I was going through pictures the other day, attempting to organize all my random documentation for last year. I have notes in a journal, on my phone, in Word documents, on social media, scribbled in random spots in random places. I feel the urge to document, but also the urge to get organized. The more I look, the more impossible and daunting it seems, but in an attempts to consolidate slightly, I have been moving stuff from random places, to my blog, and trying to match pictures (also randomly-kept) to things I wrote.
I remember taking each of these. At the time, I felt skinny, bald, pale, alien-looking, and really happy. Some of these were sent to my brothers or McKay to try to creep them out. Most of these I didn't want to post on social media because of how I looked. Still, looking back today, each of these pictures make me happy and grateful. Before I found out I had cancer, I came across this series of photographs a husband took of his wife as she was going through it. They were all black and whites. She was pictured mostly alone. If there was anyone else in the images, it was to add emphasis to the fact that this disease, dark and morbid itself, was causing a ripple-like effect of darkness. They showed tears, loneliness, and isolation. They began with an image of a couple, and ended with a picture of a grave. Cancer was the theme and the enemy. The pictures were beautiful, but in a dark, depressing way. They were the kind of pictures you don't want to look at, but have to. Then you close your computer and do what you can to push away that somber feeling they left you with.
At the beginning of my treatments, the unknowns were the hardest. I didn't really know what to expect. Once I was officially diagnosed and staged, I didn't have to wonder anymore. There was a plan in action and a finish line in view, however far it may have been. I remember working hard to get my mind to a place where I could truthfully say, "come what may." I was loading dishes into the dishwasher one afternoon, the sun was shining through the window (or maybe not, but it sure felt like it.) and I genuinely felt at peace with the thought that I could die. Stories had been told to me of people with better odds than I had, who had died (by the way, who says those kinds of things?!) and I knew it was a possibility. However small, it didn't matter. For those few minutes in the kitchen, I was okay with that. I knew His plan was better than mine. If that was the plan, come what may.
I really tried to avoid the internet. I had been advised to and also I didn't want to read anything. Cancer is so individual and I felt and still feel that when it comes to cancer, what has happened to someone else has nothing to do with what does or may happen to you. It's too complex. I did gain comfort in the fact that there were other girls my age going through similar things. That I wasn't the only 27-year-old mom who had to deal with an illness, when all I wanted to do was be the kind of mom and wife I was used to being. There was this girl I came across who had cancer and said "You can't put your cancer journey in a box." I hated that, and even told a few people that I didn't agree with it. If course you could put it in a (duct-taped) box! That was exactly what I was going to do when my journey was over. I fiercely tried to preserve normality. And then, I couldn't anymore. A friend came to pick up my kids (which I was mad at my mom for requesting) and I couldn't say that I wasn't exhausted anymore. I couldn't fake it. I just broke down on her shoulder and said, "I'm so tired." After that day, I decided I needed the courage to break up with my definition of motherhood. My definition of wife. My my definition of me. That I didn't need to lose those titles or those roles because of cancer. I didn't need to lose anything because of cancer. And strangely, cancer gave me more.
I knew that there was a lot I couldn't preserve- the ability to carry around my kids, the ability to take the to the park and run with them, the ability to cook dinner, how I looked, how much free time I had, the list goes on. It would have been possible to let go of those things and fill those holes with anger and resentment, but I knew that in order to preserve what mattered most to me, I couldn't do that- I had experienced peace and joy in my life and I knew that was something I could preserve.
As a quick caveat- I would never judge how another endures trials. I can imagine some trials that would stretch me much more than cancer. I know people who have endured much more than cancer. I also recognize that people's life experiences give them tools to endure hard things, and all our tools are different. Thankfully, my greatest tool was my knowledge that I am a daughter of Heavenly Father who loves me, and that I have a Savior who could help me. So I started on my knees. I didn't quite know where to start, but I knew that in some way, this new way I would experience life could bring greater understanding, a better perspective than I had, and a deepening value on the things that really matter. I knew that because I believed there was a plan for my life. That things don't happen by change. Things happen to give us opportunities. In this case, I felt it was to grow. I opened my scriptures and during those moments felt hope for the future. I felt peace. I felt calm in the midst of something that shouldn't have been calm. I felt fear creep in at times and would stubbornly cling to that edge that held peace and hope. I refused to fall into fear.
Over time, it became easier to do that. I kept a journal where I would write down each night how God had assisted and helped me that day. After a while, those instances which could have been seen as coincidence or chance, became truer to me that statistics on a cancer pamphlet. I began to trust God over man. A woman once brought me dinner and asked about my treatment. I told her when I would be done and she replied with, "There's always reoccurrence!" Somehow, it didn't phase me. My reliance wasn't on her.
I remember rocking Cash one day in his room and feeling almost tangible peace, even excitement. The room felt heavy with it and bright. Simultaneously I felt ridiculous for feeling like that and knew that by no way was this natural for me or a trait of my personality (which was more often, needing to be in control and know the future). I realized at that point that it was the Savior. The grace being given to me was of Him. It wasn't mine, it was His. From that point after, I recognized it as that. And miraculously, it hasn't left- even to this point.
When I look back at these pictures, I feel happy. I see brightness and hope. I see a time in my life when my faith became stronger. When my vision became more clear. I miss last year often. I still have a small amount of treatment for five years (no big deal- just shots and pills) and every time I go back to SCCA where I received my treatment, I feel that it is in so many ways, a sacred place. In so many ways, a place where miracles happened. In many ways, like home to me.
I would never want to put my cancer journey in a box. I understand what she meant now. It's part of me. I draw from it every day and miss it often. My perspective during that time, was in so many ways, offered to me from the Savior. I was given grace and peace from Him. I hope all the time that at some point, maybe, that perspective and peace can be something I develop and don't have to be given. But maybe not. And I'm learning that's often the point of trials in life. I have heard the phrase that God will never give us a trial we can't handle. I don't believe it. Heavenly Father gives us trials we can't handle all the time, so we rely on the Savior. Cancer shifted my focus, fortified my faith, and gave me so much more than I had before. I miss last year a lot.
(...but my hair is three inches and I like that too!)
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