cancer-versary

August 13th. It was 10 years ago on August 13th that I got the sorta all-clear for my ass-cancer. They did surgery and I was so worried about ending up with a colostomy bag that every time I came out of that anesthetic fog I asked Scott - did I have to have the bag? Five or six times. Same question. Just as concerned every time.

Not as worried about whether they got all the cancer, whether they found it in those pesky lymph nodes who like to pass cancer cells along like hot potatoes. Nope. Worried about crapping out of my stomach for the rest of my life. I like to think now that it was my big concern because I already knew I had the big-C beat, licked, thumped. But if I'm being honest, I was almost equally worried about the effect on my new husband and our newlywed bliss. What in the heck I would wear boating if bikinis were no longer an option (tutu? mumu? sandwich boards?) And, based on some unfortunate experiences with the temporary colostomy bag, what kind of career I would have left if I farted noisily through my belly-bag in the middle of a serious meeting for the next 20 or 30 years?

So I made it through the chemo and radiation. Six weeks of wearing a fanny pack, of all things, dumping poison into your body while also making you look like a fashion reject 24/7. And bear in mind, Scott and I got married smack dab in the middle of it. Pulled the pic-lines, halted the treatments, had an amazing wedding and went to Puerto Vallarta for a week. I made it through the wedding with all of my hair (eady chemo) and through my honeymoon with my libido intact.

I made it through 5 visits to the hospital, emergency midnight surgeries, near death experiences, blockages, crappy nurses and amazing nurses, borderline prescription drug addiction, a complete Valium blackout during 9/11, a 20 pound weight loss (that part I didn't mind so much except for the little granny butt that came with it),  pot pills, a Froot Loops and Coca-Cola diet, and a one-month stint in the hospital that just about did me in. It was...a lot.

I remember reading some kind of Cosmo quiz a few years after it was all said and done and most of it felt like a bad dream. One of the questions was: Name the best time in your life. And before I could even ponder, reflect or debate my options, I had the answer. When I was sick. Weird, right? But I think there's some truth to that adage that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. That experience still reminds me how precious life is, how special every single moment is. It reminds me that when I don't think I can run, or don't want to shake my ass to Zumba some night, I should...just because I can. There were days when I was sick that I was so weak and hampered by drugs that I could barely get off the couch or summon the energy to take a shower. I don't take that for granted any more.

I was so amazed by all of the love that came from the universe, from people I love, people I kind of knew and people I had never even met. There were days toward the end of October where I just didn't think I had the inner strength to keep fighting. I had just about enough gumption to push the button on my morphine pump and that was it. Send me into the dark and that was just fine. Those were the times when I felt this...energy. It lifted me up and gave me strength. Just when I needed it the most. Call it God, call it energy, call it whatever you want but it was definitely there and it came from all kinds of people, all kinds of faith, and I love it.

It also showed me that I am strong. Sometimes you just don't know what you're really made of till you're wearing a fanny pack full of chemo and heading to work every day even though you have to disco nap under your desk most days. Or just how much energy it takes to just put on a brave face and smile in front of your husband and your parents and make a dumb joke even when you're scared shitless. Sometimes you don't realize just how much strength it takes to open your eyes and hope and live.

Being sick also proved to me that Scott is the most amazing man on the planet. I am so lucky to have fallen for him, and even more glad that we sucked it up through the tough times to get through the worst time to get to our best times. That incredible man slept in a hideous vinyl recliner in my room every single night I was in the hospital. He figured out which was the best chair, how to get the VCR n our room and where to snitch the chocolate pudding. He smuggled our new puppy Morgan in to see me in a duffel bag. He celebrated his birthday watching shitty cable TV and nipping on some Captain Morgan he smuggled in in the same duffel bag as the dog. He watched out for me, asked tough questions, tried not to pass out when blood was spilled, kept the well-wishers from becoming well-wearing-you-outers. He kept everyone positive and laughing and thinking nothing but the best.

And he loved me. Even when I crapped out of my stomach. Even when I dropped into a drug-induced coma in mid-sentence. Even when he cleaned my wounds, fed me pills, tried to find foods I would eat to stave off the dramatic weight loss. Even when his new bride slept for 4 months, in a hospital bed and on the couch. Even when we made midnight runs to the emergency room with a puke bowl in the car. Even after 8 weeks of Animal Planet. Even when our hopes for babies of our own crashed and burned, and when the hot flashes and night sweats punctuated the end of that particular dream. He was and always will be my rock and my best friend and my great love.

Even 10 years years later, five years after the official all-clear, I still live with a little cloud over my head. Always wondering if the other shoe is going to drop. If it's going to come back. It's paranoid, for sure. But in some ways that little sense of foreboding keeps me honest. You can't forget the importance of life, love and all the little things when you've been on the brink and back.

So here's to the next 10 years and the 10 after that and the 10 after that! And, more importantly, to enjoying, appreciating and living this wonderful life.