Beginning/ending

A year ago, I was on the phone with my best friend. I put my hand in my armpit for some inexplicable reason.

Egg-sized lump.

And my journey began.

You've followed my journey so I don't need to re-explain it.

I finished treatment on January 22, just about two weeks shy of this anniversary.

It's strange because I'm realizing that I don't have to make my treatment my priority any more. I do have a bunch of doctor follow-ups coming up but other than that, I get to have my life back.

But I'm so used to talking about my treatment and answering questions about how I am and what's going on that now that there's nothing going on, I don't know what to talk about. It's nice that my friends are still asking and commenting and supporting me. But I'm starting to meet new people and cancer is still sort of the center of my universe. 

I need to re-learn how to have a conversation that doesn't start with "my treatment" or "my cancer" or anything like that. I need to just have a conversation. When people comment on my hair, which is growing out nicely, I'm starting to realize I just need to say, thank you, and not launch into a whole discussion about my treatment.

I need to begin to put this behind me and move into my new life.

It's hard, though, when the lingering side effects still invade my life. I spent two nights in the hospital this week because of a pounding heart. And I mean an alien is going to burst out of my chest pounding. After a ton of tests, emerged with a clean bill of health, other than a potassium deficiency. And then tonight, after painting a good chunk of the day and sitting at a weird angle watching the Super Bowl, my collarbone aches so much from radiation that it's almost unbearable. And the fatigue is epic and sneaky. I'll feel great and then all of a sudden, I crash and could sleep for eight hours.

So I have to move into this life while still dragging a huge pile of crap along behind me. Difficult to manage. Harder than any restart I've ever done in my life.

And weirdly, I was thinking about Munchausen Syndrome. This is a syndrome where a patient believes they are very ill and/or will make themselves ill so they will get attention. And sometimes, I understand that, in a twisted way. I've had a year of compassion and affection and attention in a highly exaggerated way that we never experience except in a time of trauma. But slowly, that will fade. People will still be lovely and compassionate. But that constant attention is already fading. And there's a sense of wondering how to get by without that constant attention. This is what drives strange people to do strange things to themselves to keep getting attention.

I don't want to be a Munchausen.

But I get it.

Now I need to move the attention back to my accomplishments, not my illness. Accept the attention that's on me, not my cancer. Still talk about my experience because, as a storyteller, it's what I do. But not make my life about cancer. Go back to making my life... my life.

So I'm doing what my friend's little baby girl does - sending my cancer to the trees. (He says she gestures to the trees any time she doesn't like something and says, "Go to the trees!". I love this.)

A year from now, I hope to be considered free of disease. That's the closest we can get to "cured". 

A year from now, I hope to be more settled financially and emotionally. Maybe be able to think about moving into an artist's loft so I have room to paint.

A year from now, I hope to be back in school and maybe knowing where to go from there.

A year from now, I hope to be in love again, with someone even more wonderful than the Filmmaker was.

A year from now, I hope...