‘Just tell them you’re a cancer patient’, my endocrinologist told me as I left to make a follow up appointment with her, after I lamented that it was impossible to get appointments.

Ah, the cancer card. She laughed, and responded with something about how if it’s true…

Her words dug deep, reminding me of why I was there, why I was making follow up appointments, and why I was headed to get blood taken, for the gazillionth time this year.

Life has moved on, the past few weeks on the right dose of medication, finally feeling like myself, my days of being a hormone science experience seemingly in the past. People told me they could barely see my scar. It seemed forever ago that I had cancer, that I felt scared.

But, I still do. Maybe. Or at least, until proven otherwise.

The brain’s a funny place. I’m struck by what can become the new normal. The new this-is-how-life-is. I am someone who has cancer. Had cancer? Maybe. But regardless, that is part of my identity.

Identities are funny, though, right? Like, I once had a dog. Being a dog-owner was a huge part of my identity. And then I wasn’t. And to some people, I am Cody’s sister. And to others, I am their school coach. And to others, a ski instructor, or Nick’s girlfriend, or friend of Jessica’s. And those are all true, and yet not the whole picture.

So, I have cancer. Maybe.

I am a cancer patient. But at some point I won’t be.

But, I’ll still carry it with me. All wrapped up in the fabric along with all those other things.

And yet, here we are. Another year, another trip around the sun. I am still here. My body missing parts, my heart expanded.

Instead of celebrating this year, I am laid low with a cold, or maybe the flu. And I have more blood work scheduled, and an echocardiogram. And more CT scans. So, on top of feeling shitty, it all isn’t done. Because, as my therapist reminded me recently, ‘you are till a cancer patient, after all’.

But, here’s the thing when you’re a ‘cancer patient’ (picture me saying that with air quotes, because that’s how I feel about that) – when you get sick, even a cold, it brings up every fear in you. Not a hypochondriac by nature, it is hard to sustain this level of fear and concern. Will this cold impact my immune system? Is my immune system impacted by my ‘situation’? Does this over-the-counter drug interact with my daily meds? Could this cold have bigger impacts on my health? How are my lungs doing?

Blah blah blah. Don’t worry – I, too, am bored thinking and talking about my health.

Instead, let’s leave it here. 42 was a fucking doozy. And let’s hope that 43 brings all the good, and leaves behind some of this struggle.

But, even with all this struggle… and it was some hard shit, it was the most glorious year in so many ways. Here’s to finding the light, even through the messiness.

And celebrating all that there is to celebrate — good friends and family who showed up for me this year in ways that continue to floor me; beautiful sunrises and sunsets; a walk in the woods; and finding and being in sweet, amazing love.

The sun rising in Belize.

Taking a moment in Oaxaca.

Lazy mornings in Oaxaca

A Vermont bikepacking trip with a dearest friend days after getting diagnosed with cancer.

Sweet amazing love.  

It was a rough two and a half weeks, finishing up a month of not taking any synthetic thyroid hormone at all. And then on top of it, a scan to find out if there was more cancer, and then treatment.

I felt like I was swimming through molasses, my brain foggy, my body heavy. So heavy. Stairs seeming impossible. Having to take breaks on walks, the skin around my eyes swelling, feeling like I needed to melt into whatever chair I was sitting in. You could see my pulse on my neck — booming and slow – my heart working hard to push blood through my body.

And then I got the scan, which told me preliminary decent news. A moderate size mass of cells in my neck, but nothing elsewhere. What lit up in my neck, after taking a preliminary, small dose of Radioactive Iodine (RAI) was moderate in size – not so big that they needed to operate again – but large enough for a big dose of RAI. And, in that preliminary scan – they did not see any cells that had metastasized elsewhere. Cautious optimism.

I came back, the next day, for the dose of RAI. They removed the pill from a metal container, had me take it with water and then read me with a Geiger Counter. It tested positive. I was officially radioactive.

