Small Adventures

Cancer stole my innocence and created the bravest version of me.

Certain things change you. Some things change you forever.

A cancer diagnosis is one of them.

For me, it was a loss of innocence. I don’t think you’ll ever forget a call after a follow up procedure when they tell you to bring someone with you.

Or the look in the eye of the radiologist gently holding your hand to tell you that you have cancer. Even if it’s a good prognosis. You’ll never be quite the same.

In the days after the diagnosis, everything seemed brighter. Like whatever blinders I had on previously were snatched off my face.  Life was in technicolor. There was life before cancer. And life after. A line in the sand.

I can remember them drawing the marks on my skin with a sharpie pen. The radiation is very precise. You can’t move in that sterile space. You almost have to hold your breath.

But I had already been holding my breath. It seemed like a lifetime of holding my breath. Clenching. And still, with all that hyper vigilance, bad things sometimes happen.

After every treatment, I would drink a mint tea and look out at the green space. Seeing the trees felt different. There was a new stillness in my body. I would walk on the beach. Feel the sand under my toes. The sunshine relaxing my tired body. I was determined to feel life. And to really see it.

When I look back, sometimes I think to myself, how did I get through those eight years of losses?

The loss of innocence that comes with cancer. The divorce that followed. The loss of what I thought would be my second chance at family — my blended family. The loss of both my father and stepfather.

And one of the most devastating — my sweet pup, Chloe, who had weathered it all with me.

Too many losses. It takes my breath away. With every loss, something in me shut down a bit. A protective shield formed around my heart. I felt like my “house” was blown up and demolished to the studs. A complete tear down of my life. Not to say there weren’t those people that were there through it all. Those people became my tribe.

There will always be a little fear that never completely leaves my side. I’ve learned to accept it. But with that also comes more joy. An opening up again. To my one and only beautiful, imperfect life.

It’s been eight years. I’m so thankful to be cancer free. There isn’t a day I don’t thank God for this gift of health. And even with all the milestones, the follow up scans, the Xanax beneath my tongue while I wait for results, the anxiety I had to claw my way through. There was a silver lining.  You start saying yes… to everything!

And that’s when the cheesecake happened…

I didn’t know when I started writing this that it would connect to something larger. But that’s been the theme of this year. Small steps leading somewhere new.

The Bridge Year is still unfolding. More stories to come.