But today, I have news.
What most of you don't know (myself included) is that cancer literally never goes away. Sure, the cells die and you are "cured"... but when someone hands you that diagnosis, you are basically signing a secret pact to keep the oncologists and radiologists in business for. a. long. time. It is years of follow ups and holding your breath for results. It is hypocondriasis at its finest. Obsessively mistaking every ache and bump in your body for relapse. It is a lump in your throat for a week waiting on PET scan results.
What else can I say about that feeling? That horrible, ominous, sinking feeling when I am sitting in the West Clinic waiting room. It is quite possibly the worst emptiness. A mixture of dread, neediness, and guilt. Emotions not normally found side by side. Emotions that mix like oil and water in my mind. I am teetering on the edge of "normalcy" (whatever that is), with my shoulder length hair, rosy cheeks, and ten pound weight gain. Uncomfortably shifting in my seat, knowing that my status could change at any moment. Pretending not to notice all the scarves and skinny, skinny people in the room.
In a sense, I belong nowhere. Not to either world. Although I prefer this terrifying limbo to the hell it was before, especially granted the glances I am afforded into "healthy" between the appointments and scans I trek to every four months. I forget all about it, just like I forgot about this blog. Funny how life works like that. It is promising though, since it promises a time ten years from now when it will all just be a story. One line squeezed somewhere in between medical school and residency. A passing trivia.
And now... the news. I did have a PET scan last Wednesday. And I did get the results back three days ago. And they are just now REALLY starting to sink it. And I want to scream to everyone (who I haven't already told) what the scans so wonderfully showed: NO EVIDENCE OF DISEASE.
No. Evidence. Of. Disease.
When I told my mom, she instantly burst into tears. A relief so wonderful it was too much to hold inside. And I'll admit, it wasn't until I heard those tears that I had even given those results a second thought. I had not REALLY thought about what it all meant: that the cancer continues to be beaten down. GONE. Something I prayed for everyday of chemotherapy. Something I still pray for when those fears creep back in. Something I could not be more blessed to hear. Something I will not take for granted.
The most wonderful words ever to be spoken to a cancer patient.
And so, for the next four months I will live in the land of "healthy"... until I have to go back for another look inside. Until I have to sit in that waiting room again, terrified, a couple more inches on my hair and a couple more months between freedom and smothering. Looking for one more happy phrase to add to my collection, until eventually, as the time between appointments continually widens, I am finally done.
Liv
I'm scared but I'm not coming down
And I won't run for my life
She's got her jaws just locked now in smile
But nothing is all right
All right
I want something else
To get me through this life
I want something else
I'm not listening when you say
Good-bye
