Embracing Me

This body. I have struggled with it most of my life. I’m not sure WHY I have always felt that it’s not good enough, but I have. I was a chubby kid and always felt like I was bigger than everyone else my age. I remember feeling like I wasn’t like everyone else, from a young age; that I was different.

By high school, I had lost weight but I was starving most of the time. I would go hungry because it worked. I know now how unhealthy it was to be eating so little, but at the time it seemed like a good idea.

Fast forward to my late teens/early twenties, and my immediate family went through some hard things. In addition to that, while I was away at college my sister moved to California, and I fell into a depression and pretty much ate all of my feelings. I had never developed a healthy relationship with food, so it was definitely where I went for comfort and relief.

It took many years of struggling with this, to FINALLY develop a balanced relationship with food. I started running in 2012, and it completely changed my outlook on everything. First of all, I started to love my body because I realized it was capable of doing really hard things. Running is hard, especially when you’re overweight. Developing this habit helped me to manage my weight, stress, and anxiety. Naturally, that lead to a healthier relationship with food. I wasn’t depressed, I believed in myself, and didn’t feel anxious. Oddly enough, this lead to me eating what I actually needed, versus what I needed AND what I wanted to make myself feel better. My body changed. It wasn’t skinny but it was strong and healthy.  For the first time in my life, I felt good about myself and the choices I was making. I didn’t avoid cameras or full body shots,  I enjoyed shopping for clothes, I was signing up for races, I was faithful to my lifting class at the Y, I had energy, I was able to eat cake and not feel bad. I felt like I had achieved balance.

Backpacking on the Appalachian Trail

Completing my first half marathon

January 2016, I was diagnosed with Stage 2B adenocarcinoma of the cervix. I had cervical cancer and was treated with chemotherapy/external radiation/internal radiation. Steroids and drugs put the weight on. I gained 20lbs during treatment. I kept telling myself it was okay because this is what I had to do to LIVE and when it was over, I would jump back into running and get back to normal.

When treatment ended the first part of May, I found myself so fatigued I could barely make it around the block walking. The first time I attempted to run, I was in the bed for 2 days. It wrecked me. I had to adjust and just start moving as I could. Since I wasn’t in treatment, my body was able to tolerate healthier food options and roughage. So, I started trying to focus on my diet. I tried to shift my mindset from “I’m going to start working out hard again” to “I’m really going to try and take this time to focus on diet/nutrition.” I did that. I did that for two months and lost no weight. I remember sitting with my oncologist crying, asking her what the heck was wrong with me because nothing was the same. She is such a straight shooter-I just love her. She looked at me and said, “Holly, your body just went through cancer treatment and you’re in menopause. Nothing is going to work like it used to. It might take months or even years. Doesn’t mean these things are impossible, but you need to cut yourself some major slack.” I cried all the tears, gathered myself,and we scheduled my first PET scan post treatment.

My oncologist’s words, while not what I really wanted to hear, did encourage me. I started trying to have grace with myself and just keep at it. I started seeing some differences in energy level and some very small differences on the scale. I just kept telling myself, that it was fine-slow but to just keep at it, that it would all add up eventually.

By the first part of August, I had my first PET scan which showed cancer was still in my cervix. Due to inflammation, my oncologist wanted to take some biopsies, to ensure that this was in fact cancer and not just false positives. By mid August, I was starting back to school with my students and having outpatient biopsy surgery that very week. By the end of August, it was confirmed that I still had cancer and I had a date for a radical hysterectomy mid September.

I continued to fight fatigue and stress, but exercised right up until my surgery, as it is one of the only things I have found that helps me deal with anxiety and depression.

