Today. Today is one year after the day that I went into the hospital, a newly-minted 34 year old, a mother of three little boys under 7, a wife to my husband of 11 years, a daughter, a friend, a sister. The day that I went into the hospital to have a double mastectomy. To, after undergoing 6 rounds of chemotherapy for Stage 2a Triple Positive breast cancer, find out how effective the chemo had been. To, hopefully find that there was no further lymph node involvement. To hopefully hear the words “clear margins.”
And today, because of you, I get to say the words that mean the most to me: cancer free.
One year. Cancer free.
…
You didn’t know you’d be a part of my story. When you went into medicine, you didn’t know that it was for me, did you? You didn’t know that I would meet you, a terrified young mom, begging for you to just tell me what to do so I could stay around this earth to see my boys do things like draw pictures to tell me to “KEEP OUT” of their rooms, play with sticks in the yard like they are swords, and tell me they don’t like the Tikka Masala at dinner. You didn’t know that the things that you might find normal and mundane in life, you’d be giving me as a gift. You didn’t know you’d be giving me birthdays, anniversaries, minutes, seconds, days, and a year. Because you decided to become a nurse. A doctor. An aide. A medical receptionist. An ultrasound tech. A pharmacist. A med tech. The people who administer radiation. You didn’t know.
You didn’t know that you would put me at ease with your small talk through my vitals. You didn’t know that you would make cancer the furthest thing from my mind as I got to know your life behind the scrubs. You didn’t know that you would make me feel like a warrior when you said, “We are gonna kick the shit out of this.” You didn’t know that you would become the person I trusted my entire life with, without question. You didn’t know that you would become like family to me. You didn’t know that you would quell my concerns and tears and anxiety by knowing what meds I need. What words I need. You didn’t know that I would hang on your every word about living life to the fullest and take it as my prescription for the rest of my days. You didn’t know that I needed you. And will continue to need you. You didn’t know that I would fall for you… I know. It sounds weird. But you didn’t know that I would love you for saving my life. You didn’t know that I would allow you to create my treatment plan and believe that you know better than I. You didn’t know that I would need you to tell me it’s okay… it’s okay to break down… it’s okay to be scared… it’s okay to be tired… it’s okay to sleep… it’s okay to jump out of a plane. You didn’t know that the words you would choose and say would make or break me. You didn’t know that your genuine interest in me would keep me coming back, a happy patient. You didn’t know that you would become my first call when something was scary, or hurt, or concerning. You didn’t know that I wouldn’t know a thing about what you are talking about… and just needed for you to know what you were talking about. You didn’t know that I would be impressed beyond belief with your ability to have the most recent research and know what was best for my diagnosis. You didn’t know just how grateful I would be for your humility — your ability to say, “I am going to confer with my colleagues…” You didn’t know how much your smile, your wigs, your handouts, your services would make me feel more whole. You didn’t know that I would be so weak and your fluids that you administered would make all the difference in my stamina. You didn’t know that the antiemetics you prescribed helped me function as a mom. You didn’t know that the chemo drugs that you would carefully put into my veins would feel like FIGHT to me. You didn’t know that your hugs and your words and your smile would make me feel like treatment and office visits were a ray of sunshine instead of a burden. You didn’t know that I appreciated you listening and answering every question I had with patience. You didn’t know just how important those gentle needle sticks into my port would make my life easier. You didn’t know how much I’d love you for giving me the most important gift you can give a person: your time. You didn’t know how I’d love you for making less like cancer had ruined my body, my mind, my heart, my identity. You didn’t know… I’m certain you had no idea that in your ability to spread goodness, you’d teach me that it was all I wanted to do from that day forward. You didn’t know how much your gentle disposition, or your sense of humor, or your sarcasm, or your ability to be 100% honest… you didn’t know how those characteristics you have would make you the most perfect care provider you could be. And that it is such a gift that you decided to use your gifts to help. To support. To care. To save. You had no idea that your excitement for my excitement would form a bond and a friendship that I couldn’t have known would form either. You didn’t know that one of your patients would feel like God put you in your field just for her. And how much she’d appreciate your acknowledgment of the Mighty Physician in her care plan.
You couldn’t have known the impact you would have. You couldn’t have known that you would become so much more than a doctor. A nurse. A therapist. A…A… whatever your role is. You couldn’t have known you’d be able to produce warriors from their own wreckage. Or at least keep people comfortable in the storms of their lives.
You couldn’t have known that when you go home after a long day to your families and lives, you would have left behind, in your day, an imprint on someone’s heart that would never go away. You couldn’t have known that you would become the heroes in someone’s story.
But you did. You are. You have.
…
Today. I look at the post-it beside my bed. Framed for a daily reminder. Of the day following my mastectomy when my nurse case manager, Deb, called and said, “We got it!” The day she told me that of the 13 additional lymph nodes they took, they were all clear. The day she said that my Oncologist, my plastic surgeon, my Surgical Oncologist, my radiation oncologist, my entire team at Nebraska Medicine, felt like things looked really wonderful. And that I, for all that we knew, could call myself “cancer-free.”
I think about allllll the care providers who have become a part of me… Catherine, Dr. Peterson, Dr. Green, Dr. Thayer, Dr. Wahl, Nurse Deb, alllllllllllll of the VP Oncology nurses who provided my chemo {I adore you}, the front desk staff, the phlebotomists, the people who took care of me while I was neutropenic, the people who cared for me pre-op, post-op and all the times in between, the anesthesiology team — like Dr. Nordhues — who provided comfort for me and kept me safe. The people who checked me in for every appointment and fluid fill and lab draw and Lupron shot and Neulasta shot and radiation treatment… and… and. To Vicki and Angela and Craig and Jessi who made me rad. The plastics team — Stacey, Dr. Johnson, Katy — alllllll the people who said, “You won’t have to look at cancer every day.” My therapist, Dr. Clinkenbeard for kicking ass and giving my tools and Lexapro and at times, just letting me cry. Dr. Saxena who was vigilant and figured out that my lump was concerning and sprang into action.To Jenny… who couldn’t have known you would become one of my favorite parts of all of it. And Dr. Tandra… my Superman… my trusted advisor… my brilliant physician… and now, my friend. And to anyone I’ve forgotten {because the Village is mighty, people} Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
They didn’t know that I would be forever grateful that they were my team. That they were my cheerleaders. That they were my braintrust and think tank. They didn’t know when they went to school that I was Patient X… and that they would become so much more than a name in my life… but a character in my story.
To my family, friends, medical team, the FUBC, boys, and my husband, Adam… It is never lost on me… not for one day… that my fight took a village. I just jumped… through the hoops. I just blindly trusted. I just survived it. And you helped me thrive. And continue to do so.
And this is just one girl’s story. You couldn’t have possibly known that there would be hundreds, thousands, that you would comfort… save… care for. And that you would make all the difference.
…
One year cancer free. This morning, I woke up… my eyes opened… I breathed in and out. I felt how sore my legs were from a Kettle Bell workout yesterday. I drank coffee. I laughed with my husband. I watched my boys play “puppy” together. And I got to write this. I woke up, abnormally normal. My spirit and my soul in tact. Post cancer. Goodness, friends. We made it. We did it. We are thriving. And so very grateful for every. single. day. And we will continue, as a team… for one year… five years… and until this mama is making hilarious dancing videos with dentures in.
You didn’t know. You couldn’t have known. But thank you… a million and one times over. You’ve made all the difference in my journey, my treatment, my healing… my life.
