One year ago

I met with my gynecological oncologist for the first time. And I think that was the day I started wearing armor. I listened, Jerry took notes and we made plans. I was tough, emotionless, compliant. Dr. Tanner thought having surgery before Christmas was not a great idea— the hospital would be minimally staffed and he thought it made more sense to wait until after January 1. At this point, he wasn’t even totally sure I had cancer. My tumors were very large, but I felt fine and he thought there was the possibility they were just big cysts. I think he was being honest, but in retrospect I have to wonder if he didn’t want me too upset over the holidays. And what a year it has been. We survivors often refer to all of this as a “journey.” I do it myself at times. I guess it’s a good euphemism. Sounds better than “life in hell.” In reality, I will be on this journey for the rest of my life. I am six months out of chemo and so far so good. But I live from Ca-125 test to Ca-125 test, from CT scan to CT scan. I continue clinical trial immunotherapy and I believe it is helping me. This weekend, Jerry and I, with another couple, head to New Mexico for Christmas and New Year’s. My first real vacation since I began this “journey.” I scheduled a massage at a spa and plan on going to galleries, eating great food and drinking good wine, and relaxing. These next few weeks will be emotion-filled as I celebrate various anniversaries— surgery, port insertion, first chemo. Some of it seems so long ago, other memories are as fresh as if they just happened. But it’s been a year. I’m still here. I’m healthy. I’m cancer free. The armor is slowly dissolving, allowing me to feel more emotional, even coming close to crying. Time to celebrate.