I spent the past week in isolation, a danger to those around me. People couldn’t be within 6-10 feet of me, and so I spent the time mostly at home – getting out for a week each day. Mostly I felt terrible, my thyroid levels so low that it was tough to concentrate for longer periods of time. I finished watching Stranger Things, I read a book. I chased down some dust bunnies hiding in the corner, and mostly I just tried to feel ok, counting down the days.

And then I had to go back for a second scan – this one that would tell me if the preliminary one, with a small dose of RAI was correct. Perhaps the small dose wasn’t taken up by a small subset of cells that had decided to migrate south of my neck. The apprehension of the scan was off-set by the fact that I was starting to feel better, as I was able to get back on my meds, and I could feel them slowly taking affect. My pulse moving into the low to mid-50s. The ability to focus longer. No longer feeling like I needed to melt. The swelling around my eyes going down slightly.

After the scan, I waited anxiously for the nuclear doctor. She walked out, and without even taking me to her office, said – no other signs – and what is in your neck lit up a lot – meaning those cells took up a lot of the RAI. I raised my arms in a cheer, wanting to hug this rather stoic Russian woman (I held back). But she did smile.

‘Go on, go live your life’, she said.

This isn’t the end, of course. I have to wait and hope that the RAI will kill everything that is left in my neck. There is more blood work and scans in my future. And I need to work with my endocrinologist to get my hormone levels right, which will take the next few months of tinkering. But, I’ve gotten some good advice, and some good support and I now I know what hypothyroid feels like (please, never again).

But for now, right now, this is the best news I can get.

I let out a deep breath (as much as I can with my still hypothyroid-lungs-and-heart). These moments come and go, don’t they? These moments of — go live your life, mixed in with — hold your breath, this is scary. And we’re all just along for the ride.

I’ll take it.

But it all is, isn’t? This whole little life of ours.

The feeling of holding my breath is real. I feel out of breath. My pulse has slowed to the point that climbing stairs is tough, running out of the question. My metabolism slowed, impacting my body, my mind, my heart. This medically-induced hypothyroidic-state a preparation for treatment.

But first, a scan. A little look inside to find out what is in there.

I am on the cusp of knowing.

Knowing whether there is still cancer in me, and if there is, how much.

I go for a walk in the woods. The blue-gray color of the sky, the look of snow, but without the smell and the temperatures to match. Just a chilly fall day, the leaves mostly all off the trees. I move slowly, and try to steady my breath. My desire to move my body, now feeling fuller and rounder than it has been due to my lack of thyroid hormones, matched by not being able to fully catch my breath if I move too quickly.

I’ve spent the past few weeks being ok with it all, resigned to the process, to allowing it to happen and knowing there is nothing I can do.

But now, on the eve of knowing, I am scared, nervous, anxious – what will they see? I want to hold tight to my ignorance, to not knowing.

And rationally, I know, no matter what, I will be ok. My treatment regimen, to start the next day, will be determined by what they see. I will take on each step of the process, each day will move forward, day by day. Step by step. All do-able, all manageable.

But this moment. This, right here. This is the worst.

And yet, I cannot move forward without knowing.

And yet, on this cusp…

It is these hours, a mere 15-16 hours until I know… they are the tough ones. The ones I want to distract myself from. Yes, everything beyond these hours will be easier, no matter what happens, what the doctor sees. But right now, right here – it feels scary and unclear.

I’m left wanting to grasp. To reach out, to feel solid ground, to distract, to fill this need, and to anchor myself in these hours. And maybe this is it, instead, to just sit with this fear and anxiousness. To revele in the unknown, in these times when we think we can actually know everything with the click and a google search and reassure our brains and our souls at all times.

But… instead to marvel in the unknown.

And in that unknown, knowing, and trusting, that will be done and it will pass. Because everything after is easy. Or, at least, easier.

