on cancer-free crying

Last night Rhonda and I had a good cry.

It is something that may be a bit hard for someone outside of this experience to understand. After all, my last scans were clear and I don't need to have more scans until December. My blood panel looked great. My oncologist said that I have the bloodwork of a healthy 35-year-old.

But this experience has fundamentally changed us. We no longer live with a sense of certainty of health and longevity. And melanoma is uncooperative and wiley -- we are both terrified to think that it could come back as Stage IV cancer. On days when we are tired, feeling sorry for ourselves, or just a bit "down," these fears dance around in our heads.

[I imagine that some of you are thinking to yourselves that I need a better attitude. A "positive attitude." Barbara Ehrenreich talks about this in her essay "Welcome to Cancerland" and she explains better than I can why the rhetoric of positive attitude has its limits.]

And its not that Rhonda and I are living in daily fear and worry. Our post-treatment life has been rich with activity. We have embraced summer in its multitudinous glory. We have been biking and walking, gardening and cooking, and celebrating with friends. In fact, tomorrow our friends T & T arrive with their 3-year-old daughter. I look forward to every visit as a chance to reconnect with friends, spend time with children, and forget the worries in my head.

Today we will be busy getting ready for guests: washing, cleaning, baking, and cooking. I will feel busy and contented for a good part of the day. And I will likely feel a bit anxious and sad at moments, too. And the reality of living in life after cancer is that all of these things have to co-exist. I have to go on with my life in every way (including returning to work and the attendant stresses) while also balancing a massive sense of unknowing.

There is something profound in having to re-frame your life in a way that fundamentally accepts the tenet that there is only the present moment. The fact that this is always true for all of us -- that there are no guarantees in life -- doesn't necessarily make it easier. My friend B, also a cancer survivor, proclaimed at breakfast one day that she thinks we are forced to live in a higher level of consciousness. I get this idea. And I also get why many cancer survivors talk about cancer as a gift that forced them to completely change their lives for the better.

For me it seems the reality is that life is now more complex. At times it is richer. At times we just need to cry.