Jillian

It’s my first loss since becoming an advocate. I knew in June when I got there, that this was me beginning to walk in purpose and that it was going to come at a cost. So many amazing women-at different places in their journey. Some 10 years out, some 10 months out. Some in the midst. Some returning to treatment, many struggling with side effects, and several living with it. Day in and day out, accepting that it will eventually take them but not today. Ladies so alive, stepping out in strength, to share their story so that we can eradicate this ugly awful thing that has derailed us, stolen from us, but made us stronger.

The cancer community is so interesting to me, because cancer does not discriminate. When you walk into the chemo room, it’s raw humanity. All races, genders, socio-economic levels, all in a fight to live. In its own way, it’s a beautiful picture of the human spirit. What I have found is that cancer brings out who you really are. It either makes you bitter, ugly, and angry or it becomes a chrysalis where you transform into this beautiful creation with this ability to love well and see beauty that others cannot.

The advocacy community is full of people who want their cancer experience to mean something. People who live on purpose and seek to share their stories, so there will be less stories. Advocacy costs. It means that you don’t put your cancer in a box and never think about it. It means you’re actively taking it OUT of the box on a regular basis. You’re talking about things that are hard, things that you yourself are still mourning, struggling with, afraid of, and wish never even happened. You are making yourself vulnerable in hopes that others will hear and just maybe that one person will take action. You are walking into hard spaces, where people are still being treated and dealing with life altering side effects that you’re still processing yourself. You are meeting amazing fighters and letting them know that you don’t have all the answers but that they are not alone. These fighters become your tribe. They become your family. And when you meet one, you know it. You know it because their spirit permeates the air and it’s like looking in a mirror.

I “met” Jillian online back in the spring. I had seen this amazing photo of her on the Cervivor page, where she was showing her scars and ostomy bag. At the time I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to keep my bladder. I was preparing for the worst but hoping for the best. I found her story online and there were similarities. Same stage, SO MANY bladder and kidney problems. I found her on Facebook and reached out to ask questions, as I did with a couple of the other Cervivors who I found with severe radiation damage. Much to my surprise at the time, when I reached out to these women, they actually reached back. Wow. These women and their stories made their way into my mind and heart. I felt stronger for speaking with them. I felt like whatever was next for me, I could do it. They were living so bravely and if they could it, so could I.

Jillian used humor and I was so relieved. So many of our post treatment issues, with cervical cancer, revolve around pee, poop, butts, and vaginas….I had personally found humor but Jillian was the first one to break the ice with me there and make me feel like it was okay to be scared and to laugh at the same time. She had such a balance of honesty and humor. She made me feel normal and like whatever was coming my way, that it didn’t mean my life was over. I could live and thrive with a bag, if that was going to keep cancer out of my body.

Her interaction with me in those moments, meant the world to me. It was Cervivors like Jillian, who drew me into this community. Her spirit and strength will live on, in so many ways-in her boys and those closest to her. For me, I will take her kindness, laced with humor.  I will throw the life line to other Cervivors out there, letting them know they are not alone.  She made a difference in my journey, and I will share my story, and share my story, and share my story, until I have no breath. Until there are no more Jillians. I will walk in this purpose. I have counted the cost and will continue to walk with a vengeance. 

By the time Cervivor School came around, I was well enough to go but she wasn’t able to make it. After a message about watching the poop come out of her bag (I’m telling you this was woman was so funny!), she told me “don’t worry, we’ll meet soon.” I knew she was sick and I knew that it was not looking good.

I got a message from her in July. It was a poem that had been circulating that was written by a young girl with terminal cancer, in a New York hospital.  For me, I have gone back and read it many times since. Little did Jillian know that I was still struggling and needed this to push me, to live my best life after cancer:

SLOW DANCE

Have you ever watched kids on a merry-go-round? Or listened to the rain slapping on the ground? Ever followed a butterfly's erratic flight? Or gazed at the sun into the fading night? You better slow down. Don't dance so fast. Time is short. The music won't last. Do you run through each day on the fly? When you ask, “How are you?” Do you hear the reply? When the day is done, do you lie in your bed, with the next hundred chores running through your head? You'd better slow down Don't dance so fast. Time is short The music won't last. Ever told your child, We'll do it tomorrow? And in your haste, Not see his sorrow? Ever lost touch, let a good friendship die Cause you never had time To call and say,'Hi' You'd better slow down. Don't dance so fast. Time is short. The music won't last.. When you run so fast to get somewhere, You miss half the fun of getting there. When you worry and hurry through your day, It is like an unopened gift.... Thrown away. Life is not a race. Do take it slower Hear the music Before the song is over.