A month ago, I was struggling. Feeling fine and not fine, holding fear and normalcy together in my hands. And then it passed. Days blended into days, my routine becoming normal, back to living my life. It was easy to ignore, easy to forget. I felt normal, I was encouraged to return to all my activities and live my life. I didn’t have doctor’s visits. I woke early each morning to take my faux-ho, as someone recently called the synthetic hormone replacement, but I felt fairly normal. It was easy to forget.

It was easy to forget this thing, this cancer that could still be in my body. My scar doesn’t hurt unless I accidentally touch it or stretch my neck in some weird way. I get up to run some days, while also accepting that maybe I don’t have to push it so far. I go about my life – going to work; being enraged by the news; spending my time with my man, delighting in being with him, getting to know him, getting to know myself with him – getting to know us; finding time to connect with friends; watching the season spin past; delighting in the leaves falling from the trees.

It is easy to forget.

But then, thyroid cancer seems to be everywhere. When once I never really knew about it, now it is all over the place. I meet a woman who had half her thyroid removed 8 months ago. Another friend who had it 20 years ago. Another friend who has a faulty thyroid and so she takes faux-ho, we compare doses one night over wine.

Even the subway reminds me.

And then, there is the one friend who has a different cancer, one that was in remission for 5 years, but it has come back with a vengeance and ferocity that stuns me in her description of it.

But then, another friend has gotten the all clear for her potential cancer.

And so I remember.

I remember because I am waiting. Waiting for my next steps. I wait for a scan, a scan of my whole body to tell me where cancer has spread to. And maybe it hasn’t spread anywhere. Or maybe what was seen on my lungs is indeed cancer. Or maybe not. Who nows. I don’t know. I can’t tell. And there is nothing for me to do. But wait.

I remember because I am on a slow roll, a downwards descent, into hypothyroidism, having had to stop take my medicine a little over a week and a half ago, another week and a half until I should bottom out, my body depleted of all thyroid-producing hormones. A slow roll into low metabolism, sensitivity to the cold, lethargy, weight gain, depression. A temporary place, but one needed to find out my next steps.

I remember because anxiety has crept back into my days, though anxiety isn’t part of the physical manifestation that low thyroid levels are known for, yet here nonetheless. Creeping in, making a mess of my brain. I work to feel my feet on the ground, breathing in, counting my breaths, starting my days with meditation. And, still, I remember. I remember what is at stake. And I remember that I should be fine. I remember my friend who is going through chemo now. I remember that I have the best cancer, the easy cancer. I remember the fear and the uncertainty. I remember the gratitude and the appreciation of my people, surrounding me with love and support. I remember that I am bored by this fear, that I want to move on, to live this little life.

Sometimes I want to forget, but instead, I am forced into remembering and being here, now, with it all. Whatever it is, whatever comes – and remembering to keep my feet firmly planted, as it will pass, and soon I will forget, again.

I could spend time disappearing down rabbit holes on the interwebs, working to learn why my thyroid was growing and how it had become cancerous. Or why it was cancerous, but still working like normal. Or why it spread to my lymph nodes. Or why that didn’t show up on a CT scan, but nodules on my lungs did. So many questions. But, mostly, I try to avoid the interwebs. Or even, I try to avoid the questions.

There is a willful ignorance I am entertaining right now. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know the reasons why. I don’t want to understand the process, I don’t want to understand how I am going to ingest something radioactive and how I am going to continue to get CT scans and how I will continue to put my body in danger, all for the sake of keeping other dangers at bay.

There is an immediacy to my life, for the first time not planning for the future. I can’t seem to think much beyond the next few weeks. And then the next few weeks. Me – who planned trips far in advance, who mapped out jobs and trajectories; me, who wanted to always plan and think ahead. Now the distant future seems so fragile and scary and tenuous. If I just ignore it, it will come, I seem to be thinking.

Instead, I watch my scar diminish and heal. The visual reminder of this cancer slowing disappearing, blending in with my skin and the folds of my aging neck. Ah, it pays to have older skin. I am not overly vain, but I am happy to see it disappearing. This marks the passage of time – time that I feel ok, that everything feels normal, time that makes life is returning to normal.

