Thank You, Cancer

As I lie on the bathroom floor in the middle of night, sick to my stomach and pressing my face into the welcome cool of the tiles, it is hard to think of getting cancer as a gift.

And again, when I'm strapped down into the radiation mask and it is digging into my increasingly red and sore neck - the idea that cancer is a gift can seem very far away indeed.

I'm tired all the time.  Typing this post will take me several hours, because I can only get a few sentences in before I drift off to sleep.

The worst of the symptoms are in full swing now, as I head into the home stretch.  I count that I have only seven more radiation treatments, and the thought of strapping myself onto that radiation table seven. more. times. is almost more than I can bear.   Yesterday, I had a panic attack in the mask; I'm surprised it took me this long.  I just couldn't take one more second of the screeching sounds and searing heat.

The feeding tube was put in place last week; I finally have hang of how the feedings work, and am grateful for the extra energy getting enough calories (or almost enough) provides.   But I will never, never, get used to the idea that I have a tube that goes directly into my stomach.  It's kind of cute, actually - it's called a "Mickey Button" and it lies flush with my skin, which is nice.  It comes with all kinds of tubes and attachments  - the food is gravity fed, flowing from the top of a tall IV pole next to my bed directly into my belly.  

I try to sit with Steve and the kids as much as I can while they eat their dinner; sometimes it's the only way I get caught up on the kids' busy days.  But sometimes the smell of food is too much, and I just need to curl up and sleep until dinner is over.

The world swirls around me, moving at its usual hectic pace, and I feel frozen in place, taking it all in, from a mental space that is very far removed from everyone else's reality.

Cancer has reduced me, as a corporeal being, down to four bare essentials:  eating, sleeping, medicine and pain.  My body is weary, and the most basic task can reduce me to tears of pain or frustration in an instant. My body is not enjoying this cancer experience one bit.

But getting cancer is the best gift my spirit has ever received.   I don't know if I can adequately describe how it feels like the scales have fallen from my eyes, how I see everything so much more clearly now.  I see what a miracle my kids are, how lucky I am to have them in my life.  I see how profoundly blessed we are - with each other, with friendships, with a comfy house on a pretty tree lined street.

I don't want for anything. Everything in my life is perfect just the way it is, even with the cancer, because the cancer is the instrument that shows me - like a treasure map - how valuable every single moment truly is.

I know how hokey that sounds; how Hallmark Card-y.  But it's absolutely true:  cancer has enabled me to treasure my life, my family in a way I'm not sure I could have without it.  Cancer brought me right up to the this-could-be-taken-from-you-edge, and instead of fear, what I found was gratitude and grace.

God willing I will come out on the other side of this cancer-free some day.  But I will come out a changed person.  I will be more joyful, more patient, more loving.  I won't be too busy - ever again - to notice how lucky I am.  How lucky we are.

Cancer is taking a profound physical toll on my body, which I expected... dreaded, even.   What I did not expect was this feeling of completeness, of understanding that I have all that I need, right here, right now, and that I always did.