Read Jillian's Cervivor Story

The Table

As I boarded the plane, I could feel it. The excitement of MONTHS, almost a YEAR of waiting was coming to an end. I knew that I was about to have an experience of a lifetime and deep down, I knew my life would never be the same. I had virtually met many of the ladies I was about to spend the weekend with, but only one of them had I met in person. I was nervous but the good kind of nervous. After switching planes for my final destination, I got settled in my window seat and put on my headphones. I had my Wonder Woman headphones, which seemed apropos given my last year and where I was headed. I tried to just relax, as I knew the flight was short and the weekend was about to be busy. As I leaned back in my seat, I took a deep breath.  I kept seeing the faces of friends I was about to meet and anticipating the news ones. How did I even get here? Was this really about to happen?

I suddenly became really emotional. I had already cried reading all the posts from other Cervivors headed to Florida and the ones who were too sick to make it. I didn’t expect to feel this way. I had gone back to work from my bladder/vaginal surgery only three weeks prior and had been so busy working. Sleeping. Working. Sleeping. That was pretty much what my body could handle and I had just allowed myself to compartmentalize, to get through the very next thing. Suddenly, the very next thing was Cervivor School.

I had accidentally fallen into advocacy during treatment, and accidentally found myself among this amazing group of women who were just like me. Normal women-with cervical cancer. This group that was committed to sharing stories so that there would eventually not be women like us. How could it be that I had even had cervical cancer, met these women through a hashtag, and was now on a plane to go sit with them for three days? The thing that had almost killed me, had torn my life apart, destroyed my body, the thing I feared daily, the thing I wanted to forget-THAT is what I was getting ready to talk about and share for the weekend.

I cried. I cried because I was tired. I cried because I was excited. I cried because part of me wants to forget, but I know I never can. I cried because there were friends I knew wouldn’t be there because they were too sick. I just cried. And when I was done, I felt better. I felt ready.

Cervivor School was complete freedom for me. I didn’t have to explain to anyone how I felt because they all felt the same way. They felt like me and they wanted to MAKE A DIFFERENCE! All of us had different stories, but all of us wanted our stories to matter. Each of us had the desire to learn as much as we could from experts and one another, so that other people wouldn’t have to experience what we have gone through. That alone was a powerful thing to witness. (Plus, it was awesome to spend time at the pool and not worry about your body because most everyone there had bulges in the same places due to surgeries and treatment. SO FREEING)!

I could not have had this experience without the help of many people. A lot of them have asked me about my experience, and like any life changing experience it’s hard to sum it up in a few sentences. I like to sum it up with, I found my “me too” people. I found my forever tribe. I found this sisterhood that I had felt online, but became about a bazillion times stronger in person.

I have this image in my head now that is always there, because the table is always there. Always ready. The image of amazing warrior women, from around the world, sitting at a table. An image of women at varying stages of this war we are waging against cervical cancer and HPV. It’s a personal war. We are in our own fight for life, but we link arms to fight for women everywhere. We come to this table to rest, to renew, to fill up, to learn new battle strategies. We come for comfort and we come for the peace in knowing we are not alone. It's always there and in a sense, we never leave.

The Walking Dead

We are well into March and as I prepare for my upcoming surgery, I can’t help but think of where I was one year ago. Time has just stood still for the past 13 months but yet so much has happened. I don’t know if that even makes sense, to most people. Surely those who have experienced some sort of trauma or life altering event, has felt the same?  In many ways my world completely stopped, yet a lifetime of crap just happened.

