*TW* there are images below this text of the implanted device that lived in me and saved my life.
This is the first time I'm writing long form about this part of my life. In some ways, I feel like I don’t know this place. In other ways, it feels like I never left. When I was 24, I was diagnosed with Stage 2 Hodgkin Lymphoma. Sometimes when I say it out loud or see it written down, I still can't believe it.
Six years ago today (11/02), I completed my last round of chemotherapy and I've (technically) been in remission ever since. My oncologist gave me a five year plan for continued visits, and after reaching that milestone I really felt out of the woods.
In the months and years after finishing treatment, I was most eager to put it all behind me. Having spent a long time with little energy to think about or do anything else, I was ready to return to life. My reflex became to forget. It wasn't until about the five year mark, however, that I began to confront the emotional half of what I had been through. I had been compartmentalizing and ignoring that part of my experience.
During treatment, I woke up and went to bed every day feeling like I was stuck in a vessel that had fundamentally failed me. The thought of succeeding at anything felt impossible. There were days I couldn't eat, couldn't sit up straight, couldn't even doom scroll, watch TV or go outside because light and screens made me nauseous. There were days I was ready to give up. I forgot what feeling normal was like and didn’t think I would find that feeling again.
At the time, I felt such strong emotion, every moment of every day, but was also constantly overcome with physical challenges that I don’t think I ever fully acknowledged my mental state. My extreme feelings of inadequacy. I focused most on physically returning to good health, and I’m lucky that that day came. Really, I have the work of modern medicine and my dedicated family, friends, and partner to thank, but maybe luck also had something to do with it.
I have thought deeply over the years now about what it means to live with this part of myself. Knowing that this happened to me, and how to keep from feeling like I am always on the precipice of something devastating. Learning how to remember and be mindful of my history, just the right amount. Making room for it, and still allowing myself to be present in the rest of my life. Understanding my past and taking care of myself, and also allowing myself to mentally thrive. Finding ways to thrive, not just survive. Back then it was about surviving. And I have to remind myself that it can be about thriving now.
About a year ago I had my first real and severe panic or anxiety attack. It took a while to return to a stable and familiar place. As a result, I think the anxiety of something waiting around the corner has slowly crept into every moment of my day. I have felt like I need to always be ready to square up with myself - that I need to always be ready to defend myself against something I can’t even really identify or describe. In the last year I have truly unpacked the reality of my diagnosis, and worked to accept that part of my person without diminishing my self worth. Reframing my experience not as a moment of failure but a time in which I summoned a kind of strength I didn’t know I had.
I am sharing this on the anniversary of my last round of chemotherapy, but these are trains of thought I hope on and off of every day. I feel so grateful to be here writing this now. It look a long time to find this sort of clarity, and my relationship with myself is always changing and growing, as with all things.
After a recent trip to the desert and my first sound bath at Integratron, I felt further invited to share these words. As the sound bath began, I told myself that cancer does not define me. That I am not at the mercy of who I once was. That I can be who I want to be. And when the sound bath concluded, I sat in silence and cried. I am not a skeptic by any means, but the profound effect of being with myself in that way freed me from a space, the confines of which were not really previously apparent to me.
This might be the first time in six years that I really feel that overwhelming and distracting part of my mind and body in the passenger seat for a change. That I’m the truck and not the trailer. In some ways, I didn’t realize I was hitched all this time, going nowhere fast. And coming to terms with that has been its own challenge. But acknowledging that has allowed me to let go.
(There’s so much more to unpack, and so many thanks to give for being here today, but thank you for reading this and tuning into my little sliver of time and space.)
Bard Power Port
(Shown here is my Bard PowerPort, implanted on my left and then right supraclavicular chest. It served as a long-term IV access point, allowing for safe administration of medications through the jugular that would otherwise damage smaller veins.)