Tag: transformation

UNFORESEEN VISITOR

by Maasaisis

Lately, I’ve had several graphic dreams of giving birth. I wake up wondering what they’re trying to tell me. Maybe it’s about birthing something new—a sign of the life that’s been extended to me—or perhaps it’s my body speaking, mourning the loss of the monthly cycles that abruptly stopped over a year ago when I began hormone therapy. A rhythm that often synced with the full moon and had accompanied me since I was twelve.

I didn’t have the capacity at the time to make sacred the closing of my fertility. I skipped the slow transition and dropped straight into the volatile swings of menopause within a month of starting treatment. Not that I was planning on having another child at this stage of life, but it still felt too soon, too sudden, and too permanent. With my life on the line, it was a sacrifice I didn’t give much credit to—just something I let go of without a proper goodbye.

Life in survival mode barely registered the radical shift from mother to crone. I felt myself aging from the inside—losing weight rapidly, aching joints, thinning hair, a fading sex drive, and dry skin. I couldn’t tell whether it was my body under siege by cancer or the absence of the hormones that had kept me feeling bouncy and womanly. All of it took a back seat to the tremendous effort it took just to keep my mind from cracking under the relentless pain of my lump unraveling over those months.

With my monthly cycle dormant, the familiar waxing and waning of my internal rhythm has shifted into a new tide—one of unpredictable waves, where heat rises without warning and chills follow like a shadow.

My husband and I decided months ago that whatever sleep we could get in separate beds was far more valuable than insisting on sleeping together. At first, it was hard—after twenty-four years of sharing our bed and sleeping within arm’s reach. But now he can snore away without worrying about keeping me awake, and I can thrash around, kicking the blankets on and off, fiddling with the wireless fan all night long. It works for both of us—and yes, date nights still happen, even if I have to talk myself into it. I wasn’t about to let that spark die, even as my body smouldered quietly in the background—my sense of identity rebelling against the slow withdrawal of my sexual desire.

I stopped hormone therapy when my cancer shifted from HER2-negative and hormonally driven to HER2-positive and protein-driven—a mutation I believe was triggered by starving the cancer of its hormonal fuel. At forty-eight, it was unlikely I’d regain fertility, even seven months after stopping the hormone blockers. For someone who once relished deep, uninterrupted sleep and napped regularly, the hormonal upheaval and circadian disruption stole what had been my superpower: sleeping through just about anything. I even became an early riser—for the first time in my life.

Recently, I’ve turned a corner—sleeping better, feeling less discomfort, and no longer riding the thermal rollercoaster. I convinced myself that the initial storm of menopause had run its course, that I’d paid my dues and finally got the hang of being a crone. I even packed on some weight that, just a few months ago, felt impossible no matter how much I ate. I took it as evidence of my body returning to homeostasis—a healthier new normal.

Another vivid dream of blood between my legs—and today I finally understood: these dreams were heralds of a reckoning with what was lost. At first, I was baffled. Then I burst out laughing, holding the evidence on toilet paper, and announced to my family, ‘No way—I got my period!’ Suddenly it all made sense: the weight gain, the return of vitality, the longer nights of deep sleep, my tender breasts. My womb has resurrected to it’s normal function—and it’s shedding what’s left of my eggs! I’m giddy, even as the familiar cramping and bloating return—sensations I haven’t felt in so long. My body is staging its own comeback, offering me a gentler, more natural transition into cronehood—a redo of what was taken too soon.

I’m amazed by the intelligence of the body—how it can pick up where it left off, even after everything in between. I carry a map of scars, proof of my undoing and remaking. To reclaim what was lost feels like a quiet miracle. This return reaches far beyond a biological comeback—It’s a homecoming to myself, and a reminder that what was once lost can be found again.

LESSON: WHAT WAS LOST MAY RETURN IN ITS OWN MYSTERIOUS TIMING.






METAMORPHOSIS

by Maasaisis

My morning ritual involves cupping my right breast and feeling for magical changes while I slept. It’s natural to assume since my cherry-sized tumour transformed into a baseball rapidly, the reversal will be just as swift. The transformation erupted like a volcano, spreading ‘lava’ to distant sites within my chest wall, sternum, and liver while I was preoccupied with life. But the recession of this rapid process diverges from the original route and crawls through uncharted territory. The path backward is slow, hot and sticky, lava begrudgingly receding from whence it came, and only God knows if it will return at all.

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 the visible changes we anticipate seeing in the coming months will reflect what I can’t see inside. My lump is the barometer of my healing and it’s slow going like watching my hair grow. Rarely do things happen quickly when we want them badly. Rarely does hope make predictable affirmations.

It’s only when we look back from a different vantage point that we sometimes glimpse just how adept we are at avoiding conflict. During the months when my tumour supersized, I gave myself every reason not to worry. Those reasons were convincing enough to override the alarming rate of growth that suddenly became evident through my shirt. My rationale for not worrying was firmly rooted in what I’ve learned and confirmed over the years while walking with this disease. Yet, it was only when pain arrived and amplified that my rationale became a threat. Survival is a great motivator to ditch the rule book and rewrite it.

I’m sitting in the waiting room, caught between who I was and who I am becoming. I’m waiting to become the person without this disease. I’m waiting for a time when I’m not orbiting around cancer. But what will change? There is some kind of slow metamorphosis underway, yet it’s impossible to recognize it’s shape. Will I wake up one morning and leave the waiting room? Will I emerge as a version of myself that knows what’s next?

Creativity is my compass. Through art and words I’m making some kind of a meaningful artifact of this time in between. It’s a place to direct my energy other than to focus 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.

I continue to fight the urge to pick up and leave, to act on my nature of movement and momentum, and to embark on a solo adventure. 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.

Perhaps we are all in a state of continual metamorphosis. Change can happen rapidly or simmer slowly, taking time for the ‘goo’ to take shape, only to shift again in response to life’s experiences. Perhaps we never recognize ourselves as transformers until something compels us to look back. The only constant is change, and perhaps we are meant to make peace with that cliche—not to resist it, but to watch it unfold and mold ourselves into it as it happens.