Today started peacefully enough, a walk at sunrise, some work in the garden. My mind was quiet as I carefully set up a new solar watering system for the tomato plants. The birds were singing. A light breeze rustled the leaves of the trees. A few butterflies flitted and floated through the yard. I was admiring the peaceful scene when without warning an intrusive thought pushed its way into the forefront of my brain…what if the cancer comes back. Leave it to my subconscious to spoil a perfectly good morning.
Since this thought pressed itself upon me, I can’t seem to shut it off and it has spent the last two hours fluttering through my brain like a panicked bird in a cage. What if, what if, what if? I demand. And suddenly I am fighting off a brutal depression.
Fear of recurrence has not been something I think much about, that is, until this morning. I know that this fear haunts many survivors, but in my case it is something I have accepted as a possibility but I certainly haven’t been dwelling on it. Yet now, without warning, that tiny stage 1 microinvasion is clawing at me. What if, what if, what if? Do I really have the strength to do this again?
I stream sharecare windows “It’s a Beautiful World” on amazon, eight hours of beautiful views from around the world. Sometimes these peaceful scenes of beaches, rivers, oceans, and mountains help to calm me when I get like this. Still, I struggle to focus, writing is a challenge. My mind always goes back to the what if, what if, what if. Where in my body are those latent cancer cells hiding?
My Aussie senses my change in mood and with a groan plops herself down on my lap, 40 lbs of cuddly comfort. I ruffle her fur as I watch peaceful scenes of the Utah desert and then drone footage of the beaches of Hawaii. What if, what if, what if? How will I find a recurrence? It will be nearly impossible to catch it early next time. A bilateral mastectomy means no more mammograms and an MRI only every three years.
I watch the butterflies in the yard. There are more now. One is fluttering just outside the glass slider. Another is floating flower to flower by the garage. A third joins and all three dance together on the breeze. I put my head in my hands. WHAT IF, WHAT IF, WHAT IF? And then the tears come.
This happens sometimes. I am caught off guard by a tidal wave of unexpected emotion. Now I am ugly crying. It feels like someone is wringing my soul like a wet dishrag. I’m glad I am home alone this morning. If my husband were home I would have to hide in the bathroom. I am scared. There I’ve said it. I am really really scared of recurrence. There you go brain, I’ve admitted it. Now can you give me my self composure back?
I try to breathe deeply and slowly between my sniffles. I watch a scene of a pristine beach. My Aussie has draped herself over me like a blanket. I slowly stroke her fur. I am feeling a little calmer now. I can hold a thought a little longer. The panicked bird has settled, still there, but not banging on the inside of my brain anymore.
Now with some control of my feelings I can think about what a recurrence would look like. In the next few years it would most likely be a local recurrence. Maybe I would feel a new lump in the skin or muscle overlying my implants. Maybe it would be changes in the skin of my breast or nipple. My implants would need to be removed. This would now be a great loss to me. In the three months since their placement, I have become surprisingly attached to them and so has my husband.
Farther out it could appear as surprise metastatic disease. Maybe one day I get some boney back pain that won’t go away, or develop shortness of breath, or a headache that just won’t quit, all signs that new tumors are growing. What will I do if that happens? I just don’t know. My body is tired. My heart is tired. Do I really have the strength to fight this battle again? Next time there will be no escaping chemo. I am terrified of chemo. I am more scared of chemo than of death.
I watch drone footage of a misty forest. I hear birds singing in the trees outside. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. What if, what if, what if. I have already discussed my concerns about recurrence with my surgeons and the survivorship team. I know who to call if I notice any new lumps, bumps, or skin changes. My mind starts to amp up. What if they can’t get me in quickly? I am scared and fluttery all over again. My poor husband. My poor mother. How can I put them through this again?
More deep breathing. I am now watching a waterfall. My Aussie has lost interest and pads off to another part of the house. The birds outside are still singing. The butterflies are still fluttering. And today, I remind myself, I am still cancer free.
I am glad that I can admit to myself that I am scared of recurrence. Maybe now that this has bubbled to the surface (much like my survivor’s guilt) I can face it and someday let it go. Still, I am exhausted from this morning’s unexpected emotional explosion.
Today will be a day I am kind to myself. A day for self care. A day for swinging in a hammock and reading happy books about travel. Maybe I will make myself some chocolate chip cookies. Today is a day I am cancer free. And for now, that is just going to have to be enough.
