Down and Up...Down and Up

Down and up. Down and up. With twenty-three dives completed and seven more to go before surgery, the rhythm of the hyperbaric oxygen treatment process has become relatively predictable, if never boring. But with the reality of surgery looming, and the unknown character of its outcome, I find that my emotions are decidedly not predictable, although in some ways they do mirror the "movement" of my dives: down and up, down and up.

Although I want to believe that post-surgery my quality of life will not be substantially changed - that I won't look too different and that I won't face more dramatic surgery later - there are no guarantees of that. In the past, as I've dealt with what needed to be done for the cancer, which both times involved surgery and then radiation, I was able to stay on a pretty even keel. I could more easily visualize the treatment knocking out the cancer, and the love and support surrounding me reinforced my optimism. This time though, although I want to remain in a space where I can hope for the best, I know viscerally that I need to be prepared for the worst. And although I am grateful for the care I have and I don't want to feel sorry for myself, I must confront the possibility that there will be no more respite from this disease - that I will be faced with a struggle of some sort from here on out.

What does that mean? I can feel scared. For the fist time I feel like my life may become defined by cancer, that any hope of "normal" longevity I might have tentatively cherished is gone. About a year ago, my primary care physician was reporting back to me on my high cholesterol levels, and she kiddingly said, "Well, now that it seems that the cancer isn't going to kill you, we ought to make sure that other things don't." At the time, eight years out from the original diagnosis and five years out from the reoccurrence, it felt good to think that that might be true. Today her well-meant joke rings hollow.

But after such a low, perhaps after a bit of a cry, I have so far been able to rally, to remember that I may very well have years left of time to appreciate so much of what is precious in my life - the people I love and who love me, kindness, beauty, humor, music, and some sort of service. Life is change. Even without cancer, the reality of aging was becoming more apparent to me and forcing some concessions. What brings me back is the loveliness of the trees and green canyons near where I park each day for my oxygen treatment. What brings me back is the sound of birds singing now that it's spring. What brings me back is the thoughtful card that arrives in the mail, or the concerned email message. I come back to rely on the old adage that obsessively worrying about tomorrow does nothing but rob today of its strength. I am no good to myself, no good to anyone, if I wallow in the worst that may be. And so I rise, at least for awhile. I give myself permission for my emotions to fluctuate. Down and up, down and up. What is most important is that I end the cycle with "up."