This time last year, I was getting ready to start chemotherapy and radiation. I was terrified but the thing I struggled with most was the fact that I may loose my hair. I was scared of dying and fighting death, while bald. Man. Looking back, I would take being temporarily bald over most of what has happened to me over the last year. I had no idea how much treatment would change my body and psyche and I certainly didn't expect infertility, sexual dysfunction, incontinence, bladder and bowel issues, just to name the major ones. Right now, I am cancer free but having such a hard time with post radiation side effects, that I am having to fight for the joy that I am “supposed” to feel about not having cancer. My counselor has talked to me a lot about these “supposed to” statements that I tell myself often. (I do this in almost every area of my life). If she were sitting here with me this morning, she would say, “Holly, why do you feel like you are supposed to feel a certain way? It’s not wrong to be mad that you’re dealing with this.” To which, I would say say through tears, “I know, but I feel like I should just be happy that I’m not dying anymore, what’s wrong with me?” And she would be her usually awesome self and tell me that nothing is wrong with me and it’s completely okay to be happy that I’m not dying AND mad that I’m facing another surgery and that each day, right now is hard and a fight.

It’s weird. It makes me think about The Walking Dead. I have this odd relationship with the TWD because last year when I started treatment, is when I started watching it. It was one of my “things” that got me through. I know that probably sounds completely ridiculous if you’ve never been sick and home-bound, but trust me, it was one of my “things” like Chick-Fil-A. (Chick Fil-A was one of the only things that tasted good to me on chemo, and every week I would go right after treatment. The radiation people even knew that I would be late on Thursdays because I had chemo and I WAS going to Chic-Fil-A, even if it meant that I would have to be worked in at radiation). BUT I digress.

In TWD world a lot of people don’t make it. It is a harsh world of daily survival. Some just don’t have the fight in them. Some opt out, deciding to take their own life. Some go down swinging. We all would like to think we would be a “Rick” and rise to the occasion,be a leader, and kick so much ass in the process. BUT as we have seen in season 7-even the toughest dudes are being challenged. In many ways, it would just be easier to die because living in that world is so incredibly hard. In the last part of the mid season finale, Michonne talks to Rick, who is wanting to give up. He feels like it would just be easier to give up on having a life that means anything, and just exist under Negan(who is basically an evil warlord). She gives this amazing monologue about how much they have been through, yet they are still there-together and alive. They are outnumbered and have lost so much. They shouldn’t have lived this long, but they have. How do they make being alive mean something?

That scene has resonated with me since October.

I have literally thought about it every day.

I feel like I live in TWD sometimes. Most days, it would just be easier to give up. I know there are people who have it much worse, and I “should” just exude only gratefulness and get over myself. My heart is grateful for my very life, but I am learning more and more each day, that having life and living are two completely different things. You can be alive but not living. How do you make being alive mean something than just existing? I could very well not be here. I could very well have died from cancer or complications from treatment. I didn’t. I could have died in the fall when my body was on the verge of sepsis, but I didn’t. Any day, cancer could come back and I could find myself deep in the fight again, but that hasn’t happened. It may never happen. Am I wounded and afraid of the next chapter?  Have I seen and experienced more in 13 months than many do in a life span? Yes. But I am here. And what I choose to do with being here-depends on me. What I choose.

I feel like almost every blog has just been repetitive of the last, with me beating the dead of horse of “choice.” BUT when I set out to share my story, I vowed to be honest and I feel like I am constantly having to learn and relearn this lesson.I just can’t reiterate enough that this is daily-at least for me. At least for this season. I have to constantly choose living and when I fail-retreat and stay at home because it's just too hard to make it for the day-either physically or emotionally- I have to then choose grace over guilt, mercy over shame. I can be really hard on myself when I fail at this or anything, really. BUT cancer and life after cancer is teaching me so much about grace and mercy,  for myself-even for others. I never expected for cancer to make me less judgmental.

My hope is, that by my being transparent in this whole process and things I am continuing to learn-that someone else might say, “me too!” to anything that I write about. Whether you are a cancer survivor or not. Maybe you find yourself struggling with the hand life has dealt you or maybe you are reading this and thinking, you’re good and have a decent grip on life. Maybe you struggle with self imposed guilt or silently being judgmental towards others. I don’t know. I do know there is strength in self reflecting and allowing yourself to be teachable. There is strength in asking yourself hard questions, especially when you know you’re not going to like the answer. Or maybe you have to sit with not knowing the answers, and that’s okay too.
Courage is digging for bravery in a world where living is the harder choice. Retreating and just existing is so much easier than flourishing, but where is the courage in that? Anyone can do that. And for what? I want to make my being here mean something.