Bu, when I go for runs, it is harder than its been in years. Sometimes it is hard to take a deep breath. One inner-voice just rationalizes that I sat around doing nothing for 3 weeks, that I am still healing, that my body was fighting inside to be healthy. A quieter, scarier inner voice is incessant, whispering what if? What if it’s your lungs? What if there’s cancer there too? What if it spread?

I close down that inner voice, ignoring it, focusing on the ‘I’m fine’ thing. Because, mostly, I do feel fine. But once a week, I go to therapy and, for weeks now, I regularly cry. We talk about cancer, and how it could still be there and how it is scary. And I am uncertain. And that I am fine, and not fine, all at once. That I feel good, and I’m scared. And holding those two thoughts all the time, in all places of my life, is hard and scary and sometimes draining. Meditation feels scary, writing has felt scary.

All my life, when I’ve wanted something, I’ve worked hard. I set a goal, figure out how I am going to get there and done it. Discipline comes easy(ish) to me; 5 am wake up calls for long runs, and studying for grad school, and working hard. But, here, now, there is nothing I can do. Nothing I can do to fight what might be happening in my body. All I can do is follow the directions of my doctor, show up at appointments, and be kind to myself and my body.

And so, this level of inaction, of not being able to do anything — all I can do is ignore it, to move forward, to swallow down that fear and uncertainty. And simply, to be present to what is happening right now, right here. A run that feels less hard, a bike ride on a fall day, coffee with my sweet man, sharing a good meal with old friends.

It’s no different than any other time, I suppose — a good reminder to be appreciative of what I have right now, right here. And a reminder, that eventually, that which is within will be surface and it will be the right time.

While working in urban, public schools, I’ve wanted to be out climbing mountains.

While out climbing mountains, I’ve wanted to do work that matters.

While having a home space to be in, I’ve wanted to be a vagabond, traveling at will.

While in partnership, I’ve wanted to be free to connect with new interests as they arrive.

While I love routine and ritual, I’ve wanted to be free and spontaneous, following passions as they come.

If only I could have multiple lives, running at the same time. I want to do both things, whenever faced with a choice. This has made for challenges in choosing where to live. Do I settle for the city? Or settle for the mountains? Neither a settle, of course, but neither perfect in it’s own way.

So much out there that I want to see and experience and do and be. Is there simply too much that I want? Or, too much all at the same time?

This duality that exists in me is part of my complexity, part of the fabric of my soul. A complexity and texture that makes me interesting (at least to myself!) and allows me to be intrigued and amazed by the world. Though, at times, this duality makes it hard for me to make choices, seeing all the possibilities stretched out ahead of me – I want them all, and so, I feel frozen in time.

Recently, I read this from Sylvia Plath, from The Bell Jar (I am woefully unaware of her work):

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”

When I read it, I wanted to promise myself that I would move to decide things, not letting the figs go wasted. To make choices, even if it meant loosing another choice.

But easier said than done.

I woke up this morning to a chill in the air, the feeling of fall. One of those beautiful early fall days, crisp, sunny, blue skies. It’s not yet fall, with hopes for more summery days over the next few weeks, but the feeling of transitions, of seasons changing.

September 1st. Tonight, I was scheduled to be on a flight to India; first to Delhi, and then onto Ladakh, for 3 weeks of trekking and climbing in the Himalayas.

A brass stupa or chorten, as displayed in The Met from an exhibit I saw this week. These are found throughout Ladakh and remind me of travels there and in Nepal.

I am not on my way to India. Instead, I am sitting on my couch, reading a book, binge-watching The Defenders.

This is not the path I would have chosen. This is not the path of glacier covered mountains, winds through the river valleys, staying in guest houses and hearing the sound of bells on the yaks as they carry goods to small villages. This is not the path of pushing my body, gasping for air in the high altitude, seeing the top of the Stok Kangri, and crossing high mountain passes. This is not the path of momos and apricot jam and dal. This is not the path of adventure and thrill and smiles even with no common language.

