MY LIFE Matters - Winter 2023/2024 - 6

Stories of Hope LONG TERM SURVIVAL
That's how things are going. Thirty
years-every week-not counting two
years of remission one time and then
fifteen months after a stem cell transplant.
It's been a long time.
At first, I was terrified, of course. Panicked,
desperate; couldn't sleep, couldn't
think. I would sit beside my son's crib at
night and cry. I grieved the loss of the
life my very splendid husband and I had
planned. But something happened. Being
panicked and terrified is not a good
way to live, and crisis gets boring. You
start to crave normal. You realize that
you can feel weak and awful, but every
day, you'll feel a little better and a little
stronger. And one day, you remember
what normal is.
Even so, tomorrow is not guaranteed,
and one day I'm going to die. Just like
you, and everyone else walking around
in the world. That's the secret, and
knowing it makes every moment of every
day unbelievably precious.
Over the years, my fear of dying has
subsided from an acute panic to a dull
ache (although it can come back in full
force with a single muscle twitch). Every
holiday I try not to think, " Will this be
my last . . . birthday or Thanksgiving
or Christmas or New Years? " I try to
ignore those thoughts, but they creep
up and mug me in odd moments. Even
so, I manage to banish them and enjoy
the day that is. That's what living with
cancer is, and that's what it teaches:
living in the moment.
Human beings are strange creatures,
you know? We're temporal-we're here
only for a little while, but while we're
here we can envision forever. Religion,
in all its variat ions, offers us hope
that our personalities, our essences,
will survive beyond this life. Mortal
creatures dream of eternity, hoping to
partake in it-that is one strong hope,
not a guarantee, but a hope (because
hope is what faith is made of). I understand
its attraction, even though
I don't feel it myself. Sometime long
ago I realized that questions of what
happens next are answered way above
my pay grade, and I'm content to keep
it that way, although I know that others
depend on the assurance that religious
faith promises. Me, I focus my faith
on planting bulbs for the spring, and
trees for my grandchildren, and trying
to tend my corner of the world with
respect and care.
It hasn't always been easy. I still have
hard days, although I haven't had anything
that I would call a bad day in this century.
It's not hard to remember the challenges,
though, and the limitations, like the six
months when I couldn't eat food.
It was in 1998, during my first recurrence,
which had been misdiagnosed,
that my cancer ran wild until I collapsed.
I'd be admitted to the hospital
for three days for a taxol drip and
infusions of cytoxin every 24 hours.
I'd go home for a day and then come
back with an infection and be stuck in
neutropenic isolation for a week. One
whole summer I bounced in and out of
the hospital and, in October, received
high-dose chemotherapy with stem
cell rescue.
It was hard but it wasn't terrible. My
window faced the mountains, and I
watched the colors change. One morning,
a fleet of bright hot air balloons
rose up along the ridges south of the
hospital and hung in the still air like
jewels strung on a translucent string. It
was beautiful. I watched them rise up
against the gold, brown, and green of
the mountains, and I threw up.
I threw up all that year. I held the informal
record in the University of Virginia's
Adult Bone Marrow Transplant
program of being the most nauseated
patient they'd ever had. Six months of
not holding down food-it took a toll.
My Mom showed up with a warm
casserole of bread pudding she'd made
and a thermos of heavy cream. I tried
to beg off and tell her it was no use but,
when your mom gets a certain look on
her face, you know you've already lost.
She spooned up some bread pudding
6
MY LIFE MATTERS
FAITH OVER FEAR | WINTER 2023-2024
MY LIFE Matters - Winter 2023/2024

Table of Contents for the Digital Edition of MY LIFE Matters - Winter 2023/2024
