The scars fade

Once the cancer is gone the journey of recovery begins. There are finally hours in a day that I forget I had cancer.

Recently, I had a brief moment of shock.

Its pretty rare for me to pay attention to my body, but I had a few extra minutes in the shower and I ran my hand over the scars left from the reconstruction surgery. My hand noticed that the scars under my left breast were not raised anymore. They are completely smooth. The scars are white.

I held my breath and thought to myself, “Wow, I can’t believe the scars are fading.” Then I thought again, “Well, it has been over two years since I was cut.”

I took the few moments to appreciate the journey I had. I took a few deep breaths. It was like time stilled around me and life was quiet. I was brought back into the journey, flashing back to my surgeons telling me what to expect days, weeks and years after recovery. I am still on track.

And there will be more days that I forget I had cancer. And there will be days it feels like it did before my diagnosis. Maybe it will feel like normal.

I did a normal thing today- I worried about Covid. I wasn’t feeling good - had a terrible headache but no other symptoms and I couldn’t decide if I could put a reason to the headache. So, after worrying about it all day I finally took an at-home test. Negative. I don’t feel better physically but I guess I feel a slight weight lifted from my shoulders. At least for this moment.

But hours later, I lost it – emotionally and mentally. I lost it, entirely. I was tired but also afraid. Afraid for making a mistake by letting my kids out into the world. When I had cancer, I only had to worry about me being sick or incapacitated (in many cancer cases, worse), but with this damn pandemic there are so many others to think about in a different way. Like real ways- emotional and physical damage could be done if I let my guard down and try to get back to normal before its “safe.”

They say with this new variant, omicron, that we will all likely just get it. Its too easily spread and since it is not as dangerous as the original coronavirus or Delta, we shouldn’t be as concerned with it. And this doesn’t sit well with me at all. See, its like saying, “oh, that’s just stage 0 cancer, not 1 or 2, so its not as bad.” And while biologically, that may be true, we need to worry about the emotions and mental health surrounding covid. Because as a society, and as individuals and as families, we are pandemic weary. We are not our normal selves. We are on edge. We are all a ticking time bomb waiting to go off. Full of anxiety and anger over the unknown And being on edge, sometimes we make poor decisions. We don’t think clearly.

In September, I homeschooled my kids to protect them from covid. They understood why we were keeping them home and they were comfortable with it as well. Once they were vaccinated, we sent them back to school, as they were better protected. But now with omicron, there’s almost no chance they won’t be exposed and depending on the situation, almost no chance they won’t get it. So after sheltering them as much as I could, I feel like it would be against their best interest to willingly and knowingly let them back out into school, where, regardless of the safety precautions they take, is undoubtedly a place of superspreading, right? How can it not be? (And I have the utmost respect for the people at school on the ground who are lysoling and reminding kids to put masks over their noses and dealing with the mental health issues that undoubtedly exist). Its not about that, its about me as a parent figuring out if the mental health of my kids and their need for “normalcy” and being with classmates and listening to teachers outweighs the inevitability they will get sick and bring it home to our whole family.

And that is why I sat on the floor of my closet – my breakdown spot – and cried and screamed and asked for help. Because I am exhausted from this and not ok. And its hard to admit I am not ok. Because I have to be ok. There are people who depend on me daily.

I screamed for normal. I don’t even remember what that was, and I know I couldn’t go back to it.

I screamed because I am scared. I don’t want my kids to be sick. Hell, I don’t want to be sick either. Its all still so unknown (even two years into this).

I screamed for help. I was never good with needing anything. In fact, I think it wasn’t until I was 39 when I first asked someone for help. And that’s why this is particularly hard for me these days, still in the middle of this damn pandemic with more decisions to make. I need help. I can’t even describe what kind of hep I need. I need someone to make a decision for me about pulling my kids out of school. I need help with how many times we take a risk doing something. I need help making decisions on what to have for dinner. Because I had cancer and then the pandemic started and I am so tired of making decisions. Every day it’s another decision. Weighing risk.

I feel needy, and with that comes the guilt of needing. I feel like needing help means I am letting people down by not being strong.

And it reminds me that again, this is just another lump in the road. Its been one lump after another, really. And though I could use a break from it, today I am going to focus on the moments and see if I can make it till tomorrow without breaking down. Because, even though we are in the middle of this second and third bump in this pandemic road, the scars we are forming today, will fade.