Part of my flourishing in pain, is telling my story. I had the opportunity to do this for the first time, at the end of February at the NCCC-Fort Worth Chapter fundraiser. Here I am with several new friends, and cervical cancer survivors.

**I designed a t-shirt to help begin conversations about cervical cancer and prevention. All proceeds will go to help me with past and current medical expenses/unpaid leave. Please consider purchasing a shirt or making a donation. THANK YOU!
www.bonfire.com/start-the-conversation/

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Lessons of Winter

Winter can conjure images of staying warm by a cozy fire, snuggled safely with those you love most. You can also imagine one staggering in the bitter cold, trying to find his way while fighting the elements. I wish I could say that this winter had been one of coziness, where my heart found a relaxing peace, where safety was ensured and my chest was able to breathe a giant sigh of relief. It has actually been the exact opposite. However, what I find to be fascinating is this theme that continues to play itself out in my journey, and that is-the “place” that I seek to find after cancer, this place of relief and safety, it doesn’t exist. It never really did. Since this is an idea, rather than an actual place that we arrive in our lives-how do we sanely carry on?

I went back to work in early November thinking it was the beginning of getting back to myself. 2016 had looked like port surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, five internal radiation treatments, and finally a radical hysterectomy to remove remaining recurrent cancer. Surely, although slow, recovery had begun. I started to denounce the comments of “I bet you’re just ready to get this behind you and get back to normal.” Cancer had been gigantic. Yes, I did want to get it behind me, but I had started to come to terms with there being a “new normal,” as nothing about my body or thought life was “normal” or the way it used to be.

One week into work, I started feeling terrible. I had pain that continued to get worse and the fatigue was so drastic that I was literally bed ridden. After weeks of trying to figure out what was going on, a pelvic CT revealed I had an abscess. I was hospitalized for several days to get the infection under control, and was eventually sent home on IVs and rest. This was a setback, but I was still on my way to recovering.

A day after being home, I started having incontinence issues. SURELY this was not what I thought it was. My OB/GYN oncologist and I had discussed the risk of fistulas from day one of knowing I needed surgery, but I had had both an in office fistula test and a cystogram at the hospital. Both of them were negative. This had to be something else.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t. I went in for an exam and another in office test and my doctor did not even have to complete the test before the fistula presented itself. It was bad. It was large and evident that surgery would the only way to “hopefully” repair the pathway. It was going to be a slow process, since I had been exposed to so much radiation. Rushing me off into surgery was not going to fix this. I was going to have to live with this for a while.

I cried. I cried a lot. I just couldn’t believe this was happening to me. Why? Why wouldn’t cancer and it’s stupid side effects go away? Hadn’t I done everything I was supposed to? Even mentally, hadn’t I done the thing survivors are supposed to do-accept the new normal? Hadn’t I already accepted that I had permanent ringing in my ears from chemo, a damaged vagina, 38 and in menopause, infertility, and that my body had just been through hell and back in order for me to be alive? NOW I was 38 and in Depends too?

The first two weeks of this, I mostly sat. I sat at home waiting for my next round of IVs and in an adult diaper. I didn’t want to do anything or go anywhere. However, soon my body started to feel better. I could tell the drugs were working on the abscess and physically I was feeling good. I was still in a diaper, but I felt better than I had in months. Now what? Here I was better, but still with this GIGANTIC issue and waiting for surgery. I felt like everywhere I turned, it was a fight both physically and mentally. I wrestled a lot with what I was going to do with this. I felt the unfairness of this life and the ugly truth of what cancer and treatment had done to my body.

One day, I can’t pinpoint the exact day, but I remember hearing my oncologist's words in my head, "Holly this happened because I had to perform a surgery to save your life. You still had cancer and without your hysterectomy you would have only lived maybe three more years. You have every right to be mad at this and angry, but you are alive and can get through this or whatever is next." I heard her words, that I hadn't thought about in weeks, and I decided to get up. I had to keep on fighting. I was missing out on life. I was CHOOSING to hold myself back. I couldn’t sit any longer. Was going about normal activities going to be difficult? Sure it was. Was I possibly going to have an accident on myself while shopping? Yep. Was it going to be uncomfortable and somewhat stressful feeling like people could smell me or know I was wearing a diaper? Oh yeah!

