Long-Term Survivorship

Being in the body is interesting. 

I went through cancer, chemo, and radiation in 2009. 

It’s 2022 now. I’m considered a long-term survivor. 

13 years between me and the beast. 

But my body has been marked.

It’s not visible to the naked eye. 

What was a 17 cm mediastinal (chest area, behind the ribs, near my heart and left lung) tumor at diagnosis, 

Shrunk and became a benign calcified mass of tissue. The length is still about 10 cm long. 

My body has adjusted to accommodate it. 

Most days I am blissfully unaware of it. 

But other days, if I’m fighting an infection or feeling fatigued, I experience a heaviness in that area.  

An ache, a tightness. 

If I let myself fully laugh, my left chest muscles will clench up with sudden pain. 

A deep laugh is always followed by an “ow.” 

When I go on vacations with my family, I do my best to keep up and be fun. 

But, I’ll be honest, it’s hard on me, physically. 

My body gets tired. We’re in the mountains and my asthma is apparently not thrilled about that.  

I’m using my “rescue inhaler” multiple times per day to be comfortable. 

My children are squabbling over who gets what seat in the car and I’m huffing and puffing up a hill, trying not to pass out or freak out. 

Being reminded of this uninvited guest in my chest adds a color to the palette of my life experience.

I’m aware of my mortality. 

I’m aware of how good it is to breathe. 

I’m aware of how good it is to laugh. 

I’m aware of how good it is for the body to experience life.

Getting through vacations is a kind of meditation. 

There are beautiful moments. There are trying moments. 

There are moments when I’m wondering what kind of doctor I should call to see me when I get back. 

I wonder if something is wrong with me or if this is just what it will be like for the rest of my life…or if it will get worse. 

Then I snap back to the present moment where I am having fun with my family and we are deciding what ride to go on next at Dollywood. 

The truth is, long-term survivorship is a wilderness. 

Docs don’t know what to make of symptoms that aren’t connected with an obvious diagnosis. 

And the people around me don’t understand what my body went through. How can they? They weren’t there. 

They see “healthy” and that’s what I want them to see. 

I am tired.