Ten-Year Diagnosversary

It's hard to fathom, but it's been a decade since my life flipped on its head, to put it mildly. It feels longer, it feels a lot shorter. But this, what I have now, it's all I remember. Here's how it started, and what happened since. If you want to get a really in-depth look at the journey, my book is available on Amazon. Shameless plug out of the way, here's the start of the new me.

Ten years ago today, I woke in the hospital in a state of uncertainty. I'd been admitted to the hospital a week before with a 104.5°F fever and touching tonsils. Days of tests and negative results later, one doctor came in and said he'd found a few free-floating blast cells. "We're not sure, but it might be leukemia."

That was the day before. That morning, I was pretty sure it would come out negative just like all the others. And yet, there was that part of me, the part that's always been there, that told me this was real. So when the doctor came in and asked to speak with my mom outside, I wasn't surprised, just tired. I hadn't really slept the night before, too annoyed at constant nurses' interruptions and a 6am jackhammer to actually approach sleep in any real form. My mom came in, and there was utter devastation on her face. She'd held out hope even when I hadn't. And then she told me. "It's leukemia."

I thought I'd be upset, but I wasn't. Just numb. I thought emotions would pop up, but they didn't. I just sat there, absorbing my new life, and then faded out. I guess I imploded, just stopped existing—it seemed a far better option than being me at that moment.

The rest of the day was spent going over the treatment and a bunch of other stuff, but I couldn't hold onto a thought to save my life—besides, keeping me alive was the doctor's job, gave me plenty of time to tangent my brains out. Everything from wondering how the hospital masks made the air taste like the texture of cardboard to what I'd done in a previous life to deserve this to wondering what it must be like to walk down the hall to one's execution to how white the walls were in every single room.

But I never, ever, ever, ever would have guessed in a septillion years what lay in store for me over the next ten years of my life. Cancer, eh, wasn't too bad. I mean, lots of puking, sure that sucked, and so did the pain, and the hair loss and the emotional trauma of, you know, cancer and stuff—but had I known what was coming, I would have wished I could stay like that for the rest of my life.

See, everyone told me stories about all these other survivors who got cancer, fought the good fight, and then recovered and went on to do great things and their lives were fine. So when I entered remission, I was stoked—no more hospital!

At least, until the treatment that had saved my life turned on me and tried to shut my lungs down. Until I had to be put into a coma. Until I was given two weeks to live. Until I miraculously managed to survive and found myself a hundred pounds heavier, with joints that were starting to deteriorate, with a drug addiction to the opiates used to keep me comfortable when I was supposed to be in my last few days of life, with flashbacks and memories I wanted to shut away and forget but never could.

That's how I found out the truth—cancer was only the beginning. There are side effects of getting to life, and I thought I was alone in that for a long time, that I was some aberrant statistic and every other cancer survivor had a great life. But then I learned I wasn't the only one. In fact, far from it. Really, survivors have a whole slew of physical, mental, and emotional side effects from their treatments.

So I decided to make something of my experience. I spent years writing a book between numerous joint replacement surgeries, telling the story of how life after cancer can be just as difficult as cancer itself, how the battle isn't really ever over, how we need to continue to support survivors long after their cancer is gone. And, finally, I published it.

Two fake hips, one fake knee, one donor knee,
two donor ankles with screws, shoulders not in view

In these last ten years, I've had ten joint replacements, with more to come. I've dealt with drug addiction, chronic pain, trauma, depression, anxiety, a body covered in scars, the realization my super-awesome-beautiful hair was never coming back, a nervous breakdown, and lots of "little" things that would take up pages and pages to list.

Yet, here I am. Alive. Trying my best to make something of all this. Laughing through it as best I can, fighting the pain in my bones and in my head, struggling to create a life I can truly enjoy. So, no, life after cancer isn't all puppies and rainbows and you'll be perfectly fine, but it's not unlivable. Despite it all, there have been things I've enjoyed, and I found a purpose. That's how you survive, that's how you take all this crap and do something with it, you find meaning in it. And how did I find that purpose?

I made my own.