People ask me, “when will I feel normal again?”
That’s a biggie.
I remember talking to my friend, April, who has two little girls. I remember asking, rock star, Anne, who seemed so much further past it all than me. I remember asking, Kayla. And then, at a Gala for Project Pink’d, I asked a woman who was 8 years or so out. Who seemed to have it all so together. Who seemed to really get it. I said, “are you afraid it will come back?” And she said this: I’ve already done that. I’m not doing it again.
I remember asking each woman in an attempt to actually steal a little bit of their chutzpah. A little bit of their guts. A little bit of their contentedness.
Will I ever feel normal again? Will I ever not be scared? Will I ever actually feel like I do NOT have cancer?
To you who are reading this and you are there, grasping at as many sticks as you can hoping to grab the long one. Hoping to wake up one morning, feel the sun on your face, and have your stomach feel unknotted. Begging to get through this and not have life feel this questionable every day. To you…
Yes. Yes. Yes.
When I wake in the morning, I grab my phone. I look at the time. I look at the frame on my bedside table on a post-it from the Buffett Cancer Center… not on fancy foiled stationery. Or beautifully cursive writing. Just a post-it. In a $4.99 frame from Target. And it says this:
Today you do not have cancer in your body. Be grateful to God, Doctors, family, and friends. Spread goodness.
It’s there because I knew. Okay. That’s a lie. It’s there because I hoped. I hoped. Hoped. Prayed. Wished. Begged. Leveraged. Bargained. I did it all. Every day. I asked God for a day that would feel normal again. A day where I wouldn’t feel anxious about dying from cancer. A day when life would feel, somehow, like it did before.
I can’t pinpoint when or where it happened. I am guessing it wasn’t like a bolt of lightning. It wasn’t something that zap just happened. It had to have been a slow burn. Something that smoldered inside of me and over time, it sniffed out the fear. A little, day by day. Because of my doctors. Because of my faith. Because of my optimism. Because of my cure.
Over time, a new normal settled into me. And I am, day by day, settling into it.
I don’t know who I am yet. As in post–cancer me. But I do know that I do feel it. Normal.
My body… it isn’t normal. My breasts are an experiment. Like seriously. But they might somehow be more like real boobs than mine ever were. My weight goes up and down and all around with surgeries and treatments and pills. My hair is a constant surprise. But honestly, it’s somehow easier that way. No one expects normal of me. Like before, I felt pressure that all women feel. And now I somehow feel more free than ever to find comfort in the skin I lug around. I feel like people don’t expect any type of perfection from me. They just seem overjoyed when I’m happy. And well, that’s the easy part.
My heart… it isn’t normal. It has been broken into a million pieces. Shattered from the loss of innocence. And yet patched back together with a capacity to get to love greater. And a need to connect deeply with the people I hold dear.
My brain… it isn’t normal. Gosh. It never has been. It’s never thought the way others do. And I always felt a bit out of place for that. And I suppose I still do. But I also know that out of place might be right where I am bound to be.
My soul… it isn’t normal. I feel more connected than ever to heaven but try to have my hands daily on my earthly life — my children. My better half. My family. My friends. — all the people who make this life worth living.
My desire to make it all matter… it isn’t normal. Not one bit. Every. Single. Day. I want it to matter. I want IT ALL to matter. To be meaningful. To leave an impact.
So to you who might be asking:
Will I ever feel normal again? Will I ever not be scared? Will I ever actually feel like I do NOT have cancer?
You will find normal again. I can’t say when. I can’t say where. Every person is different. But even my friends who may forever be battling their disease assure me, “at some point, it just becomes your normal.”
You. You will find you. And you will have a peace and a comfort in that. You will have a zest and zeal and you will want to do it all and experience it all right now. You will find normal inside your transformed life and body and brain and heart and soul. And you will say, “I’ve done this. I don’t plan to do it again.”
I am here. In the after. I’ve been given a tremendous gift: cancer. Free. And while I’m still wading through the waters, they feel less cumbersome. I feel less overcome with waves of fear. And anxiety. And what-ifs. And I feel more fixed in the now. The today. The present of the present. I have found a normal. Even if it is different than before.
So I believe you will get here, too. To the place where you feel free of the weight of the word cancer. Free from the daily anxiety. The very first thought of your day being tied to the disease.
It might not be today. Or tomorrow. Your day may be months down the road. And your normal will certainly be a new one. But where you meet your normal self again, the road will seem easier to trudge down. And your life will feel less alone.
Will I ever feel normal again? Will I ever not be scared? Will I ever actually feel like I do NOT have cancer?
In the words of April. Anne. Kayla. And me.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
