Great expectations, real-life ruminations

"One of the pitfalls of writing about illness is that it is very easy to imagine people with cancer as either these wise, beyond-their-years creatures or else these sad-eyed, tragic people. And the truth is people living with cancer are very much like people who are not living with cancer." - John Green

Do you ever feel like you don't know how you got where you are? Lately, I have been repeatedly struck by thoughts of "how is this my life?" and "what led me to this (metaphorical) place?" Some of the reflecting is because of cancer, for sure. But, I'm confident that many of the feelings I'm experiencing come from time marching forward in my life and career, too. This is not the 39-year-old me I expected to be.

Decked out in my new hoodie from Sacha for
a trip to Rocky Mountain Nat'l Park

What was supposed to happen, though? Growing up, I just knew I'd be a teacher... so many members of my family were that it felt inevitable. But, things changed in college, leading me to a different part of education. I trucked through the early career life of a student affairs professional (yay for live-in residence life roles) and then determined I was destined for a PhD and perhaps a faculty gig. Along the way, I found a passion for living-learning programs, teaching, and mentoring. And, I met the love of my life with whom I share an affection for nature and wildlife. An opportunity to work with a higher education association - CAS - emerged and led me into new territory. We lived in our beautiful capital city for years and now have swapped our surroundings for the Colorado sun and mountain silhouettes. Then cancer came along. Needless to say, my "life plan" has never fully solidified.

In the thick of these thoughts about how things were "supposed to be," I recognize that having cancer has completely changed me, and yet I am exactly the same. The paradox is baffling, but I find myself holding these two seemingly incompatible self-understandings in tension.

Physically, I have changed... and I'm especially nervous for my professional colleagues to see that in real life when I arrive at the ACPA convention tomorrow. Honestly, sometimes I don't recognize the woman in the mirror - face and neck puffed out with fluids and steroids, eyelashes dropping like flies, extra pounds clinging in the wrong places due to a slowed metabolism and activity limitations of chemo, dulled and dried skin, chin-length wig or hat - and I see her every day. I know and am grateful that it's temporary, but it almost feels like I'm wearing another person's body. For as different as my body feels from normal, my identifying characteristics are still mine, I'm wearing the same clothes, and I'm still very able-bodied.

Psychologically, some perspectives have changed for me. Everything feels a bit more urgent because I recognize more acutely that our time on earth is shorter than we think, and anything can happen to our health, our careers, and our social circles. Finding my purpose at this stage in my life has become a constantly pressing issue. Simultaneously, I still have a lifetime ahead of me to pursue dreams and happiness. I don't want to waste time pursuing things that are not fulfilling, and I'm trying to figure out what what "fills my cup" in different areas of my life. But there is a balance to strike between doing what's right for me and doing right by the other people in my life.

Socially, I've been altered by cancer, and it's drawing me further inward. As a person who values close relationships with friends, students, and colleagues, I feel so disconnected right now. I'm lonely here - away from my family and so many dear friends. Yet, because I'm publicly battling cancer, I know people are thinking of and praying for me all the time (and, I'm so thankful for that!). When we arrived in Colorado a year and a half ago, I didn't know I'd have so many barriers to plugging in with people locally. First, I had last spring's slipped disc, subsequent surgery, and rehab which kept me from driving much or reaching out to professional networks. Then, my CAS responsibilities kicked into overdrive through the summer and early fall with our market research study and re-visioning processes, coupled with plenty of work-related travel. Oh, and we bought a house and moved. Cancer came knocking in late October, with treatment lasting from early November until now (and beyond to at least August). Combine all of those things with my introversion, and I have made just a few friends here, leaving me far more isolated than I'd like. Even so, I have Sean as my indispensable daily partner in life, and we've managed to have family and close friends here for numerous visits.

Fuzzy pussy willows coming to life in our neighborhood

Emotionally, I'm worn out. The last few months have my feelings doing frequent flip-flops. Obviously, I've experienced setbacks and successes in my cancer treatment. I spend so much of my time surviving cancer, shuttling between appointments, talking about how I physically am doing, caring for myself after chemo treatments, and preparing for next steps. It's exhausting. I go from sad to angry to "normal" to ambivalent in the course of a few hours. My hormones are disrupted by the chemical menopause they've induced as part of my treatment. At times, the worst of my insecurities surface, and I experience self-loathing and hopelessness. But, even though the reasons behind my emotional turmoil are different today than ever before, I am familiar with these feelings from all different stages of my life.

Seriously, how did I get here? Is this what life is supposed to be? Do most people experience feelings of dissonance, discord, and disconnect? Is human existence just daily drudgery punctuated by highs and lows? Part of me thinks I might need to revisit my human development theories for some perspective... I'm not sure I'll ever fully know what to expect. Or what I want, even.

All my musings may have their place, but I also know that - as of yesterday - I've completed 14 of my 15 chemo treatments. Next Friday, March 31, I'll ring the bell at the cancer center to mark the completion of these infusions. And cancer will change it's relationship with me yet again, as I recover from the chemical onslaught for six weeks and prepare for surgery in May.

The seasons are changing around and within me. I'm reminded that spring is storms and sunshine. It's dried branches bursting forth with tiny buds, baby green grass peeking through tufts of brown turf, and weeds growing again between the cracks in your driveway. Paradoxes abound. I am trying to embrace the coexistence of good and bad days. I may not have a clear plan for what's next, but I recognize there are cycles in my life, too. My fingers are crossed that out of this cancer journey will come both expected and unexpected results.

I'll bloom anew, I suspect. Most certainly with a few thorns.