I'm Still Alive ;)

I remember when I would spend hours searching for other patient’s personal stories—be it blogs, Facebook posts, or forums—to gain insight into what to expect during treatment. So many times—so many times—those blogs would abruptly end or people would vanish from their online communities. In most cases, I knew they were fine from other sources, but sometimes you wonder: are they still alive? I vowed to myself that I wouldn’t let that happen. I would provide every detail of cancer and post-cancer drama to those in need.

But instead, a beautiful thing happened. At some point my thoughts stopped revolving around cancer and normality found its way home. Yes, I got my life back.

I understand why people stop writing and contributing to blogs and forums. Constantly reliving the emotions of what happened is a really hard thing to do. I recently read the book “Orange is the New Black,” and reading someone’s memoir about a difficult time in her life inspired me to consider embarking on a similar project. So, as I’ve seriously pondered writing a book about my experiences going through chemotherapy as a young adult, I've been digging up my old medical records from treatment, letters from family and friends, calendar entries, and anything else to jog my memory. With each scrap I find, I am in hysterical tears within minutes. They are neither happy nor sad tears, just wallops of emotion that rise to the surface. I’m only two years post-treatment, so I don’t know if that emotion will fade with time, but for me it’s still there. I can understand why someone might need a break from it for a while.

It’s been a special experience to reflect on who I am after a big health scare. In so many ways I am a very different person; but in others I’m the same ol’ Shana. I’m still hot tempered with immediate family, fascinated with the world around me, easily entertained by 90s shows like Dawson’s Creek, and utterly in love and devoted to my husband and son. But despite those parts of my personality that hung on, other parts of me are so morphed that I don’t recognize myself.

In a previous post, I talked about losing my invincibility. Given my relatively healthy lifestyle, I always assumed I’d live a long, healthy life. I felt invincible. But that attitude never returned, not even a crumb of it. When you adopt the “any moment I could die” outlook, it takes a radical shift in thinking to maintain sanity.

For several months after treatment, I had a pesky spot lighting up on one of my scans that monitor for recurrent or residual cancer. In the end it turned out to be nothing, but during those months, I turned to a friend who also lacks the invincibility cloak. I needed a coping mechanism to deal with this new way of living life. He said that he followed the logic of Richard Feynman, a late American theoretical physicist who lost his wife at an early age. According to my friend, Feynman takes the approach that the universe doesn’t owe us anything; we are not guaranteed any averages. I know it’s blunt, and some might call it depressing, but for me, it worked. I had a way to approach my new attitude. Before, I thought I deserved a long, happy life. I was, in fact, invincible, of course. Now, I know I need to make a happy life, whether or not the length of it meets some statistical average. And who knows, maybe it will anyway.

Another aspect of my life that has changed in a significant way is how I value personal relationships. Before going through chemotherapy, I didn’t understand the importance of community. My husband and I never needed. We had a beautiful home, financial stability, loving families, good jobs, and no major health problems. We would cook dinners for our friends having babies, call those who were ill with well wishes, send sympathy cards to those grieving. We did these things, but I never really knew what it meant. Now I know. Those acts of kindness mean the world. I feel a much deeper connection with people, not just those I know, but people in general, than I did before. 

Before treatment I sympathized. Now I empathize. When you go through chemo, you experience what it feels like to be immobilized from fatigue and pain; you endure the hot sweats of menopause; you learn what it means to fight depression and fear. On these fronts I can relate, but I am also more aware that there are emotions I have not felt and that compassion is one of the most important features to embrace in our humanity. I still slip up every now and then, but at least I know when I need an “attitude check” (as my husband likes to call it).

For these new parts of my personality, I am grateful. To those who are still early in their journey through survival, please know that remission can come with more than just a clean bill of health. Your experiences can shape who you are in a positive way, if you let them.