days away from a year post-mastectomy and the end of treatment for breast cancer.  I’m here in my beautiful campsite planning out my teaching year instead of planning out my recovery.  I’m researching my next new car instead of cancer treatment options. I’m continuing to move forward and time is right there beside me, doing the same.

And I’m staring at that campfire glow and looking at it just right.

My family made our annual trip to Mt. Desert Island, and Acadia National Park, in Maine this summer.  Due to my husband’s work schedule, and then my diagnosis, we had not been able to get up there in the summer of 2018.  So, for our 2019 trip, we figured out how to spend two weeks on the island, with our kids going to an amazing day camp for the first week and while my husband and I had an opportunity to spend that week together as a belated 15th wedding anniversary celebration. We then had the second week together to do all of our usual vacation activities.

Shortly after my diagnosis last year, a friend had posted pictures of himself and his sons climbing “The Precipice Trail” in Acadia National Park. This is a very steep climb that actually requires one to climb up rungs on the side of a cliff at one point along the trail. I had always been interested in what the trail might be like to climb, but had never been overly committed to wanting to hike it. However, something about seeing that post last year motivated me to want to complete the hike. I set it as a goal for myself to get through my surgeries and my treatment and return to Acadia in the summer of 2019 to hike The Precipice. I kept my eyes on that prize throughout the year and as our trip drew closer, my desire to hike the trail grew stronger.

So, there was a lot of disappointment when we discovered on the third day of our trip that the trail was closed due to falcon nesting season (which would end the week after we left). Of course, there were other trails that we could hike, some of equal or greater challenge, but the disappointment came because it had been “The Precipice” that I had been aiming for all year. 

We did other hikes, though, and planned other activities and we visited our usual “spots” on the island. Mt. Desert Island has always had many healing qualities for me. I can name so many different mountain tops, or vistas, or roads, or little hideaway areas that have given me time to pause, to reflect, and to recharge over the years. I’ve contemplated, and solved, so many challenging work or professional dilemmas, personal goals, etc while traveling around this island. Even without The Precipice on my agenda, I could already feel the healing that was happening just from our daily activities.

One morning, we were looking at a trail map and discovered a carriage trail that could be biked all the way up a mountain. The elevation and the distance wasn’t anything crazy, but still there was something inviting about the idea of biking up a mountain . . . and then riding down. So, my husband and I packed up our bikes, after dropping the kids at camp, and headed to the Day Mountain trail. In hindsight, we probably should have checked the weather, as the day we chose was the only overly hot and humid day of our two week trip, but, ahh, details.

One of my biggest sources of frustration since my mastectomy, and then chemo, is that I just cannot get my strength and stamina back. I can’t maintain a regular, even very easy, exercise routine without becoming overly fatigued. I also can’t figure out how to manage the physical pain in my chest that comes with regular exercise. I’ve worked with physical therapists. I’ve tried managing diet and hydration.  I just can’t seem to get back to where I was before my surgery and treatment. I’ve currently set a plan with my doctors to give it until January of 2020, a full year after chemo, 3 months after immunotherapy, to try to figure out what is truly limiting me from getting back to my pre-cancer self.

The lack of stamina caught up to me quickly as we started our bike trip and there were hills along the carriage trails that I encountered, way before getting to the actual mountain, that had me doubting if I had the strength to continue.  When we arrived at the base of the mountain trail, we gave pause and really thought hard about turning back. I’d already experienced tears of frustration and was having words about how sick and tired I was of being sick and tired. 

But . . . turning back? After everything I’d already moved through? Turning back without even making the attempt?  It just made me feel like a failure. And, already, I had begun to see that this mountain was becoming my new precipice.

We decided to at least give it a try. We kept pace with each other for the first few bends in the trail and decided to continue, moving at our own separate paces. I found myself moving around another hill and coming to a bit of a plateau and then kind of felt like I was hitting my stride. At one point, as I was switching gears, I looked down at the pink ribbon sticker I had adorned to my bike. My inner voice spoke loud and clear. You’ve been through worse, Meghan. You can make it up this mountain. And you can do it without stopping.

And, so, I did just that. Without stopping, with the use of every gear, with a ton of positive self talk, with tears, with letting go, with taking just one hill at a time. I even found some humor, as at one point I was saying to myself, “You’ve been through so much shit. You can get through this.” and then, bam, almost ran right through a pile of horse manure!

