“D- Day”
Two years ago, today, at 9:05 in the morning, I received news of my Breast cancer diagnosis. I was sitting on my loveseat, holding my husband’s hand, thinking, “This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me.”
Two years later, I have discovered it’s not. “D-Day” has been one of the most transformative experiences I’ve encountered.
Yes, I have had oodles of death thoughts. I superimpose my head on Ali MacGraw’s noggin in the deathbed scene from “Love Story,” plan my funeral arrangements (always a fun hobby) and sometimes cry with fear and dread for what’s coming next.
Two years ago, my loving, ever-astute hubby uttered, “You’re not dead yet” as I went all “Cancer Chicken Little” minutes after I got the phone call. And so far, two years later, he’s right. I am not dead yet.
I still have anxiety, uncertainty, sadness and frustration over the death of so many things in my life, thus far.
The death of a so-called, “unaffected” life.
The death of being able to avoid doctors and appointments.
The death of not having to think about such things as “biopsy,” “mastectomy,” “Survivor,” “Recurrence” and “Here’s a pink ribbon for you to wear as a Warrior.”
No, those normal and “easy healthy” things are gone now. I am not “cured” or “out of the woods.” Really, at best, I live on the outskirts of the woods. I try to make friends with any woodland creatures I can find.
And then there’s the death to the concept that I am supposed to have profound revelations and greater levels of wisdom. I’ve learned some practical stuff…
Bring a pillow with you to serve as a buffer between you and the seatbelt directly after your breast surgery (especially the mastectomy variety).
Ask for butterfly needles for any blood draws if you have impossible and squirmy veins.
Chocolate-flavored protein shakes save psyches and marriages as this intense, protein- loading, post- treatment healing has you having a nervous breakdown as you count grams for maximum tissue regeneration.
(Yum).
I’ve learned what it is like to be a woman without breasts. The pity, the invisibility, the judgment for not choosing implants and more surgeries to achieve these “new and improved” breasts.
I’ve learned time may not be on my side.
Last year, during my first “D-Day,” I celebrated being here, one year later. One marker of time, not very impressive, not “twenty- year survivor” in its epic-ness. One year: 365 days. Still, I was “not dead yet.” In honor of that, my husband and I made a date out of “D-day.” Complete with carousel ride.
This year, I’m not sure if we’ll go around on the merry-go-round again. 730 days. I mark time, nonetheless.
Two years.
“Not dead yet.”
Put that on a pink ribbon and wear it.
I am starting to see the poignant absurdity to this ribbon-ness of marking occasions and designating conquerors. As a kid, in my 4-H days, I won scores of ribbons. Big, purple, Grand Champion ribbons with cauliflower-head tops to them. They declared, “Victory,” “Success,” “Life-affirming, not dead yet” stuff. And they always guaranteed a trip to the State Fair.
Now, I’m stuck with only Breast cancer ribbons? I should, at the very least, get a discount to the State Fair. Coupons for cheese curds? Something.
But I get… a deeper connection to mortality and spirituality. Cheese curds sound tastier.
I’m at the intersection of “Not dead yet” and “Will I be back next year, next D-Day?” Marking time. I never said I had the ability to control time, and what that time would look like. I wait for the light to change.
Green? Or Red?
I tell myself, “Be present. Be in the moment.” I am within this two-year moment since that phone call, “Unfortunately, there is the presence of cancer.”
I celebrate today. I do mark the occasion with meaning. I may not be giddy, but I never really was the giddy type anyway. Me acting giddy would just annoy everyone.
So, “D-day.” A day representing battles, battle scars, fear, pain, education, frustration, uncertainty and… hope.
After all, I’m “not dead yet.”
Copyright © 2019 by Sheryle Cruse