But, this is the path I am on. My metaphorical figs chosen for me, without my giving consent.

And so, what to make of that. How to move forward when that path is not the one you would choose. How to to embrace this life, this path, this adventure?

I am not sure I have the answers yet, or that I feel at peace with it yet. The simple answer is that this is the new path. This is the new adventure. I don’t get a choice, so accept it, buck up little camper and move the fuck on. And, part of it is that simple. Yep. This is it. Moving the fuck on.

But, then, there’s this other part. This part of me that is searching for the new fig tree. What choices do I get to make now? What is the new duality?

And so I am learning and looking. Searching for the new options, because I know they are there.

I gulped down a glass of water. 11:30. Only half an hour more of taking anything into my body. In the back of my mind, I questioned the beers, assuring myself they would be out of my system come morning and congratulating myself instead for not getting high along with everyone else I was out to dinner with.

This moment had come on too soon. From the time we scheduled the surgery two weeks prior, I worked hard to put the reality of it out of my mind, other than the fears that would seep in around the edges in unexpected moments.

I had spent the previous two weeks working, running, being active. Rafting, dinners, beers, running each day. Filling my days with work, checking things off the list. I cleaned out my closet, and organized papers. I saw friends, but mostly cleaned and organized and made lists and checked things off those lists.

It was like I was nesting, but really, just getting my affairs in order.

Like many people, I have not spent much time contemplating death, my own mortality or what, if anything, comes next. I am agnostic, at best. But not one prone to contemplating the universe and afterlife. I do not believe in heaven and hell, but unsure about the rest of it. Not only do I not think about it, I have not felt a need to think about it. Once I came close to dying, but all it did was was confirm my belief in life.

When I was 29 or so, I had a climbing accident on Mt. Rainier. I fell into a crevasses, unroped, on the way back down after a successful summit bid. We had just unroped, and the trail, in the dirt, was in sight. We had just one small section of glacier to traverse, and lost perspective of the danger of glaciers. People around us were glissading down, and we made a poor call based on what we saw other people doing and how tired we were. I am not sure how far I fell that day, but I became suspended between the walls, hanging from my backpack. My legs dangling in the air, one arm caught above me, I tried to yell for help, but no one could hear me up top as I yelled down into the crevasse below me.

It took some time for my climbing partners, and other kind helpful climbers to rescue me. They weren’t sure if they were doing a recovery or a rescue, but they worked with speed and accuracy, and eventually were able to haul me out.

I do not know how long I dangled there, afraid to move, perplexed at first by the blood that dripped down onto the snow far below me, but I know that I was afraid. And I fought back in my mind, a rational voice taking over. No, I will not die right now. I have too much to do. There is more for me.

It was a powerful experience, this rational voice taking over, not letting me succumb to fear or despair in the moment. I was indeed rescued. There was, in fact, more for me, a move across country, grad school, and more. So much more to do.

This feeling of getting my affairs in order was strange. But I contemplated it, only in rare, quiet moments in the middle of the night. What if I don’t make it through this surgery? What if the cancer has infiltrated all parts of my body? What if I die on the operating table? What if I have done all I am suppose to do?

I battled those thoughts with life-affirming runs, and life-affirming beers and dinners, and a life-affirming backpacking trip the two days leading up to surgery.

And at the same time, I left my house ready for someone else to come into it, seeing it with eyes of a stranger. I texted friends. I left a note for my man, for him to come home to the evening of my surgery. I did not want anything left unsaid to people I cared about, to work that was important to me, and to the life I had created.

I don’t think I did all these things intentionally. But they happened, none-the-less. I had a checklist going in my brain – do this, do this, do this. And this checklist battled up against my desire to do so much more. More to do. More to see. More to experience. This battled raged on in my mind, waking me up in the middle of the night.