After my hysterectomy, I struggled with energy and pain. Having surgery post radiation, comes with lots of fun things, like longer recovery periods. About two months after surgery, I started back walking and going to yoga classes. I felt like a stranger in my body though. My hysterectomy was laproscopic, so that was good as far as incisions go-but my abdominal muscles were shot. I had never carried weight in my belly before, but suddenly I felt like I was carrying so much more in the front, in addition to my hips. I was fighting fatigue, stress about cancer, and feeling so bad about myself. I constantly fought  myself in my mind- I went back and forth with “I’m so happy to be alive and not have cancer” and “I hate what my body feels and looks like.” Now, if you’ve ever almost died, you know it’s a pretty big deal NOT to, so why in the world was I struggling with body image issues?

Hot yoga-low impact/high intensity

By mid November, I was extremely ill and had developed an abscess in my vaginal cuff. I could barely walk, let alone be active. I was hospitalized and sent home only to have formed a vesicovaginal fistula. Due to the hysterectomy, AFTER radiation, my bladder was fried. A pathway had formed in the bottom of my bladder, into my vagina and I was completely and utterly incontinent. My bladder would hold nothing. Everything went straight through and in the wrong direction. My bladder was hanging out doing nothing until it decided to cramp and spasm, and I started to develop lots of vaginal irritation and external irritation, as I was forced to wear adult diapers until surgery was safe and scheduled.

Initially, I felt myself falling into depression. Just like with my cancer diagnosis, at first I was embarrassed. I was also very scared, as the surgery to correct this issue was going to be risky and may not work-and my urologist and oncologist had started talking about the possibility of cancer being in the bladder wall and the what ifs, if surgery didn’t work. They prepared me for the worst. My mind continued to be this battlefield of “You’re alive, be grateful.” and “Oh my gosh, I hate my body already. It does nothing it used to and now they’re saying I may need a urostomy.” It was constant back and forth.

I stayed at home and barely moved for weeks. I remember being in my chair one afternoon and just saying to myself, “I can’t just sit here. There are people who live and THRIVE with much worse. Get up!” I wish I could say that it was more drastic than that, but it wasn’t. Something just hit me that it really could be worse and if it DID get worse, what was I going to do, sit in that chair for the rest of my life? No.

So, I got up. I talked to my urologist about starting a walk/run program and explained how much being active had helped me manage and cope with anxiety in the past. I basically told him I was going nuts. Ha!  He was so supportive and told me to put on my diaper and run! And I did. I had to go back to work during this time for insurance purposes, so I didn’t do this every day, as working under this health condition was extremely difficult. But I did it when I could and I felt like my body could handle it. This time frame was not magic. I was still struggling with acceptance of where my body had landed after a year of cancer BUT I was doing something that made me feel good inside and that was more helpful than not. It was hard but worth it.

The week before my surgery, I ran a 5K and while I was slow, I did it. It was definitely a milestone for

me.

5k in Depends. Compression wear can be forgiving. It sucks in all the things.

My surgery was March 17. It was supposed to last 4 hours and the plan was to take skin and muscle from my upper thigh to graft into my bladder and vagina, to replace damaged/radiated tissue. I woke up with staples from under my breasts to the top of my pelvic bone. Surgery had been over 7 hours and my bladder was so damaged and the fistula was so large, they had to use an upper abdominal muscle to graft into my bladder. My team again prepared me for the worst, and told me that had done everything humanly possible to save my bladder, but that it was going to be a waiting game.

Since surgery, recovery has been slow. I mean really slow. I had a catheter for 5 weeks, a dressing on the skin donor site on my thigh, and the stomach staples. My abdominal muscles are shot to shit. And now, I have this super nice permanent lump from my muscle graft and this perfectly shaped rectangular scar that is super dark on my upper thigh. I’m also at risk for hernias if I do too much too quickly, since they took my ab muscle, so there’s that. While recovery has been slow, it appears so far, that surgery was successful.

Since my abs have been cut through and moved around-I have this belly. This roly poly belly. Like I’ve always had a roll when I sit, but this is like a two roll special, with this weird separation right down the middle where my scar is. As my weight fluctuates, this roly poly belly can go down BUT the shape of it, is what it is.

