Six

July 6, 2017. Six. Whole. Years.

This morning I got up and got ready for work, grabbed celebratory Starbucks on my way in, and settled into my desk for the day. July 6 is usually a day I take off work and many years we’ve gone as far as to leave Birmingham, because something about being in the city on this anniversary gives me the creeps (or used to). But today I got ready and came to work in the same place it all went down 6 years ago. Woof.

The memories from that sunny Thursday morning are as palpable today as they were then. I can smell the humid air getting out of the car to walk skip into the hospital (remember at that point, I didn’t know Glanda was malignant so I was excited). I remember taking the pic in the elevator you’ve probably seen a million times if you’re a regular around here. I remember the exact path off the elevator and every crevice of the waiting room we sat in before triage and prep. I remember snuggling up with my parents and K.T. while we waited. I remember how the dumb yellow socks they make you put on felt, ya know the ones that have treads on BOTH top and bottom which I’ll never understand. I remember all the jokes I cracked with nearly everyone I met, including telling Dr. Carroll he could send my tissue off for STRATA testing (which was a clinical trial at the time for malignant head and neck tissue) all because I had heard them talking about needing more tissue for that study in tumor board and I wanted to help. Jokes on me there, because again, we didn’t know it was malignant at that point. Bigggg facepalm on that one, but I also appreciate the irony there too.

I remember how the sun shined through wispy clouds along the window-lined corridors as they wheeled my gurney down to the OR. I remember looking around at the real life OR like I had seen on tv trying to compare and contrast the scene. I remember how cold, and scared, and neked I felt lying on that table staring up into the lights and all the faces. And I remember having a conversation like normal…until I wasn’t…while God’s grace and mercy was cradling me so that my little heart would be content before every. tiny. detail. of life changed.

July 6th shattered literally everything. Not for a single second have I looked at life through the same lens as I did those OR ceilings. I went to sleep content and woke up to chaos.

It’s no secret or surprise that these last six years have been filled with every emotion under the sun. I’ve probably said that in 87% of the posts on here. Literally I’ve experienced emotions I didn’t know existed on both ends of the spectrum. There have been some extremely humbling moments and some Old-Testament-level tests of faith that I admittedly didn’t always pass, yet I’ve also always found my way back to the feet of Jesus. The times I’ve battled bone chilling, crippling fear, knowing Jesus has a place for me in heaven, but not wanting to meet Him yet. (No offense, Jesus!) And the thoughts of my husband lying our bed alone because I’ve gone knowing he’ll never feel my embrace again continue to wreck me just as much as knowing the fragility of life and how if something ever happened to him, I could simply not go on. Sometimes it’s just too much.

So, I’ve made a habit of keeping myself busy enough to sputter along without having to spend too much time in that headspace anymore. Part of that is healthy and part of it needs work. I mean, can you blame me? It’s SCARY! But in some ways, there’s a certain comfort to it as well, and I know that’s a strange sentiment. Yet these last six years are the memories and moments that have built me and I’m actually kind of proud of that fact now. In so many ways, I didn’t understand what living was until I had to fight to live. But boy, do I get it now. And I pray I never forget it.

As my Dad said this morning, “It seems like so long ago AND it seems like it was yesterday.” There are SO many moments to reflect on, and honestly it’s not often anymore that I give myself the space to do so. But I let July 6th be the exception there now that cancer isn’t every waking thought for me anymore. Some years it feels like groundhog’s day. I wake up on July 6th and do it all over again in my head. The sights, sounds, and smells find me again. I know exactly what happened (and what didn’t), but I still sit anxiously until around that time of day that Dr. Carroll came in and told me the news (except now I can fill in the gaps of what happened while I was in surgery too). July 6th is still heavy, but it’s also sweet. And finally at six years out, I feel like it was was perfect in a way.

It was perfect, because July 6th is also the day of each year where God’s provision, His protection, His mercy, His gentleness, and His attention to detail are most evident. As I scan back through surgery day memories, the traumas of treatment, the true medical miracle of it all, and my mentally and emotionally feeble existence those first few years following, … I’m pretty sure the details could convince an atheist He exists. And in the moments life gets blurry again and I forget, He reminds me yet again.

It’s moments like seeing your surgeon at your MRI appointment that is an hour delayed and at a different location than usual. It’s messages and emails from people all over the world that somehow found this blog or my instagram that are scared and facing similar things. It’s my tiny little self being a voice on a big ole national conference stage as a patient advocate. It’s collaboration with other RadOnc professionals across the country to share the patient experience with physicians in the field. It’s July 6th and Glanda, the little demon that broke me, revived me, and gave me purpose.

Little life update (aside from Glanda)

The following are some of my fav pics from the last 6+ months (since its been a while since I’ve updated) We’ve traveled to NYC, Telluride, CO, and Asheville, NC. I completed year 5 of coaching the Samford University Dance Team, and year 6 at UAB with a new job as a Communications Manager in Emergency Medicine and Dermatology. I also took class with my BDT dance family and made it out alive. I can still do hard things and that makes me happy.