Sunday morning

Good walk in the park with Jessie this morning. With the shortening days, arriving at 6:00 a.m. meant we were able to see the sun rise. Again it seemed a quiet morning, creature-wise. The most unusual creature spotting of the day was at the end of our walk, when to prolong it some, I took us back around the pond on the opposite side. There are two interesting trees - some kind of curly leaf willow - that must have once stood very close to the edge of the pond, both of which have fallen over or been toppled by wind. And there they lie, and seem to be thriving horizontally. Odd. Anyway, we passed them, keeping an eye on the pond in case the heron appeared. I heard voices and thought perhaps other walkers were approaching us from the other side of the pond. Instead we came upon a young couple laying down on colorful beach towels. A little further long, we came across another young couple on another brightly colored beach towel. At 6:45 a.m.? I wondered if they had spent the night in the park. At any rate, other than the Mallards, squirrels and one lone Canada goose (who seems to have been left behind) - these 2 couples were the only wildlife we encountered this morning.

Yesterday I attended the "Celebrating Survivorship" program at the hospital, celebrating survivors of gynecological cancers. There were perhaps 75 or 85 people there, mostly women, but obviously some spouses and other family members. Dr. R gave a brief introductory talk. Dr. M didn't talk, but was mentioned by numerous women who "shared" their stories at various points during the program. It evoked a wide range of mixed feelings in me. First arriving and getting a hug from Dr. R caused me to tear up. At the same time, it did seem that the majority of women there have put cancer further behind them than I have at this point. (This was the 7th year of this program.) It was inspiring to see so many women doing well, but also reminded me that I am still very close to the experiences of diagnosis, surgery, chemo and radiation. I ran into Dr. M at the end of the program and again, I have to say, that seeing him is a very positive experience for me. He exudes a belief in my being "cured" - not to say that he doesn't want to see me regularly, etc., but he seems so confident.

That's important because I realized something recently, which I expressed to my girlfriends V, S and M, when we had dinner last week. I realized that during the first 2-3 months after my treatment ended, I felt ... great. It was such a relief to complete treatment. It was an even greater relief to find myself feeling better and better every day - instead of worse and worse as had been the case during the accumulated side effects of the various treatments. Then at some point - not exactly sure when, but more or less some time during August - it seemed as if as my life really began to be "normal" again, I found anxiety lifting its ugly face within me.

What was I anxious about ? I asked myself, when I became aware I was. I guess that's obvious - that cancer could reoccur. And not only come back, but come back worse. It was as if during the first several months after treatment, I had no expectations beyond day-to-day living. Just being alive was wonderful. I was just grateful to put treatment behind me and live. All too soon I found myself becoming invested in making "plans," in thinking about "the future." "Today" was not enough, I wanted more. And so the fear of "what if" was born: What if cancer comes back? What if I only have a year to live? 5 years to live? What if? (And, you know, the first time you go through cancer, what you're afraid of is more-or-less the unknown. Because you've never had cancer or gone through chemo. But now, this "what if" is a grown up "what if" that has a better idea of what's involved. In some ways, an informed "what if" is less scary than fear of the unknown; but in other ways, it carries the weight of the concrete, the dread of reality.)

I need to remember what I wrote in"What I've Learned (So Far) From Cancer" - which I remind myself WAS addressed to me. I don't know if cancer will come back. But am I really going to spend every day in the meantime being anxious about that unknown? Even a perfect morning like today's, when the sunrise spread like a blush across the sky overhead? When Jessie sat patiently, likely hoping for a careless chipmunk's passing, as I moved slowly through my T'ai Chi form's pattern? When I heard birds calling nearby, and noticed how the flowers in the beds of the perennial garden all leaned as one, together, tilting to the east? Should I spend these precious moments being afraid?

This is all I have. This moment. I will not be afraid. At least I will try. I will live and I will be stubbornly hopeful.

Peace.