The catharsis came, hard and fast, when I reached the top and got off that bike. There were tears of relief, of accomplishment, of pain, of fear, of joy, of worry, of every sort.  And they had everything to do with the bike ride and also absolutely nothing to do with it. They were tears that told me I could do really hard things if I put my mind to it. They were also tears that told me I already had. 

In the strangest of places, if you look at it right.

It has been a long, wet spring. So much rain. So dreary, so drizzly, so damp. I find myself wearing my rain jacket every day and I’m embarrassed to say that my LL Bean boots are still making a regular appearance, even though it’s the middle of April. Perhaps the only good thing about all of this dark and dreary weather is that, at the moment, I don’t have a good pair of sunglasses. My last favorite pair broke and then, since chemo, my eyes have been so blurry and dry [Why? Every time I ask a doctor they act like it’s in my head!] that I have to wear my glasses daily. So, there’s a positive in this negative weather, at least.

B and Z are having a sleepover at my parents today. It’s the end of April vacation and right before Easter, so after I drop them off, I decide to hit some stores local to my parents’ house and take care of the Easter basket items. The day is, surprisingly, not that chilly and the sun is, surprisingly, trying to make an appearance, and I am, most surprisingly, feeling a little more like myself and a little less like a cancer patient. I stop at a pet store and pick out some hamster toys for Z’s basket and then, like a Siren is beckoning me, find myself drawn into a TJ Maxx located next door. I’m not quite sure why I’m entering the store until I realize, as I walk in, that I’m in front of a rack of sunglasses.

Gingerly, I remove my glasses and begin trying on all the pairs. Amazingly, I find not one, but two, that fit my face. Even more amazingly, as I walk outside after making my purchase, I discover that the sun has fully emerged from the clouds. I climb into the car, put down the windows, pull out my new sunglasses, and begin removing the tags so that I can wear them [after taking a car selfie, of course!] home. As I’m pulling off a sticker, I realize that it is actually a health warning. I look closer at the sticker [putting back on the old blasted glasses] and realize that the sunglasses have come with a cancer warning. Somehow, the state of California has found that the materials in these sunglasses can contribute to causing cancer.

And so, here I am. The sun is finally shining. I am finally feeling energized. I have the windows down and the air is warm. I have these new sunglasses that I’m so excited to wear. And I’m now staring at a sticker that says I might get cancer if I wear these sunglasses.  

For at least the millionth time since my diagnosis, my mind again asks the question, “What caused my cancer?” Today, I get to wonder if it is due to all the sunglasses I’ve worn over the years. Last week, upon enjoying the smell of gasoline as I filled up my car’s tank, I wondered if those inhalations over the years caused my cancer. Then I wondered if it was any other inhalations over the years. I wonder if the non-organic foods I’ve eaten have caused the mutation. [Do I really believe that the orange cheese balls are doing my body any good?] I think back to times my phone was in my sports bra while on a ride at an amusement park. I recall my dad telling me about all the x-rays done to my left lung when I was a newborn and almost died. I think about all the different school buildings I’ve taught in over the years. I wonder about the chemicals used on lawns, in parks, in communities. I begin wondering about bug spray and sunscreen and make-up and hair products. And then I hear my oncologist’s voice and her response to me when I’ve asked, time and again, “WHAT CAUSED THIS CANCER?”  Her voice, clear and steady, says, “You will drive yourself crazy trying to answer that. You must live your life.”

Half an hour later, I’m on a back road driving home. I’ve picked up a Starbucks iced coffee. I’ve finished my errands. The sun is still shining. My windows are down. My husband and I have an evening out at our favorite restaurant/bar planned. My radio is playing and Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper’s “Shallow” has come on. I’ve been obsessed with this song since their awards ceremony performance. It has, in some way, become my cancer anthem. 

I crank up the volume and turn a corner. The spring scenery, just barely green and glistening from the sun’s reflection from the previous rain, catches my eye. Lady Gaga goes into her harmonious exhale and I find myself powerfully singing along. I’m off-key, but I realize I’m exhaling all the cancer, all the chemo, all the darkness, all the rain, all the struggle, all of the UGH of these past months. I’m letting it all go. I’m driving around a new corner, into the sun, and ready to make some changes. Tears gather in my eyes. So, I adjust those new sunglasses to wipe them away and then drive on.

Sometimes, you wear sunglasses to look at it right.