One Year Since the End of Chemotherapy
February 2, 2017
By Diane McDaniel
Thursday, February 2, marks one year since the end of my chemotherapy treatment.
One year later I’m still here.
This weekend I’ll celebrate my son’s 16th birthday. Later in the month it’ll be my daughter’s 10th birthday. She’s planning a party with friends to bake cupcakes and play games. Mid month I’ll mark another year of my life.
In our house, February is a month for observing the passage of time and celebrating life.
I’ve always loved anniversaries and birthdays, but the marking of certain dates has become even more important to me in the past two years.
My mother, Camille, died on January 14, 2015. Both this year and last I observed the day of her death by walking in the Santa Monica Mountains up to the aerie outcropping where her ashes are scattered. The site is directly across from the house in which I grew up, and sometimes when I visit the spot my father, Vernon, will come out onto the back deck. The distance separating us is too far to shout hello to each other, and so we wave across the chaparral covered canyon.
Visiting this spot and sharing reminiscences of Camille’s life feels like the right thing to do. We maintain our connection with Camille through the stories we tell about her and in remembering the ways in which she shaped our lives. We’ve created our own rituals to remember Camille’s life while commemorating the day of her death.
As the one year anniversary of the end of my cancer treatment grows nearer, I’ve been thinking about this past year and how I want to mark this important day.
The past year has been rich with complexity. The experience of living after cancer treatment hasn’t been as I expected.
This period has been more difficult than I thought it would be because of cancer’s relentless presence in my consciousness. I knew that I’d be seeing my doctor every two months for monitoring, but I didn’t anticipate the lack of clarity, the uncertainty, that these visits would entail. My expectation was that I’d get a sort of pass through at these visits and that in time my doctor would elongate the interval between check ups so that eventually I would see her every six months or maybe once a year.
That’s not the way things have gone down.
After three CT scans, one PET scan, and ten blood tests to measure the tumor marker CA-125, my doctor tells me that she cannot say definitively that I’m in remission, although she believes that I am. For greater certainty she would like to get additional scans and blood tests.
I long to hear Dr. N say unequivocally that I am in remission; however, I acknowledge that what she does say is preferable to the following possible alternatives:
“I don’t think you are in remission; you may be having a recurrence.”
“You are having a recurrence; your cancer has returned.”
One year after treatment, I’d be hard pressed to say that everything is good. No matter how well I take care of myself physically and emotionally, I can’t foresee and stave off every potential danger. I’m less strong physically and experience more emotional fragility than in the days before cancer and the onslaught of treatment. Much as I try to anticipate peril and bubble wrap myself against probable harm there will always be hailstorms that take me by surprise. During these times I find shelter from the storm until I’m able to dodge hailstones or the sun comes out again.
At the same time, in many ways my life is better than it was before. Cancer has certainly brought suffering, but it has also propelled me into new worlds with new friends, new experiences, and new insights. As have so many before me, I find that dark and light are balanced in suffering and growth. Every ending is also a new beginning.
The experiences of the past two years have stripped away much of the busy-ness and distractions of “normal” life. Especially during treatment but also during periods of vulnerability post treatment I find myself face to face with an unvarnished version of what existence is about: life exposed to its core. Going through this time has galvanized my desire to do something powerful and positive. It has been a period of significant change and growth.
Cancer has clarified what I want out of life because I better understand my proximity to its opposite: death. An intimate knowledge of death can make life sharp and beautiful. Death may come soon or it may be a long way off, but it cannot be avoided. Having cancer has made these truisms meaningful, concrete, and stimulating.
The experience of spending time with Camille during her terrible illness showed me firsthand how hard it is to be close to those who are dying. I also know now that connecting — as much as possible with the person who is dying and as well as with those around the dying person—can be a remedy for fear. I’ve lived with both the possibility and the actuality of death during the past two years, and this unwanted familiarity has made me less afraid than I was before.
Cancer and the devastations of its treatment have propelled me to mine the gifts of intimacy and friendship and the discovery of voice and wisdom. I’ve learned to make meaning by trying out different perspectives on my experiences until I find a story that makes sense and allows me to go forward. By writing during the stages of diagnosis, treatment, and post treatment, I not only learned my own mind but have a record of my understanding of events and circumstances during this time. Looking at the stories I told and the meanings I created over this time, I have a better understanding of the journey I’ve been on.
The overriding and persistent theme of this past year has been determination to make sense of my life. I turn events and circumstances around in my mind, examining them from one angle and then another. In many cases, old ways of understanding experience no longer make sense. I continue to reframe so that my interpretation has meaning and allows me to live, to keep moving forward.
What good can come from the disasters that befall us in life? What rewards, if any, can be found in uncertainty? These are some of my questions.
There is poetry and beauty in seeking answers to the enigmas of our lives. There is meaning in asking these questions.
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