It's no secret that your body changes while battling cancer. I've only started this battle two weeks ago and I'm already noticing subtle changes. The side effects of Chemo have yet to hit me and yet I'm already aware of my body's growing fragility.
Despite the differences I've been feeling and seeing on the outside, there's the one crucial inner change that started this entire journey for me and sparked the biggest question for myself. "Where did the Gene-mutation come from?" It's the hardest question to ask because there is no answer, and it's the most frustrating question to ask because it offers no condolence and no blame. There might be answers years from now, but as of now I'm one of the 1-2% of lung cancer patients who have this mutated gene and there was nothing in my power I could have done to keep this from happening. A psycho-oncologist came to speak to me during my first day at the clinic and after listening to me describe my situation for a little she asked me, not hiding her confusion, "So you're not disappointed in your body?" That thought had never occurred to me before. The idea that I would be disappointed in my own being, blaming it for this fate, seemed completely far-fetched and irrational to me. The relationship I've had with my body has been tense at times and I've pushed my limits more than I'd like to admit. However, over the years of already living with a chronic illness and now especially after my recent diagnosis I've taken on a very nourishing, almost motherlike attitude towards my body. Now more than ever my body needs to be cared for and handled with love and sensitivity. There is no room for blame and there is no space for disappointment. If I want to move forward I will have to keep my body and my mind safe and reassure it every day that I will take care of them. I will love every inch of my body, every fiber, every cell that I'm made of and I will promise myself, I will be safe again, in time.
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The trick to not getting lost in the world of cancer and all its potential outcomes, is to take on no more than 24 hours at a time. Once I got to Heidelberg we discussed a long-term game plan.
I understood the concept of what the Doctors were planning and I knew why we were going over every worst case scenario in the book. However, by the end of the meeting all I asked was "Is there a chance we can make this work?" and they said there was. It doesn't matter how small the chance is, how depressing the statistics, once you know what you're dealing with, all the numbers and facts become secondary to the power of the individual. And so I've set up my 24 hour game plan and learned to celebrate small victories. My heart is working fine, there are no signs of metastasis in my brain, liver and ovaries, and my blood sugar levels are stabile. I can find something everyday to add to the list of little victories, even if it's something as banal as finishing a meal or going to a CT appointment without a wheel chair. On the day of the Women's March I got out of bed (for the first time in a while) and my mom and I walked down the hallway of my station four times. It was one of my bigger accomplishments that day to slowly move forward, despite the pain, next to my mom. She and I joined, in our very special way, the Walk for Women. In addition to my 24 hour rule I also focus on non medical related goals in the future. I picture seeing every close friend of mine again in very specific settings. I think about going salsa dancing, sitting wrapped up together with my sister on her couch (she knows I'll never let go of her again), playing soccer with the kids I used to nanny in Boston, being able to fully sing again (my air supply is slightly low which makes my singing sound more like an airy speaking voice) and rediscovering my independence. Those who know me, are very aware of my need to self sustain and indulge myself with solitude. When I became a full-time patient I had to immediately give up on making choices on my own and experiencing privacy. Technically it's a small price to pay in the grand scheme of things and I've become quite a natural at crying, laughing and undressing in front of my audience of nurses and doctors. My Chemo started yesterday night. It's done, and even though I'm aware of the side effects of this treatment I don't need to think about them until I've reached those next 24 hours. So as of now my recipe for a peace of mind during this cancer period of my life is the 24 hour rule combined with a daily dose of futuristic thinking, just to make sure I can sleep with slightest hint of a smile on my face. I had plans for 2017. When the new year hit I had my glass raised, was surrounded by friends and was doing what I do best. Dancing with the care-free attitude of someone who is utterly fueled by endless possibilities to create, and convinced that great things were right ahead.
Unfortunately life had other plans for me. When I read the report on my lung x-ray I stayed surprisingly detached. The diagnosis seemed completely out of place and unrealistic. Up until flying home for Christmas I was working full-time, going to college, and leading a very exhilarating social life. There were no signs of a person whose body was being compromised by an invisible enemy. This seemed to be the general opinion of the Doctors who compared my physique to the x-ray image and so everyone was convinced that the big shadow on my lung and the snowflake-like dots had to be anything but a tumor. The biopsy proved us all wrong and when the Doctor spoke to me one-on-one about the seriousness of my situation and the choices I'd have to make, I watched everything in my life suddenly unhinge. I felt like I'd been reading a book about my life and suddenly turned the page to this completely unrelated story where nobodies' roles made sense anymore and the entire premise morphed. The interesting thing however, was that despite the initial horror of having my new reality sink in, I felt myself adapt almost seamlessly to the new story I was suddenly reading. Perhaps it's some form of self-preservation or a coping mechanism, but I slipped on this outfit of someone whose story line was to be diagnosed with cancer and who was going to beat it. It's been almost a week since my diagnosis and I am happy to say that some constants of my previous reality remain. My family who loves me fiercely is with me every step of the way and my friends have shown me again and again how much they are willing to help me carry this new load. Also, I am recognizing that my relationship with music is still alive and well and stronger than before. I feel like I have the best support system I could possibly ask for and am perfectly equipped to finish this story as it was intended to end. |
AuthorI'm carla. My friends think I'm a superhuman and will change the world and right now I'm battling lung cancer and I'm trying to keep you all updated. (Friends are currently writing this - carla really is a superhuman) Archives
March 2017
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