But I wanted to LIVE.

I honestly have felt like the past 12 months have been winter-the picture where I am fighting the elements. It has been one thing after another. Fight after fight. This last experience has shown me that there really is no true safe place that we arrive, where life is easy. There will be seasons that are better than others, and I pray that I am on the cusp of one of those. BUT there really is no place that is completely out of the harshness of the elements. Not for anyone. It is a choice that we must make. For me, I am in a season where I must choose life daily. I must choose happiness instead of bitterness, contentment over self pity, the positive over the negative, bravery over fear. Some days, some moments, I fail at this miserably. And when I do, I wipe myself off, dry up the tears(and there are many), and get back up because I am alive. It may be winter, but I want to live.

Craig Sager speaks on choosing hope, seeing his cup half full, and the fight!

*I designed a shirt, to bring awareness to cervical cancer and to help raise money to cover the expenses of this past year and the surgery to come. The campaign is live on Bonfire until February 20th. Check it out!

www.bonfire.com/start-the-conversation/

Leaning into the Storm of Cancer

You may have read them-the “What Not to Say to People with Cancer” articles. I used to skim over them, thinking I was all good. Me? I would NEVER say anything to offend someone with cancer! I am a thoughtful person-I’m the person who won’t even tell someone I’m praying for them unless I can actively remember to do so, so yeah...I was good I didn’t need to read such articles.

WRONG!!

‘Cause guess what? When you’re on the other side and actually HAVE cancer and a gynecological one at that-AND one that is caused by a virus. Guess what? People say some crazy shit. Stuff you would never imagine would cross the lips of someone who is supposed to care about you. Now, as I stated, I see myself as a reasonable person-so most of this crap I worked really hard to brush off and tell myself, “Well, they are well intended. They didn’t mean it the way it sounded.” My counselor even worked with me on phrases to shut people down in person. She encourages me to tell people they are being jerks, but I am still trying to find that voice. Perhaps this is it, through this blog post. I usually just tell myself that people don’t mean it really,  and then later call my absolute closest people to vent or screenshot messages from people and type in all caps to my best friend. I have found lots of articles on this subject, yet when meeting other survivors it is often a main topic of conversation. It’s hard enough having freaking cancer, and managing the feelings of those who are the very closest. Much less managing idiots on the fringe, who think they “have to say something.” Why is that? I think it’s because no one really cares until it’s them or someone they love. Like really love. So if you’re reading this and think you don’t need to, then you’re the exact person who does. If you're gonna lean into this storm, be prepared to be uncomfortable and teachable.

Here are some common mistakes that I have personally experienced MORE than once.

