Cancerversary

It’s bitterly cold, as I click-click my way on the promenade. All around me, I hear the staccato beats of everyone’s boots clicking away. I fit in with the throng of people rushing along La Defense- long dark coat, thick scarf, bag/backpack, and clicking boots. My eyes have full make-up and my lips hold a deep purple tint. I’m feeling quite pleased with myself this morning, as my phone remains securely in my pocket; unneeded for directions to my destination. I left my house at 420 AM, dressed to the nines, to board a train for Paris. As we zoomed through the dark French countryside, I had my breakfast of a delectable huit pastry and created a presentation for the morning. Exiting the train, I could just see the scraps of light peeping out over Gare d’Est in Paris. I was proud to remember the two metro lines that would get me to the RER trains that would take me to the office. I connected at one of the biggest stations in Europe, and all my Parisian experiences surged through my body as I ran for a full train, without fully checking the name, just trusting my instincts that it was headed the correct direction, and my gut recalling the stop I needed.

It’s the first Monday in the new year, and I’m writing this in Paris; the typical view of the Eiffel is obscured only from the snow clouds hovering over the city. The last few years have brought many changes and surprises, for sure. The new year is always a nice moment of reflection, but it is also a reminder of how different life looks from what younger Jen expected.

This would be anyone’s dream. A real-live Emily in Paris moment. There is something magical about Paris- and I felt it in the air the moment the train pulled into the station. And yet- I felt the pangs of “what if”. The same what ifs that come up with alarming frequency: how different I had hoped my life would look now. And typically, that has led to waves of grief over the life I will never have. But this morning in Paris, perhaps the four hours of sleep short-circuited my brain into a moment of gratitude. Our recent family Christmas letter left me feeling defined by only cancer and the lack of a guy. The click of my boots on the promenade restored to me some of my self-worth. No one scurrying alongside me and most that I would be speaking too that day had any idea of my cancer background or marital status. And no one cared. It’s been crazy hard, but I’ve established myself here. I’m a corporate girly now, for better or worse (minus the heels). And I felt gratitude for this life I never planned to live, but now have.

I know people can be envious- when they see the size or location of my apartment, when they hear someone ask my opinion or advice in a meeting, or see the picturesque Instagram posts. I hear so often “I wish I had your life”.

Life’s not perfect, and it is hard, and I hide much of the hard things. But this Monday – I was going to go forth and conquer.

It’s Friday night now. Crazy insane week, and crazy insane travel back from Paris (delayed trains, freezing cold, finally arrived in Lux too late for the busses to run and couldn’t’ find a taxi, so ended up walking 30 min in the freezing snow home). But I’m still grateful and holding on to that excitement from Paris. Tomorrow is 14 years since I first found out I had cancer. I’m getting closer to the 50/50 point of cancer and no-cancer life.

This week, I’ve made an intentional effort that cancer not define me. A lady at lunch last Sunday asked about my “stupid cancer” bracelet, knowing my cancer past. She asked to hear about my actual cancer journey, and for the first time in my life, I declined, with a polite “another time”. The guy next to me also asked about my bracelet; he was mostly a stranger, thrown by chance into the seat next to me, so I answered his direct questions with few details. He shared that his mother was going through a pancreatic cancer diagnosis. There was no pity on either end- just a moment of shared sorrow as we realized a bit how hard the journey for the other was. But these conversations were the start of me taking back my cancer life.

People who meet me don’t know me just for cancer. I can actually have fun facts now; people walk into my house and ask about sprinklers, not cancer; Europe has provided a fresh start to control my cancer narrative and distribution.

And so tomorrow will bring it’s own rush of emotions, as it does every year. Another year facing infertility, diabetes, and cardiovascular issues, the remnants of chemo. But I’ll have to manage.

It’s Saturday night now. Last night was a lovely peaceful impromptu dinner with a few friends- the conversation flowed and my favorite memory is seeing people sprawled on the couches, the weight of a long week clear in their posture, and the passed around boxes of macarons and chocolates finishing. I wasn’t fully certain my plans today, but a trip to a different city fell through. I accepted R’s generous (and repeated offer) to go grocery shopping. He generously offers when he is in town, and today the offer was exclusively for my benefit as he is travelling tomorrow and wouldn’t buy any food. We went to my favorite produce store, where I stocked up on canned tomatoes, sweet potatoes, and other heavy foods. I got a bonus stop at a lovely Asian market where I left with a giant sack of coveted kimchi. We went to run another errand, closer to G’s house, and he picked me up from the grocery, where I stopped to buy my annual cancerversary cake (or rather tarts) that we ate later. We made a pit stop to see his family’s 5 cats, and there was something so blessedly calming sitting on the floor with the most affectionate of the cats. This morning, for no apparent reason, tears had come streaming down my face on the bus and the tram, and I felt the same with the purring feline nestled to my leg. I recalled fondly Duino and her happy presence when I was first sick. There’s something calming and restorative about an animal choosing you and sitting cheerily with you.

It’s interesting, this life I have. Filled with hardships and friendships, happiness and grief, darkness and love. I recalled this morning, the same morning now 14 years ago. I vividly remember the faces of the doctors, the sight of the needles and the coldness of an x-ray machine. Just this week, I was hobbling through a workout when “The Sound of Silence” came on, the song that was blasted daily as I struggled in pain to hold still during radiation. My body was overwhelmed at emotion as the song played, and I nearly asked to change it; but then I realized, this is me- taking back my life. Working out, regaining my strength and surviving this life. And for that, I’m grateful