March 17 right before the anesthesia

Now, most of you might be thinking after all of THAT you’re here and alive and your bladder works so why are you struggling with what you look like? Are you really that superficial? Honestly, I can’t fully answer that question. I can some and will attempt to here, but I really do think accepting my body has become a process and some days, some moments are better than others.

Before cancer, I had worked so hard to change my mindset toward food and exercise. I enjoyed being active and the balance it helped bring to my life. NOW, I physically cannot work out like I want to or at all. Honestly it all seems very unfair, and I know that sounds whiny. I am heavy and I’m struggling with confidence. Why? I think that somewhere along the way, my confidence became too entrenched in what my body was capable of. Now, don’t misunderstand me. I love that my body is capable of doing hard things-and it gives me internal confidence when I’m able to work hard to accomplish those hard things. BUT what happens when you can’t do that? What happens when you’re just you-the thing looking out of your eyes? The you that makes you, YOU! Are you any less? I’m still the person who worked really hard to lose 60lbs and run half marathons. I’m still the person who was able to get off of a cocktail of medication for hypertension.(and still enjoy this benefit) Am I any less because my body looks different? NO! If I were my friend, talking to me I would tell me about all the strength that I see in who she is and even though she may be bigger, she is mentally stronger now than she EVER was before!! Why don’t we talk to ourselves, like we would talk to our friends? Because we often do not love ourselves the same way.

So, here I am. And even after explaining and coming full circle in that explanation, laying it ALL out for you...I can honestly say it’s a struggle. Some days are better than others. BUT I do feel that this is a process and another layer of my journey that I am going to wrestle with for a while. Maybe a long while. However, with every struggle that I have had, the more I am honest, the more I share, the more I am able to process. AND the more likely it is that someone, somewhere says, “me too!” and THAT makes all the difference.

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. 

Dry Shampoo and Coffee

It’s Saturday morning and as I sit with coffee in hand, my mind is still on a reel from the past several weeks. The only thing that keeps coming to my mind is “How did I do that?” This month comes in, in at least the top three most stressful eras I have faced. I teach at what is considered a satellite campus for the district. The first week of school was a MONSTER. Did I mention the internet being down and parents impatiently making requests for registration that I could not grant and administrators frantically demanding paper work?  As a PreK teacher the first day is very chaotic and stressful as there are tears and often blood curdling screams from students and sometimes parents, who are emotional leaving their babies for the first time. This year was no different. Thankfully by day two internet had been restored and we were able to continue with enrollment (notice I said enrollment and not teaching…somehow I was expected to do both. I’m good but not that good). The building had flooded two weeks prior, so we had gotten in with JUST enough time to set up. Documents were damaged in the flood and paper work was missing that had to be redone for registration. I have many English language learners and really cannot explain to you how extremely stressful it is to walk refugee parents with limited language, through online registration. Yet, all of the above, oddly enough, are reasons I love my job. I love the population I serve in a Title 1 program. My heart is there. It thrives there. In the midst of the crazy and the stress, I was beginning to feel like me again. Not the cancer patient. Not that one teacher who had cancer and was out last spring. But me. The old me.'

In the middle of first week chaos, I had an oncology follow-up and results from the biopsies taken the week prior. Unfortunately, the news was not good. Cancer remains. Right now the treatment will be surgery and depending on how surgery goes maybe another round of chemotherapy. My heart is so thankful for an oncologist who will sit and talk to me. Who will shoot straight with me, who I feel has my best interest at heart. I am beyond thankful for a plan forward. I trust her with my very life.