1. If someone you know gets a diagnosis and you find yourself overwhelmed with not knowing what to say-figure that out before opening your mouth. What I mean is, if you’re not comfortable saying something, just wait. That’s okay. You don’t have to say anything right away and perhaps you’re in shock yourself and need sometime to gather your own emotions and thoughts. That is better than getting in front of the person, fumbling, and saying something trite. Survivors are fighting. Really fighting, real things-life and death stuff at any given moment. REAL. We don’t want to hear trite empty sayings-we know to hang in there, we know to keep our head up. Perhaps instead of throwing out a “chicken soup for the soul” comment you could say, “I’m thinking of you.” or “I’m here for you.” or something I personally appreciated was someone acknowledging my pain by saying something like “I’m so sorry you’re having to deal with this. This sucks.” or “I know things are really hard right now, I can’t imagine.” THOSE seem more real and do not minimize the person’s cancer. The prior ones, that are more of a “hang in there” often make the survivor feel like cancer is not a big deal, and that you’re equating it with having a bad week or day. If you are really close with the survivor just being WITH them can make a difference.
2. If someone you know gets a diagnosis of a gynecological cancer or oral cancer that is caused by HPV, they already feel the very real stigma of that. You turning up your nose and saying, “Isn’t that caused by an STD?” Or “Isn’t that preventable?” Yeah, that doesn’t help the survivor, makes them feel shame, guilt, and again minimizes the pain and fear they are feeling with a cancer diagnosis.
3. In my personal case, I had not had a pap in several years. They were a few people who said things like, “WHY?? Oh I bet your oncologist got all over you for that!!” To which I had to say(after picking my jaw up off the floor), “Actually no she didn’t. She encouraged me that I can’t change the past but can change the future. She didn’t shame me for choices I have already made.” Y’all, I would say this was one of the most hurtful. If your friend or loved one missed paps and abnormal cells have grown and she gets a full blown cancer diagnosis, the LAST thing she needs is YOU making her feel guilty for not staying on top of check ups. I personally have reasons why I didn’t go, which will need to be another post, but listen to me; while there may be truth in those words, when you’re facing CANCER, you do not need people in your life making you feel worse about ANYTHING.
4. If you are someone who is into alternative/preventive medicine, great. I am super into nutrition, highly believe in it and there is a place and time for that conversation. But only if the opportunity presents itself, or you are very close with the survivor, and you feel they are open. Walk lightly.  I had two people, independent from the other, tell me in the height of treatment, that I needed to eat more mushrooms and the other was pushing cloves. Again, I feel these people were well intended but honestly I am not super close with either of these people-one came in the form of a message and the person had not said boo to me the entire time, and the other was from someone who said this definitively, in passing. Y’ALL!!! Seriously?? Again, it  minimizes cancer and invalidates the survivors treatment. I understand that there are cases where the survivor has been in constant treatment for months/ years and there may be an opportunity for someone to say, “Hey, have you talked your doctor or thought about___?” But most of the time that is just not going to be your place unless you are walking very closely with the survivor.
5. If the loved one is diagnosed with a cancer that will or has the potential to make the survivor infertile, PLEASE don’t say “Well, there’s always adoption. Lots of kids out there need a home.” It’s not that this, among the other things are not true-it’s that when you are in the throws of cancer AND you’re losing fertility, it sucks. It’s painful. It’s so overwhelming and can make you feel sorrow on a level you weren’t sure even existed. To hear someone say, “Well, you can always adopt…” makes the survivor feel like their feelings and emotions of grief and sadness are not warranted and again, minimizes what they are facing. We KNOW there is adoption. We aren’t stupid, we are grieving a loss, a death of a dream that has been inside since we were little girls playing with baby dolls. Yes, there is adoption and it is oh so beautiful, but let us grieve and feel what we are losing.
6. Lastly, try to steer away from the, “If you need anything, let me know.” I know, you’re probably thinking, what is wrong with that?? Well, you see when you get a cancer diagnosis you are completely overwhelmed and your brain is in a thousand different places from-What am I going to do about work? How am I going to take care of my kids? How much is this going to cost? How long is this going to take? Am I going to die? For myself, I am already the person who is notorious for not asking for help and trying to do everything on my own, so I have grown a lot during this time. After talking with other survivors though, I have concluded that when someone is specific it is waay more helpful. For example, “I’m coming over on Tuesday to bring you food and will do any errands you need.” or “I am coordinating a dog walking schedule for you or a meal schedule for you.” or “I’m coming to take the kids on Friday night to a movie and dinner, so you don’t have to worry about that.” THOSE things are so helpful and takes the thinking responsibility from the survivor. The survivor doesn’t need something else to think about. Even the smallest gesture can go long way. Think about times when you yourself have been sick with something like the flu-what were some things that were hard for you to get done? Think about your survivor feeling like that long term, and get creative in some specific things you may be able to help with.

I guess my overall advice would be to be more quiet than not, if you’re feeling unsure. Be present for your survivor but don’t feel like you always have to have the “right words.” Sometimes not saying anything and just being-is the very best. I would even go as far to say, if you feel like you need to “say” something and you’re not sure...say THAT. I found so much comfort when people close and not that close to me said things like, “Holly, I’m sorry. I just don’t know what to say.”

A cancer diagnosis of any kind or stage is hard. If you’re feeling overwhelmed, think about how much more the person you love with cancer feels. I have found for myself and other survivors, you really find out who is legit and who’s not. It surprised me who leaned in and who steered away. If you’re gonna lean in-be thoughtful and present. Your survivor may not have the ability to say it, but she needs you.

I have had an army of support and don't have pictures of everyone, but here are several of my people who chose to lean in. 

Choices.

