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Happy Cancerversary

Laura J Schubert
Race for the Cure 2010, one month post-chemo.
Yesterday marked six years from the day that I received the call telling me that the pathology report from my surgery four days earlier was in, and confirmed that I had cancer…for the second time.

It was late in the day, as afternoon gave way to evening, its subtle waning light foreshadowing sunset. I remember marveling at the idea that my surgeon was still at work, reviewing reports and delivering verdicts, at such an hour. 

It was spring break for me. I'd scheduled the surgery on the Monday after Easter so that I wouldn't have to take time off for it and, when the call came, I had just returned home from a run which, in hindsight, was either evidence of extremely poor judgment or the strength of my ability to ignore and deny the facts.

I sat on the porch, cordless phone to my ear, furiously scribbling notes as I absorbed the news. It didn’t pack the same shock value as the first time I’d received this diagnosis, mostly because I’d carried the line of lumps under my arm for three years with the unsettled feeling that something wasn’t quite right. Sometimes even without knowing you just know.

I hung up after reassuring my surgeon that I was okay and scrawling his cell and home phone numbers at the bottom of my notes in case I had any questions, or just needed to talk, over the weekend. It was a Friday afternoon, and the fact that he was willing to divulge such information underscored just how disappointed he was himself by the news.

I rehashed the conversation with the running partner who’d unwittingly become privy to my health crisis by virtue of her presence on the porch with me. She put her arm around me for moral support as I summoned the strength for next steps, plotting out plans and anticipating the future.

I called Scott at work, but got his voicemail. I dialed his cell and caught him in the car. To this day he can describe in precise detail the exact spot where he pulled to the curb to take my call, and vividly recalls the knot of fear in his gut as he drove the rest of the way home.

I called my mom. She seemed unfazed, optimistic, and blessedly certain that I would do whatever I had to do and it would all turn out fine. It helped to hear from someone else that, while life-altering, this diagnosis did not definitively spell out the end of my health, my life, or my world.

I drove to my sister Sarah’s house to pick up Sammy, who’d spent the day with her cousins. In the days leading up to surgery, I’d thought about how I’d tell her if, God forbid, the path report turned up a malignancy. I knew what to say, but that doesn’t mean I was in any way prepared to say it.

Sarah met me at the door. My mom had called to alert her to the situation, which was why she'd arranged for the kids to be at the park when I arrived. I stood in her kitchen, explaining the pathology results the way the doctor had explained them to me, and suddenly started to shake with a bone-rattling chill.

In hindsight it was probably shock. Sarah made me sit down, got me another sweatshirt, and then a jacket, and made a pot of coffee. I wrapped my blue-tinged fingers around the cup and proceeded to deliver a monotone, contemplative monologue on my immediate future.

The kids straggled home when it got dark, tired, muddy and grass-stained. Sammy, keen observer of the human condition that she is, noticed the layers I wore. “Why are you wearing all those jackets?”

“I’m just cold,” I lied. We gathered her things and said our goodbyes. I waited until we were in the car, in the comfort of the familiar journey home, to tell the truth.

“The doctor called. The bad news is that those lumps he took out are cancerous, but the good news is that we caught it early.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Are you going to die?”

“Well, someday I will, but not right now. I’ll have to have another surgery and we’ll see after that if I need any more treatment, but no, I’m not going to die.”

It was neither an outright lie nor an irrefutable truth, just a hopeful utterance that has, to this point, proven to be as accurate as my mom’s firm belief that I would successfully scale the necessary medical obstacles and that all would be well in the end.

Somewhere along the evolutionary line of cancer blogs, someone coined the term "cancerversary" to describe the anniversaries of important milestones one experiences on the journey through diagnosis and treatment. 

I don’t celebrate cancerversaries with trumpets and fanfare. I don’t plan parties, or dinners, or even buy myself flowers or over-indulge in chocolate. But I do mark my diagnosis date—every single year.

I inhale and relive the suspended moments of denial and disbelief, remembering the fear and doubt that dogged those cancer days.

And then I exhale a prayer of gratitude for the beautiful gift of life that I’ve been given, and get back to the day-to-day business of living it.  
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