Yet…I am so sick of being sick. Wasn’t I JUST starting to gain some energy? Wasn’t I JUST feeling like me again? And now major surgery?? I am tired of this. I long for normalcy, but I don’t even know what that is. I was looking through photos last night and can’t even pinpoint when things changed. I can kind of get it within a few months, but not really. Part of me wants things to go back to how it was before cancer, but I know I never can. And would I really choose that anyway?  I am not the same person. I don’t even feel like I look like the same woman and on a realistic note, it has aged the hell out of me. Inside, I am changed beyond what I can fully explain. Perspective shift is an understatement. I see absolutely nothing the way I did before. Nothing. Even the, “Oh wait, you still have cancer” thing looks and feels completely different on this side.  Before, cancer was unknown. I didn’t even want to say the word. I was completely fearful, and unsure. I am still those things to an extent, but it feels more familiar. I have been around it a lot, which is the part that makes me feel comfortable yet afraid because I have watched with my eyes what it can do. The fact that mine is still hanging around is unnerving and yes, I am afraid. Yet there IS a plan forward and reasons to be thankful.

Which leads me to lay out the constant conversation I have been having with myself the past few weeks….Can you be afraid and unsettled YET still thankful there is a plan? Can you admit fear and still have faith in the One who holds your very life? Can you admit your weakness, weariness, and frustration and STILL be thankful there is a plan forward in treatment? 

Every single one of those feels like they are in opposition to one another but I feel every single one of those-at any given moment. At any point during my recent days I have been on the verge of either tears of fatigue, tears of fear, tears of frustration, tears of thankfulness and humility, OR cursing out of frustration because people want to either act like I’m their hero (which can feel very uncomfortable) OR like NOTHING has happened, or cursing out of frustration that I have been feeling more like me and now I am getting my legs kicked in again. Now, you tell me….does THAT sound like someone who trusts in God’s plan for her life? Does that look like someone who has it together and is holding fast to her faith?

How beautiful and amazing, that the answer to those questions is a big fat NO…..yet a big fat YES at the same time? See, God is showing me that admitting my weakness is actually strength. Y’all, I’m talking about the kind of weakness where you cry out in tears, throw up your hands, and yell out some F bombs because you got nothing. I’m talking about admitting that you are terrified that cancer will not ever fully go away and you’re bound to a life of treatment. I’m talking about admitting that you don’t understand why God chose you to carry this burden, even if just for a season. I’m talking about weakness, where you say “I’m confused by God’s choice for ME to not have biological kids, but I see first-hand, every day, selfish adults who appear to be baby factories.” I’m talking about asking God why He asked me to do this for a little bit longer.

The beauty of it is that when our hearts get to that point and we are stripped naked with nothing left to hold on to-and we admit out weakness, we have a choice. We can either continue to wallow in those questions and live in limbo and anger OR we can choose to lay them at the feet of the One who made us. Think about it. He made me. He knows I am pissed. He knows I am scared and afraid. He knows I am wondering how in the world He will redeem this? The absolute beauty of the gospel is that I can be honest with Him, He can hold me in my weakness and that I am may NEVER understand any of this….but He will hold me. AND in my weakness, I may crawl out of His lap several times a day, thinking “I got this” “I can do this now”….. and when I finally start seeing how very much “I don’t have it” and how “I can’t do it, “ He scoops me right back up and I bury my head in His lap and weep.

The truth is, I am no one’s hero. I am weak. I do not have it together in any way. I just admitted to you that I am basically on the verge of either tears or cursing, at any given moment. I am not “doing great” and I feel like I hobble home every day and hobble around my house and then fall into bed. I really am mostly dry shampoo and coffee.

The only thing I know for sure, is that my heart desires to stay in His lap. I fail miserably at this daily, sometime multiple times. Maybe you do too? Is that okay? Does that make your faith weak? Does asking questions make you weak? I have personally never felt so close to God than I do now. It’s funny how that is. I have not been able to attend church regularly since February, I have said more F bombs in the last 8 months than I ever have in my life, I am admitting that there is a lot I do not understand and a lot that I want to go away, I am admitting that I am weak and want this cup to pass, and yet….He is with me. Daily I feel Him more than ever. As I hobble around my life, every moment I am aware of His presence and that only by His provision and goodness, am I here. He is here.

A flower I found on a walk this week.

Luna keeping me company after biopsy surgery.

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.