Aftershock

During the weeks leading up to my past few scans, I’d look in the mirror. These were the moments where I prepared for worst case scenarios like new recurrences or amputation. I felt like I had to toughen up and brace for these situations, and with any luck, I could at least feel relieved afterwards. I’d pray to get by unharmed, and knowing how terrifying it all was, told myself that if I did, I’d make sure to give back to other cancer fighters however possible. Especially because I never felt I had the right role model during my own journey.

This inspired me to share regimens and health tips. I’ve always been happy to hop on a call with others. I even started writing a book. And while I make sure to point out how I never feel safe lowering my guard, there’s an inherent sense that someone has it all figured out when offering advice, whether they’re a business mentor or guiding others to wellness.

Unfortunately, fear and insecurity- that it’s all a fragile house of cards- always linger. I don’t have a secret formula. I’m just really disciplined and commit to healing every day. One of the reasons I resisted writing in the first place was the cringe-worthy thought of if things were to turn for the worst; that’d be incredibly depressing and defeat the purpose of trying to inspire others, I thought.

So this weekend was especially brutal when my hip (where I had a partial replacement to remove a tumor) flared up in pain. Sharp, agonizing pain, to the point where I needed to break out the crutches again. Add that to my recent buzz cut, and the image brought back excruciating memories; we’re talking a real mind fuck.

The physical trauma is one thing. Then there’s the emotional side. The look on Kori’s face. The phone calls to my parents and sister, and knowing how much stress this would inflict. After a year of clear scans, it felt like our family unit could finally breathe again and take a step forward towards greener pastures. Indulging in a taste of normalcy and being knocked back down feels much more defeating. Not to mention during quarantine, where outside support is limited and the ongoing crisis only adds to feeling like the deck is stacked against you.

The fear is real. It’s hard not to picture doctors going, “Uh huh. See. We told you, 10%.”

But then I think of what I’d tell someone else in my position. I’d remind them to take things slowly, one day at a time. And when joy is unavailable, to focus on love. I’m blessed that even while bed ridden, I have family who are fully invested in caring for me. There’s a cuddly dog who lays stubbornly by my side at all hours, and a soul mate who loves me so much that the guilt I feel for causing her pain and suffering is the worst part of the entire experience.

I’d tell them to appreciate and remember all that, plus a whole lot of icing and ibuprofen.