Everyone says they want real. They want authentic. I always hear people complaining that social media is a highlight reel and causes us to compare ourselves with one another’s best. When in reality, we never show the double chins, kids screaming, dinner fails, fights caused by miscommunication, piles of laundry, muffin tops, messy living rooms….you know, all the “real stuff.” Wouldn’t it be great if we had a day for this?? I mean just one DAY! Everything else gets a day (I mean, really not sure when that started happening, but we even have National Cat Day. Seriously?). On this day we could all post pictures of our failures, bad hair days, pictures from the worst angles, fights with our loved ones, you get the idea. I seriously think this needs to happen. #reallife

Anyway, today I want to be real. I try my best to be honest and authentic with people, BUT I often don’t tell the whole story of what may be happening-as to avoid over sharing or just saving face (Hey, I’m a southern girl, we are the BEST at this).

Today I’m avoiding. Actually I’ve been avoiding for several weeks. After chemo and radiation, I found myself not knowing what to do in the day to day. For two months, my job was to get out of bed and go to treatment, take my medication, and drink ALL of my water. That was what I was to do. I knew I needed to go to bed at a decent hour because the next morning, I had to get up and make sure there was time to eat breakfast/have coffee and drink enough water before my radiation appointment. I found myself looking forward to going to the cancer center every day. I live alone and it gets lonely. I have amazing friends who were constantly in touch, but it was hard and still is. Going to the Center was awesome because not only did I get to socialize, everyone there understood me. I didn’t have to explain that my hair was oily because I could not bear the thought of washing it-getting out of bed was all I could do that day. I didn’t have to explain anything because cancer was everywhere and it felt like home.

Port Surgery

Last day of chemo

Radiation Crew for Internal/External Treatments

Now, I am done and hopefully forever. While most people would be looking forward to going back to work in a couple of weeks, I am a teacher and summer break starts in a few days. I am so happy that means that I get paid and really do get a significant time to recover. However, I am struggling. The day to day is hard. Finding purpose is hard. I have started back running, but man….it is a challenge and totally sucks right now. I keep at it, because I want to get back to the fitness level I was before all of this crashed into my life. I want to hang out with people, but at the same time I get so frustrated sometimes, even with those close to me. I want to talk about cancer all the time, but I never want to talk about cancer. (Makes so much sense, right?) I start feeling like no one understands and I begin to withdraw. People don’t understand that just because treatment is done, that I am not fine. Am I alive?? Yes. But y’all let me tell you what dealing with the aftermath of a cervical cancer diagnosis looks like: it looks like dealing with radiation side effects that I will live with including but not limited to infertility, fatigue so great that you have to fight  your way through normal activities, guilt and joy of having hair, guilt and joy that your treatment seemed to work, having a renewed sense of joy for life BUT being seriously paralyzed from the trauma you just went through, and of course the lingering sting of having cervical cancer and the scarlet “A” that comes with it.

So, if I am being real-like everyone wants, I struggle with avoiding. A very practical example: The hospital bills have started to pile up (literal piles)and I need to start writing checks, look at money for the next couple of months, and get started on those. BUT I avoid. It's overwhelming-the pile is overwhelming, the financial end is overwhelming. In my head, I know what to do. BUT I avoid.

And avoiding makes me feel guilty.

So, I am choosing to consciously make choices that are good for me, in hopes that those will spill over into other tasks-like not procrastinating medical bills. The running is good for me. Making myself go to lunch with friends, is good for me. Eating healthy is good for me. Stretching out weekly errands so there is somewhere to go every day and continuing to see my wonderfully awesome counselor, Tiffany. These are good things, that are helpful and make a difference. 

First post treatment run. Hardest run of my life.

But see, I have to choose these things. I have to constantly be aware and choose the best thing, even if it sucks. I think we always have to choose, it’s just some seasons are so great we don’t even have to think about it. It’s second nature to look at something, acknowledge its difficulty, and tackle it. And some seasons are so hard that we are aware of every choice, every breath, every move. If I’m real, I mess up a lot and don’t choose the best thing, BUT I’m learning to have grace with myself-like I do with people I love and care about. I’m learning to talk to myself like someone I love. I’m learning that I am enough-even when I’m not. I’m choosing to see the cup half full and embrace the new normal after cancer. I’m getting to know this new girl. Me.