Since 2002, July 3 has been my Personal Independence Day – the day I’ve celebrated being cancer-free – because on that day, a highly skilled and caring surgical team cut the cancer from my left breast and returned my body to me minus two little lumps. I KNEW cancer wouldn’t be the way my story ended.
Life changes forever the moment you hear the word “cancer” used in a sentence with your own name.
What an understatement.
In 2002 when it was my name in that sentence with the word “cancer,” the days quickly become a whirlwind of doctor appointments, surgery, chemo, and radiation.
But let’s talk about hair. First, you have to picture me. Back in 2002, I was a youthful-looking and active 40-something with long dark hair with a little silver around the edges. Good old wash and wear hair. Throw it into a ponytail hair. These are very important hair attributes for a hiker and long-walk-taker like me.
So it came as a complete shock that the words “…all your hair will probably fall out” were the ones that caused me to come unglued. Suddenly, my whole identity was wrapped up in the hair I was about to lose. Turns out that un-fussy hair was actually a statement about who I was and I was about to not be ME in that way any more.
A couple of girlfriends and I made a beeline to the wig shop. Maybe this was my chance to be a bombshell blonde or a sultry redhead, to assume a new identity or maybe more than one. Naw. That was fun in the shop, but the wig that came home with me was a cute brunette bob like Catherine Zeta-Jones sported in “Chicago.” The deciding factor was the huge thumbs up from an octogenarian gentleman sitting in front of the wig store who whistled and cat-called “Sexy!!! That’s the one!”
Sure enough, shortly after chemo began, all my hair fell out and I began wearing that wig. Then, a funny thing happened – strangers started asking who did my hair. People on the street. A nice lady at a party. After the third or fourth incident, I wrote in my journal “Dear god, if you wanted me to change my hairdo, you could have just said so.”
It was not meant to be funny.
But that small, petulant observation took root anyway. Slowly, I began wondering what else might have needed changing, and a turning point blossomed. Cancer became an opportunity to clean house, get rid of whatever needed to be gone for good, and define my next chapter. I jettisoned things I could no longer do or that didn’t work or that I just didn’t like.
Today would have been my 24th cancer-free anniversary. Instead, we’re celebrating that cancer still isn’t winning, though it has certainly tried.
In 2025, the year of “You Can’t Make This Stuff Up,” that old cancer metastasized in my liver with spots on my lungs and dots in my bones.
It still isn’t my time. This story still isn’t done. And that’s true whether this life lasts one more day or twenty more years.
A few years BC (before that first cancer), I had sat alone in the dark one night sobbing. “It feels like there are two people living in my body and there isn’t enough room for both.”
Though I’m hardly the first person to feel like the essence of ME and the me who had tried to adapt, conform, and survive were no longer co-habiting peacefully, on that night, it felt like they were at war with each other. This had to end and I was too weary to care how.
I sobbed and begged god/source/the universe – my Darling Dot – to make them make peace with each other. Of course, I wanted that to happen with the wave of a cosmic wand. Dot had a more practical magic in mind.
Our lives are filled with so many rich experiences – some heartwarming, others painful, some downright idiotic. Dot wanted me to understand that all those experiences and all those feelings are treasure troves. Wisdom and guidance for my Becoming. For reshaping my story without changing the facts or pretending some things never happened or didn’t hurt. For reuniting with my original innate wholeness.
So instead of zapping the “bad” ones away, she has lovingly and patiently taught me how to fully experience and fully feel. To become more whole and more wholly ME. More alive. Without shame. Without blame.
When the new doctor said this new diagnosis out loud, I knew cancer still wasn’t going to kill me. I knew I was still going to survive and thrive. At least for today.
And so far, the numbers are backing up my knowingness. The tumor marker has plummeted from 1475 to 44 in 13 months. The cancer has been downgraded to “chronic condition.”
Present circumstances:
New book. No hair (again). New lease on life. It is another beginning.
Happy Re-Birthing to me #24.