Anniversaries – on the calendar and in the heart

I wonder how long the visceral sense of the anniversaries will continue to be the predominate emotional reality of the day every time they roll around.  September 22, this year, is two years since I underwent my second ERCP, the one that provided conclusive evidence that confirmed a diagnosis.

The doctor was kind in his telling.  His manner was direct but decidedly gentle.  I indicated that I knew about pancreatic cancer, it’s seriousness, it’s lethality.  He gave me factual information without sugar-coating the truth or being maudlin.  He described the process that his hospital used in such cases.  He gave me a general time line for how quickly things would move.  He let me get along…with my life.

I had just started an internship as part of a mid-life career change.  I was on the upswing of an increasingly contentious divorce.  I had rearranged my work schedule to allow me to continue a 40-hour workweek along with the 20 hours/week I’d be involved in my internship.  I was trying to care for a 13 year-old son.  I had no time to have this bullshit thrust on me.  My life was finely balanced and there was barely enough energy to deal with the basic concerns that were a part of my new existence.  I had no choice.  I remember that there was no sense of hesitation or uncertainty.  There were some realities that were absolute and there was no reason to postpone them.

Within an hour I had put my course-work on hold and canceled my internship.  I had been told that the treatment would occupy me full-time, that it would begin as quickly as possible and that there would be tests and appointments leading up to it.  There was absolutely no time for my school, it would have to wait…for what?  I also called my lawyer.  I knew that this would be used against me (as it was, in ways I could have never imagined) and I knew that every step I took would now be in the context of my…cancer.  Yes, that  was it.  I had cancer.  It was lethal cancer, count-your-days cancer, and I had it but I remember thinking, on the ride home, that it would not have me.  So I called my lawyer.  Cancer would be a strategic concern, not a mortal one.  And I called my therapist.  My therapist had known me for years and…he had an expertise at dealing with those facing cancer.

Now the days on the calendar turn by and September 22 comes around again.  The first day of autumn.  The day everything changed.  How can I not remember?  Not just the events, but the feeling, the focus, the uncertainty.  I remember because that day marked me, invisibly and to most, imperceptibly.  It became the wedge used to dislodge me from the future I was building for myself.  It became the evidence of my super-human will and spirit.  It was the beginning of a horrific period where I endured moments I never want to remember.  It allowed me to discover and to show what I was capable of.  It began a process that changed me physically in ways that those who admire my strength and spirit and fortitude, as well as those whose callous denial and disregard have left me casting about for a way forward, can never know because even though it doesn’t show I feel it every moment of every day.  The purple band I wear around my wrist, unnoticed by almost everyone I encounter, is the only outward and visible sign, of the inward and physical turmoil that was wrought upon me.

If you’re reading this and, you too, have lived, I think you know what I’m talking about, and you are not alone.  I don’t write this with a sense of self-pity, though there are moments.  I don’t write this with a sense of defiance, even though there are some times.  I write this because I want to know when and if the anniversaries will pass without notice or mention or awareness.  Because when, and if, they do I believe it will because because I will no longer feel marked and because the humility I so desperately seek will have taken hold and I’ll have really started to get on…with life.