My morning ritual involves cupping my right breast in hopes that one of these mornings Lump may have magically vacated the premises while I slept. Since my cherry-sized tumour had mutated into what felt like a chewed-up baseball, wasn’t it natural to assume that the reversal might be just as swift? Deciding to let the tumour finish its “program” came at the cost of setting off more programs within my chest wall, sternum, and liver. In my fragile state, I’m questioning everything and know nothing. Pain is a great motivator to accept any kind of help, even at the cost of ditching my values.
After a month and a half of treatment, the ball feels tighter, and perhaps even slightly smaller, though my optimism could be playing tricks on me. Doc says that we can anticipate changes happening on the inside that we can’t see, even if what we can see is doing nothing on the outside. I suppose if I have my rose-coloured glasses on, I can count myself lucky to have a visible barometer literally poking out of my boob. It’s the tip of the iceberg that’s ironically still on fire. Healing is slow going, like watching my hair grow.
I am stunned at the power of these little tablets. In just a few weeks, they ceased my rhythm of monthly bleeds and transformed me into a grovelling mess. My stoic strength has been replaced by mood swings that are unprecedented. I’m sad, I’m angry, I’m depressed, I’m okay… then I’m sad all over again, minute by minute, with no warning between one and the next. I’d never felt so emotionally volatile and unpredictable in all my life. I’ve been crying for no good reason, tears welling up over just about anything. Maybe the dam that’s been held up for so long has finally broken.
It’s only in looking back from where I am now that I can accept that denial can look a lot like optimism. During the months when my tumour supersized, I gave myself every reason not to worry. To stay on course, to let it finish what it was doing so it wouldn’t come back. I was convinced I was in the “healing phase,” as GNM would put it, and that it would break down once it stopped. I went all in, even seeing the alarming rate of growth as evidence to just stay the course, until I actually thought I might not survive the healing crisis. I knew that healing involved pain, but never did I think it might peak to a level where it became a real threat to my life.
I’m suspended in space—between who I was and who I am becoming. There is some kind of slow metamorphosis underway, yet it’s impossible to know what’s taking shape. Is it necessary to change who I am in order to heal from this disease? Vulnerability has given me the gift of a much humbler approach. I get the sense that this is my learning now—that somehow I’m growing even while my values and strengths are being stripped away.
Creativity is my compass. Through art and words, I’m making some kind of meaningful artifact of this time of morphing. It’s a place to direct my energy other than focusing on what my body is doing or not doing. This refuge can be elusive at times, yet it often reveals itself in surprising ways, giving me clues to where I am. I suppose this is how I’m getting to know myself in different ways than before.
My energy comes and goes. When I feel it coming, I have the urge to take off. I suppose that is why they call it fight or flight. Since the fight is gone, I want to flee. Maybe what I really needed to do was go on a pilgrimage. Beyond the anchor of my physical limitations that keep me from leaping into this fantasy, there is a wise voice telling me to stay. It reminds me that the pilgrimage has already been well underway, that the destination remains unknown, and that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
LESSON: SOMETIMES THE PILGRIMAGE IS TO STAY.
LESSONS FROM MY LUMP 