We know the end of this story. Just like I got rescued from the crevasse, I lived through the surgery. Just like the fear of falling subsided, I sleep easier now.

The fears faded away, but left a reminder in their wake: no, I will not die right now. I have too much to do. There is more for me.

As I got my third IV of the week, my arms black and blue from trying to find veins that would work, I shared with the nurse that I was hoping this CT scan would show nothing, that the cancer growing in my thyroid had not moved to my lungs. She looked up at me, smiled with compassion and tells me that she has breast cancer and shows me the scars on her arms from her treatment. We ask each other about family history, neither of us being predisposed, and she says – well, I do work in radiology, as we both turn for me to head in for a second CT scan this month.

Everything’s a risk it seems.

I met with a pulmonologist this week to find out about the results of this chest scan. I hoped for nothing to be seen, but instead was told that there are many small little nodules all over my lungs. They could be anything – inflammation from the fact that I have cancer, it could be the start of cancer, or that the nodules are just there. They are too small to do anything about, and we cannot know until we have more data to compare them to down the road.

She tells me that I will need another CT scan in 6 months, that we need to monitor this, as I am high risk now.

I am high risk.

These words get stuck in my head, playing in a loop, going against every image I have of myself as healthy and whole. A new paradigm, a new reality.

Sometimes I just want to yell out I have fuckin’ cancer, people! I have cancer! To make it more real or to help myself believe it more. But ready or not, Monday when everyone is being awed by the solar eclipse, I will be loosing my cancerous thyroid. It feels auspicious to have this surgery during the solar eclipse, but maybe that’s just the need of the human brain to make sense of the world, to find meaning when there really isn’t any? Whatever. I’ll take it.

My risk is now my body. It is from within, this high risk that I need to negotiate and manage. It is so different a reality from climbing mountains and considering those risks; my brain still hasn’t fully processed it all. And while I had hoped that I could manage it all by just having the surgery and being done, that is not what my risk will be. Mine will continue, and be there, present and the new fine line I will need to walk.

Death is always on the way.

The man sits at the end of our table. He coaches his young son to carry his drink to the table, and they sit there in silence. When their food comes up, he brings his son to the counter, and then coaches his son to bring food back to the table. My guess is that his son is on the spectrum – and I watch the father respond to his son with compassion and care. They sit and eat their meal in silence, as the son acts out in his own world, and my heart is filled with empathy. This life is not one this father necessarily chose, and yet, here is he, loving his son, loving this one and precious life. I am reminded that we never know what life will bring us, and yet… and yet… we must show up, mustn’t we? Because what else is there?

Death is always on the way.

I’m in the sweet delicious beginnings of falling for a man who makes me toast with peanut butter and banana in the mornings. And serves it while describing it in barely passable French, making us both laugh. He is kind and generous and makes me laugh and has me watch movies about zombies that I probably would never watch on my own. He knows of the cancer, he showed up right around the time of cancer, and yet, and yet, keeps showing up anyway. I’m falling for a man during a summer of impossibly bad news that just keeps rolling in.

Death is always on the way.

I’m not dying, y’all. Not yet, at least. But, I guess we’re all dying. Death is always on the way – and what do we do with that? Respond with fear? with gratitude? with appreciation? with love? with a fierce and brave heart? with our chest ripped open so wide, so vulnerable that it’s scary beyond scary?

In a recent meditation I listened to Andy talk about how some people with cancer are filled with gratitude and appreciation. That cancer has a way of opening them up and filling them with love and seeing all the kindness that is out there.

And then, I read this tonight and I swear time stopped in its place.

(please read it. if you do nothing else, read it please)

“Conjure a unibrow and say to them, with no smile at all, with not even the faintest trace of an apologetic wince: “Death is always on the way, and it’s coming for all of us, but you don’t have to be so scared. It’s not nearly as bad as you think.”

And so… here we are, it is not so bad. We can be brave and powerful, full of love and empathy and grace and light. Even when it is shitty.