At the end of my treatment, I was expecting some sense of relief or presence coming out the other side. Instead, I felt utterly confused and lost. There was a nice path to follow up to “remission,” but there’s so much more to that. Here’s what I learned about the milestones we go through on the way—the first year has a number of great momentous occasions, some celebrated, some bittersweet, but all very important.
The First Year: A Month-by-Month Chronicle
The first three months were like holding my breath, every twinge putting me in to a spiral. My follow-up appointments became much more spaced out, with them becoming every few weeks. A body to navigate, which was like me, but not so much. By the sixth month I had started to sleep through the night again. By the ninth, I was laughing and suddenly remembered I was supposed to be a cancer survivor first and a person second. I had made it through one complete year of birthdays, holidays and boring Tuesdays by the tieth. The whole experience was truly monumental. Scan day and clean results. I won’t forget my first clean scan. I sat in the parking lot and cried for twenty minutes to the point that these were not silent drama tears but my body wracked with deep gasping sobs of relief. The clean scan results were followed with this same rush of emotion, though the using fear preceding never vanished. This now became my new birthday, in three or six month quarterly spaced periods of time. I learned to celebrate them with little ceremonies: a favorite food, a new book—anything to commemorate the significance of that phrase: “no evidence of disease.”
The Five-Year Milepost: Meaning and Meaninglessness
Five years are supposed to mean something, and do, statistically. But I would be lying if I said I felt basic differences in myself the day after compared to the day before. It is significant because it means time, survival, with the odds on my side. It is insignificant because cancer makes a permanent change in everyone, whether it be five years or fifty. Still, I celebrated, giving a party which I called my “re-birthday.” I had to mark it in some way, even while knowing the goal was moving away.
When Appointments Slow Down
Scary was the transition from monthly appointments to visits every six months. I had grown dependent upon that medical safety net. My oncologist called it her “graduation,” but I felt like fluttering from the nest. Gradually I learned to trust my body. The freedom was real, even though anxiety breathed the opposite.
Long-Term Effects Come Uninvited
Neuropathy developed in my feet three years after treatment. Fatigue comes to visit unannounced, five years later. Seven years post treatment I have to cope with early climatic changes resulting from the treatment. All of these were surprises. I felt I had done my penance. But the body keeps score, and the effect of treatment is revealed over time. I’ve learned to advocate for myself and say that these symptoms matter, even if they show up years later.
Physical Accomplishments
Six months after treatment I was able to walk a mile without stopping. At 18 months I completed my first 5K, tears streaming down my face at the finish line. At two years I started again to practice yoga. These milestones in the physical reminded me that my body could do more than survive; it could even thrive. Each accomplishment was an attempt to recapture any ground lost.
Career Progression
Two years after my treatment I got a promotion that I had been too frightened to go after while ill. Four years later I completely changed careers, chosing work that was finally meaningful to me. Cancer taught me that life is short, and I no longer waited for permission to want what I wanted.
Personal Accomplishments
I went to my friend’s wedding and danced till midnight and felt-filled with the spirit of life. Five years later I became a an aunt. These milestonesperhaps a little later in lifefelt a little sweeter and more precious. I was aware and grateful to be experiencing them.
New Traditions
Each anniversary of my diagnosis I write a letter to me dwarfed and newly diagnosed. Anniversaries of the completion of my treatment finds me volunteering at the cancer center. These rituals offer a way to recognize my survival but also connect to the person that I have become.
Grief Resides Here Too
Not everyone made it. When I stop to celebrate certain milestones I remember them; the girl who never saw her daughter graduate, the members of the support group who died before his fiftieth birthday. Survivor’s guilt is very real. I have learned to accept both of these truths: my gratitude beside my grief, my joy beside my sorrow. They exist together, and that is perfectly all right.
Life after cancer is no straight line. It is a messy one, complex and precious. Every milestone counts, especially the little ones.
