Remember
Before Cancer

Remembering ...

Five years ago this summer, I was in the middle of six rounds of chemotherapy

I remember the treatments
I remember the exhaustion
I remember the bald head in the mirror
I remember the fear

But what surprised me,
when I went back and read something I had written during that time,
was what I chose to remember

Not the chemotherapy itself
The life before it

I called the poem:  Remember ~ Before Cancer ~

And reading it now, five years later,
I realize I was grieving a little for the ordinary things
I had never thought to appreciate

A lump was just a lump
Being tired meant I had probably done too much
A week belonged to me
I could make plans without wondering which doctor might be calling

I could walk through a store
without calculating how far it was to the next place I could sit down

And when I looked in the mirror, I recognized the woman looking back

I didn’t know how precious those things were
How could I

We don’t usually appreciate ordinary life while we’re living it
We just call it Tuesday

Remember

~ Before Cancer ~

Remember
when a lump was just a lump

Remember
when feeling weary —
meant you were just tired

Remember
when a week could be planned
without a single doctor’s visit

Remember
walking through a store
still having enough energy

Remember
looking in the mirror —
seeing yourself
and not a stranger with a bald head

Remember
not having the fear —
of *it* returning

Remember
when a lump was just a lump
and you were
simply
you
...

There is something almost painful about reading those words now
Because I know what came after them
And I know what came before them

I know that cancer changed the way I listen to my own body
A tired day isn’t always just a tired day anymore
A strange ache can have a history attached to it
And the word lump is never going to be quite as innocent as it once was

That is one of the strange things about surviving

People sometimes think the hardest part is getting through treatment
And oh, believe me — treatment has its own particular hell
But then the bell rings
The treatments end
People celebrate
You celebrate

Everyone breathes again

And somewhere along the way,
you discover that finishing treatment
doesn’t necessarily mean you have finished being afraid

Five years later, I still know that

But I also know something else

I am still here
The woman who once looked into the mirror and didn’t recognize herself is still here

She has hair again
She walks through stores
She makes plans
She gets tired for all sorts of ordinary reasons

She still goes to doctors — perhaps more than she’d like —
but not every appointment means cancer

And sometimes, if I am lucky, I can have a completely ordinary Tuesday

And I notice it
I really notice it

Because once you’ve had your ordinary life taken away for a while,
ordinary becomes a rather beautiful word

So today, five years after those six rounds of chemotherapy,
I find myself remembering

Not because I want to go backward
I don’t
But because I want to remember the woman I was before
Cancer Called My Name

And maybe, just maybe,
I want to remind the woman I am now …
… that she is still simply me

Not cancer
Not a diagnosis
Not a survivor before she is anything else

Just … … me

… and that may be the most important thing I remembered