Finding myself at Lake Michigan

When I wake up I am happy.

I stretch and take a deep breath and then… remember.

Fear. Uncertainty. Sadness.

I don’t roll over and snuggle back to sleep like I did just a couple weeks ago.  I am awake with pain.  My throat tightens, my head throbs and my mind races. The peace of wellness so fresh I feel it before my conscious wakes up.   

Once awake, I remember the reality of today.  The stage 4 cancer is active again in my body.  The medicine I hoped to hold me steady stopped working.   We had to switch drugs.  Switching is terrifying.  Switching means we are making our way down the list of treatment options – and the list isn’t very long.  I fear the side effects and losing my current quality of life. 

I worry about losing myself.  I worry about my family losing me. Obviously, in the inevitable death kind of way - but also in the slowly slipping away of my truest self. I already feel less like myself with a shorter temper, quick tears and less stamina. I have never been one to sit on the sidelines. I’m a mom who plays the game, loves the action, doesn’t just keep up- but leads the way. Lately, I’ve had to say- “you guys go” more than I would like so I can rest or cry or simply be alone.

We have been fortunate that while cancer has shaped the last 12 years – it hasn’t defined them.  Our family has lived as much of a “normal” life as possible and persevered.   Though standing on shaky ground – I found my footing time and time again.  And, our life has been much more happy than sad. More hiking, surfing & fishing than scans, appointments & side effects.

I feel strong and healthy.  Our family is joyful. For that I will forever be grateful.   But, I don’t know if this is the pivot where this changes.  Where I start to feel more like a cancer patient than an athlete. 

I wrote myself a text the night before a big doctor’s appointment.  It reads, “No matter what the information shows today, you feel strong and healthy.  That doesn’t have to change.  Take this information as the next step not a black hole.  Don’t be consumed with sadness. Keep living and loving and laughing.”

I am trying to take my own advice.

This time around, I carry all this cancer fear in the midst of a global pandemic and the heartbreaking & inspiring movement for racial justice across the country - accentuated in our city of Louisville by the tragic death of Breanna Taylor. Overwhelmed, there were days I just kept thinking, “it’s just too much.”  My emotions and feelings are raw - like exposed nerve endings. Everything I touch or think or feel sends a shock through my body. I needed a break - an escape.

Our family is fortunate that an escape was indeed possible. Last week we moved our quarantine bubble to a small lake town in Michigan where I grew up. It’s where we escape every summer since the children were born - my “happy place.” After my metastatic diagnosis in 2014 it is where I found myself again. I arrived in July of 2014 frail, sad and on edge. In a musty old yellow cottage I gradually gained my strength, gumption & joy. The children and I snuggled together, sandy toes wiggling under crisp sheets as I read bedtime stories and listed to the waves. I carried bags of gear up and down dune stairs and taught them to sail. They were little and needed me to watch them jump, put on sunscreen and find their goggles. I decided in that summer that I didn’t know how much time I had, but I was going to live it. Live it fully and completely. There were no miraculous treatments or promises of wellness, I returned home with the same prognosis, but so much stronger & happier. I found a way to bring light into the darkness.

6 years later, there isn’t any story time snuggling and our boys can put on their own sunscreen (with gentle reminders) … but we are here, again, TOGETHER! I look back proud of that scared mom - holding it together the best she could. I’m glad she jumped in the freezing cold lake and stayed up late eating s’mores for dinner. She gave herself permission to hope and dream and believe that there was still life left to live… despite the new terminal prognosis. And, she was right!!! So, very right.

Today feels different in many ways - not just that our cute little boys are both taller than me and aren’t exclaiming “watch me jump mommy” all day long. The uneasiness of the current reality, the face masks & social distancing, the “vulnerable” label & the cancer around my lungs makes it hard to breath. The darkness feels darker.

I feel that scared young mom finding her way in the darkness of a new MBC diagnosis. Each morning she took a deep breath and started the day on wobbly, neuropathy fragile feet - unsure & scared. First she walked, then she ran and then she jumped. She jumped in the waves, she jumped off cliffs, she jumped back into life. She showed her children how to live with an adventurous, loving heart, despite her prognosis. She did “terminal illness” her own way.

As I breath in the fresh Michigan air I know I will find my way, again. Still unsure, shaking and scared, but already more hopeful that there is as much adventure ahead as there is in my memory.

I’m going to do this my way- and even if there can’t be friendly hugs, big gatherings or travel - there will be jumping, sunset chasing, laughter & so much love.

Bring it on Michigan summer - help me find myself.