Freedom?

It has been two weeks since my release. Release from what, you ask? Well, in my last posting, I likened the end of my radiation sessions to graduation from breast cancer treatment. Not! Although I did receive a humorous certificate of completion from the radiation staff (turns out the toaster was merely a carrot), there was little to distinguish this day from any other. There was no pomp and circumstance, zero, nada. I am not sure what I expected to feel or to happen as I departed the facility and put an end to this chapter. It seems as though fireworks should have been exploding, confetti flying, champagne bottles breaking (or flowing), and bands booming, but instead, it was strangely and unexpectedly anticlimactic. (I still haven't really done anything to celebrate or mark the occasion, but that is probably because I see each and every day as a celebration now.)

So, I discovered that the experience probably better correlates to being released from the state penitentiary - not that I would know what that feels like, but I imagine the feelings must be similar. You have probably seen movies where the prisoner dresses in civilian clothes for the first time in ages, stands before the opening gates of the penitentiary, and then pausing for a moment, walks through the gates into the great unknown. Yea, that’s what it feels like.

In so many ways over the last nine months, my life has not been my own. Rather, my life has been controlled by the medical community telling me where to go, when to be there, how I can expect to feel physically and emotionally, what treatments to follow, what drugs to take, what foods to avoid, etc. I was tethered to Williamsburg and couldn't wander too far away, especially during the radiation treatment requiring my presence five days a week. For the last nine months, while the rest of the world revolved around me, I had one primary focus – my health. Now, I have walked through the gates, and I find myself asking these questions: Where do I go? What do I do? Where do I start?

My life will never be the same again, and that’s fine. I don’t want it to be. That’s not to say I didn’t love my life before cancer (BC). It’s just that my BC life was full of so much beauty and abundance and goodness, and I failed to see much of it. I stressed myself out over things that seemed so important at the time but were so insignificant that I can’t even dredge up the faintest memories of the anxiety producing stuff now. Stress free life zone, that's my mantra now. And really, compared to facing a life threatening illness, most other stuff is pretty insignificant; although, unfortunately, it often takes the life threatening illness to make one realize this fundamental truth.

While getting out of bed each morning is still a challenge for me (once a night owl, always a night owl?), I try to greet each day with gratitude and recommit myself each day to spreading joy and love through my actions and interactions. I try not to take things for granted; although it is difficult to have awareness of all your gifts until they are absent. (For example, how many of you are consciously appreciative of your eyelashes from day to day? Be honest! Now how about if you didn't have them anymore? You would appreciate them, right?) I try to see beauty in everything and everyone and to experience and enjoy each moment without always thinking about the next task to be checked off the "to do" list or the next activity on the calendar. I try to live in awe of life, not in fear of death.

So, yes, I would say that my life after breast cancer is better than life before breast cancer, but that being said, what now? My physical health must obviously always remain a priority for me (as it should for everyone), but now, like the newly released ex-prisoner, I find myself struggling to establish a new identity in a world that just lost its structure and focus. What will life be like as a breast cancer survivor instead of a breast cancer patient? How will I relegate the breast cancer experience to my past while embodying the lessons I learned in the present? Will I be able to release, or at least manage the fear of recurrence in my future? (And am I getting way too dramatic?!) I guess time will tell, but I am not stressing over it. I just intend to enjoy the next leg of the journey as the road unwinds ahead of me.

While eating out with my friend, Kim, last week, I came across the following saying painted on the wall of the restaurant: “Yesterday is only a dream and tomorrow a vision. Yet each day well lived makes every yesterday a dream of happiness and tomorrow a vision of hope. Look therefore to this one day for it alone is life.”

Those words describe better than anything I could ever write, the gift that breast cancer has given me. That quote is how I plan to approach the journey that when examined in retrospect is the compilation of our life - one beautiful day at at time.