Sunday
Feb032013
Time Flies
Sunday, February 3, 2013 at 2:17PM
The march of time is a pretty incredible thing. It’s not a new thought I’m having, I know. But when you measure your life by rounds of chemo or surgeries or a diagnosis date, you pay special attention to time and its progression. After surgery, for instance, each passing day is a victory – a day closer to discharge from the hospital or clearance to go back to the gym. After chemo, each passing hour represents the movement from feeling good to feeling off then back to feeling good again.
Anniversaries of important cancer-killing related milestones are my favorite.
Today is the two-year anniversary of my surgery with Dr. Sugarbaker, the 11 hour and 17 procedure surgery that took many organs and even more cancer (yes, that picture to the right is me). The surgery that left me with 13 tubes in my body when I woke up in the ICU. The surgery that began with a boatload of disease and ended with no visible sign of cancer. That surgery may not have rendered me “cured,” but it did give me a big head start on the disease when it was all but a certainty that cancer had its sights set on beating me in a blowout.
I remember waking up in the ICU, hours before they said I would. I immediately asked my mom if Dr. Sugarbaker had removed all of the visible disease and she said that he had. I couldn’t stop the tears from flowing down my cheeks and I held my hand up in a fist. Then I gave my mom a high five. I knew that the road to recovery would be hard, and I knew that the pathology report hadn’t come back and that things may not be as ideal as they could be, but I didn’t care. It didn’t matter to me. I don’t need an easy road to beating this disease – I just needed help to get my arms around it and to get ahead of it. And that’s exactly what I got.
The days passed at Washington Hospital Center, and my progress was steady. One of the proudest days of my life was when I was released from the hospital a full week before anyone said I’d get out. Later that night, I convinced a crew of friends and family to go to the movies with me. Two days later, we had a house party at my cousins’ house in Maryland, where we were staying. And the next day, I convinced my three nurses to drive me to Duke for a basketball game. I tried to take it easy during the game, but couldn’t help rising with each great play and screaming my heart out. I was screaming my heart out for my team, and also for myself.
Exactly two years ago, I went into battle with a brilliant surgeon, and he delivered. Dr. Sugarbaker gave me a great gift, and I’ve been pushing forward -- gaining momentum and never slowing down -- ever since that day.
Most of the time, the passage of time makes things easier. But sometimes, it doesn’t.
Today is also another anniversary. It has been a week since the beautiful memorial service of my dear friend, Annette, and it’s been over a month since she passed away.
The passing hours and days don’t help me miss her any less. I miss her constantly. As I progress with my life, my treatment and with The Wunder Project, I do feel her with me -- but even though I do, I still miss her. I wish I could talk to her about everything. I wish I could show her the funny Sharpie marker markings on my chest where the radiation techs have set me up for my daily doses. I wish I could tell her about my plans for The Wunder Project and brainstorm ideas with her. I wish I could give her a hug.
At her service, one of the officiating pastors spoke about something that resonated with me at the moment and still does today. The notion – the fact – that love is stronger than death. I believe in that. I believe that love is stronger than anything, really. Love is stronger than fear. Love is stronger than anger. Love is stronger than hopelessness. And yes, love is stronger than death. And so when I think of my sweet friend and my heart aches for her physical presence in my life, I remember the love. The love of our friendship and our shared bond as warriors, our laughter and our tears, and how we held hands tightly the last time we saw each other. I remember that love and the fact that nothing – not even cancer, and not even death -- can take that away from us. And then, I take a deep breath and keep pushing on, knowing that she's got my back and she always will, through every passing hour and every passing day.
Whether we like it or not, time marches on. Life continues to move forward. I make it a point to look back – to gain strength from what I’ve endured, to give thanks for the relationships that I’ve had, to savor the memories and to remember the love. But I’m not slowing down, and I'm not stopping.
Today is the two-year anniversary of my surgery with Dr. Sugarbaker, the 11 hour and 17 procedure surgery that took many organs and even more cancer (yes, that picture to the right is me). The surgery that left me with 13 tubes in my body when I woke up in the ICU. The surgery that began with a boatload of disease and ended with no visible sign of cancer. That surgery may not have rendered me “cured,” but it did give me a big head start on the disease when it was all but a certainty that cancer had its sights set on beating me in a blowout.
I remember waking up in the ICU, hours before they said I would. I immediately asked my mom if Dr. Sugarbaker had removed all of the visible disease and she said that he had. I couldn’t stop the tears from flowing down my cheeks and I held my hand up in a fist. Then I gave my mom a high five. I knew that the road to recovery would be hard, and I knew that the pathology report hadn’t come back and that things may not be as ideal as they could be, but I didn’t care. It didn’t matter to me. I don’t need an easy road to beating this disease – I just needed help to get my arms around it and to get ahead of it. And that’s exactly what I got.
The days passed at Washington Hospital Center, and my progress was steady. One of the proudest days of my life was when I was released from the hospital a full week before anyone said I’d get out. Later that night, I convinced a crew of friends and family to go to the movies with me. Two days later, we had a house party at my cousins’ house in Maryland, where we were staying. And the next day, I convinced my three nurses to drive me to Duke for a basketball game. I tried to take it easy during the game, but couldn’t help rising with each great play and screaming my heart out. I was screaming my heart out for my team, and also for myself.
Exactly two years ago, I went into battle with a brilliant surgeon, and he delivered. Dr. Sugarbaker gave me a great gift, and I’ve been pushing forward -- gaining momentum and never slowing down -- ever since that day.
Most of the time, the passage of time makes things easier. But sometimes, it doesn’t.
Today is also another anniversary. It has been a week since the beautiful memorial service of my dear friend, Annette, and it’s been over a month since she passed away.
The passing hours and days don’t help me miss her any less. I miss her constantly. As I progress with my life, my treatment and with The Wunder Project, I do feel her with me -- but even though I do, I still miss her. I wish I could talk to her about everything. I wish I could show her the funny Sharpie marker markings on my chest where the radiation techs have set me up for my daily doses. I wish I could tell her about my plans for The Wunder Project and brainstorm ideas with her. I wish I could give her a hug.
At her service, one of the officiating pastors spoke about something that resonated with me at the moment and still does today. The notion – the fact – that love is stronger than death. I believe in that. I believe that love is stronger than anything, really. Love is stronger than fear. Love is stronger than anger. Love is stronger than hopelessness. And yes, love is stronger than death. And so when I think of my sweet friend and my heart aches for her physical presence in my life, I remember the love. The love of our friendship and our shared bond as warriors, our laughter and our tears, and how we held hands tightly the last time we saw each other. I remember that love and the fact that nothing – not even cancer, and not even death -- can take that away from us. And then, I take a deep breath and keep pushing on, knowing that she's got my back and she always will, through every passing hour and every passing day.
Whether we like it or not, time marches on. Life continues to move forward. I make it a point to look back – to gain strength from what I’ve endured, to give thanks for the relationships that I’ve had, to savor the memories and to remember the love. But I’m not slowing down, and I'm not stopping.
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