What's Been Going On For Me

an update

On Sept 2^nd, Eric and I stood on a beach in St. Bees watching the grey movements of the Irish Sea before taking our first steps of a 200 mile walk that would carry us clear across Northern England to Robin Hood’s Bay on the North Sea. The tradition is to pick up a small stone from the first coast and carry it in your pocket until you place it on the second.

Before we left, friends had asked what they could pray for.

They only answer I could summon was, “acceptance”.

So that was the stone I carried in my pocket. That of a small, smooth prayer of acceptance. It was all I had that I thought might, maybe, perhaps slay the Goliath I was facing.

Because sixteen days before leaving for Wainwright’s Coast-to-Coast hike, I was diagnosed with invasive ductile carcinoma. Breast Cancer. A treatable, survivable form of Breast Cancer, but breast cancer nonetheless.

“C.a.n.c.e.r”

As a word, “cancer” could really use some synonyms.

How is it that we have but one word for such a wildly broad spectrum of implication? Cancer is the term for something as simple as a suspicious mole removed in your doctor’s office AND for Leukemia.

That one word, “cancer”, when spoken for the first time by your doctor is a gunshot. It’s footsteps behind you in a dark alley; a tornado siren, and your spouse saying “we need to talk”, all rolled into one.

Acceptance

When friends asked what they could pray for, I knew I did not need bravery. I did not even need strength, per se. I just needed acceptance. Why? Simply because I had cancer and wished I did not.

So for 2 weeks I walked with this simplest of prayers.

When it was raining and I wished it wasn’t – I’d ask God for acceptance.

When the trail was steeper than I wished, I’d do the same.

When my legs ached and I longed for a place to rest and unlike on the Camino there were no café’s at which to stop, I’d repeat it. Acceptance.

When I wished the day’s walk was over but we had two more kilometers to go and those two kilometers felt like five, I’d whisper, “acceptance”.

A prayer, a reminder, an aspiration.

Each time I noticed myself wishing things were different, that the weather, the trail, Eric, or I myself were different, I whispered my one-word prayer. I hoped this tiny stone could hit my denial square in the forehead, knock my fear on its ass, and flatten self-pity. Because cancer is a giant, and I am so small, so ill-equipped, so prone to oppositional behavior.

So in this way, over the course of two weeks trudging across England, I practiced acceptance

I mean, what other options did I have? Fight the wind? Resent the cold? Be more miserable than necessary? I’ve done that throughout my life, and I’m exhausted.

When we got home from the walk, I told my spiritual director Jane about my one-word prayer. On the day of my surgery she sent me this perfect text message.

“Mental health is a dedication to reality at all costs”.

-M. Scott Peck

Making peace with what is becomes a struggle when the “is” in question is not what we want; when what “is” changes us, humbles us, reduces us. When the “is” isn’t even clear yet, because you’re waiting on pathology reports.

My God, the whole thing feels uncanningly like grief.

To be in grief is to be emotionally left behind. The person IS gone, the job IS lost, the body IS changed but the world in which that’s true feels 1,000 miles away from you and you’re left in a ghost land of what was, crawling through a desert of molasses toward the country of what is. And it is a fucking process.

The shit sandwich

Before leaving for the Coast-to-Coast, Eric and I sat in my oncologist’s office listening to our options. “It’s not like it used to be” he informed us, “it’s important to remember that you get to make choices”.

The choice he was referring to was this:

A lumpectomy (you mostly get to keep your boobs) followed by a course of daily radiation treatment and a lifetime of scans – a breast MRI and then six months later a Mammogram, then 6 months later a breast MRI….

OR

A mastectomy (you do NOT get to keep your boobs)– but no radiation. And no lifetime of scans.

If you are thinking to yourself, what the hell kind of choice is that?, You’re not alone.

It felt like being told cheerfully, “Nadia, you’re gonna have to eat a shit sandwich. But the great thing is you get to decide: do you want that on white or wheat?”

On October 27^th I underwent a successful double mastectomy, reconstruction and sentinel lymph node dissection ON WHEAT, the recovery from which has been longer and more uncomfortable than I anticipated. But they got good margins and found zero cancer cells in the lymph nodes.

They also did some genetic testing on my tumor to see how smart it is, like how aggressive and advanced and likely it is to return to the scene of the crime and steal some more shit. And I’m pleased to say that I have basically the stupidest kind of cancer. It’s real dumb. Like 95% chance it can’t even remember where I live, much less how to break into my house again. I’m thrilled to report my cancer resembles me in my 20s: pretty destructive, but lacks both motivation and follow-through. So, no other treatment needed!

I’d meant to get a short video of us tossing our stone in the North Sea, but I failed. Oh well, my capacity for acceptance continues to be tested!.

The thief

It will always take something, cancer. It strips things away from us: our vitality, our money, our time, our futures, and sometimes even our lives.

It is a giant and it is a thief.

That’s the weight of the word: in so many cases, “cancer” is the thing that breaks into the home of your body, steals your treasures one by one, and then sometimes—after all the suffering—burns the whole thing down.

But that’s not my story.

My cancer just sort of broke into my house, scared the shit out of me, took a couple beautiful things, then replaced all the comfortable seating with folding chairs and left with the decorating budget. And I am, honest to God, unbelievably grateful it didn’t take more.

So, my dear readers, this is what has been going on for me. I don’t want to minimize it, nor do I want to exaggerate. It’s been difficult. And even as I say that, I am mindful that it is not vaguely comparable to what most cancer patients endure. Just know that I am ok. Truly.

Thank you for all your prayers and for sticking around while I gave myself time to recover. I’m not sure I could ever earn the trust you have in me. But I can make damn sure I never take it for granted.

There’s so much I want to say, but we will get to that. For now, I will just say that I am truly grateful.

I really do have everything I might want or need in this life.

…except nipples.

And that’s not too bad.

Be gentle with yourselves.

More soon…

Love, Nadia

p.s.- I’ve been asking for folks to please refrain from sharing things with me like: natural remedies, anecdotes about people you know who have had breast cancer (unless it’s you!), and I can’t state this strongly enough… anything with pink ribbons. Thanks for your understanding.

p.p.s. If you want a journaling prompt, or if you’d like to answer in the comments, I’d love to hear: is there something you might need to accept right now rather than avoid, deny or fight any longer?