The journey—one year on

Dear Chris,

Hi, it’s me, your future self, one year from today. I know you’re going under the knife this morning to finally excise that cancer from your throat. And, as I recall, you’re a little concerned about what the future holds. 

I can’t tell you how the “you’re probably out of the woods” two-year plan goes because we’re not there yet, but we’re half way, cancer-free, and alive enough for me to compose this message to you.

To help while away the last weeks of your recovery, you document your journey from the moment of diagnosis to your return to work (yep, we’re still employed!). I don’t want to take that experience from you by repeating it here. My hope is to help you with some of what comes after.

You recall Job, the Bible character so put upon by God—the sores, the slaughter of livestock, servants, and kin? That guy. The righteousness-leads-to-reward guy. 

In a year, you’re going to wonder if maybe Job survived God and Satan’s cruel competition not so much because of his everlasting faith, but rather because They so overplayed Their hand that the trials became laughable. 

Okay fine, kill a couple of cows and the guy who mucks out the stalls. Pretty terrible. Follow that up with an angry pimple on the back of the neck. Ouch and eww. Point made. But all the animals? Everyone in the family? During supper? Then frickin’ boils from head to toe!?

“אדון ושטן יקרים, תנו לי הפסקה מזוינת.” you can imagine him ruefully chuckling.

Which, as it turns out, is one way of getting through it.

In short, while you think that enduring the next couple of months of treatment and recovery is going to satisfy the Universe’s need to staple a Kick Me sign to your ass, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

Death, for starters. Not yours. But friends. And family. And, ironically enough, not from Covid (which, by way of sidenote, is still going on because Idiots). 

No, it’s the more mundane stuff. Cancer. And alcoholism. And despair.

But as challenging as all of that will be, its application is so over the top that all you can do is shake your head, laugh, and kind of admire the divine awfulness of it.

Oh, and not take it personally. Because it isn’t. We’ve come to realize that it’s just part of life’s rich and sometimes tragic tapestry.

Ah, but what about us? It’s always about us, eh?

As you’ll note when you write about this in a couple of months, cancer is a bully and leaves a mark. I know you believe you’ll be right as rain when this is all over, and that may eventually be true. But, as we write this, it’s not all over.

Yes, the cancer is gone, at least as far as anyone knows. You see a medical professional every couple of months and they scope and scan and tell you So Far So Good. And for the most part, you don’t worry about it. 

But, a year out, swallowing some things is still challenging. (Sugar just burns. Dammit!) You haven’t yet fully recovered your sense of taste. You clear your throat constantly. And when you haven’t eaten for awhile, your mouth waters like Yosemite Falls. All these things are manageable—and help you maintain your girlish figure—but they do serve to routinely remind you that you’ve survived cancer at a cost. 

And it can make you weary.

But it’s not all death and carbuncles. You’re seeing someone to help you cope and you’re becoming a better person for it. You haven’t cut your hair in—I don’t even know when—and are now often addressed as “man” rather than “sir.” Sure, with that and the beard, you look a little ridiculous, but after everything you’ve endured, you’ve kind of run out of fs to g.

And most importantly, you’re getting the idea that life is fleeting, and if you’re ever going to get to that dessert you’ve been hoarding, it’s time to pick up the spoon.

Take a bite. It’s good.

All my love.

Me