Seven years

The day you get your cancer diagnosis never leaves your mind. It’s always there reminding you that you made it another year. However, in the midst of a pandemic, while social distancing and staying safer at home, you might forget what day it is – what day of the week, what day on the calendar.

I was less than a mile into a three and a half mile run yesterday when I realized it was April 19, the day I learned I had metastatic melanoma. I looked at what I was wearing – new purple shoes that arrived the day before and purple shirt and leggings with purple accents. It was a rare time when I was color coordinated for my regular run. But so appropriate for that day. Purple is the color for cancer survivors.

This last year of my seven year survival was a tough one. In the midst of uncertainty at my full-time newspaper job, I had accepted a part-time (half-time) job as a group exerciser coordinator at the YMCA. When I accepted the part-time job, I did the math and knew I’d be putting in 60 hour weeks, but there was flexibility within those 60 hours, which was good and bad. It was scary, but I figured I could handle it.

Many times I’d be working into the weekend or at night, depending how family and the rest of life overflowed into my work week. About half-way through the year, family demands increased and it became increasingly difficult to get those working hours in. Thankfully, I had lots of paid time off and could use it to fill in gaps.

However, it was all taking it’s toll. I felt more tired. My closest friends started asking how I was or point blank telling me I looked like crap. I had many conversations with myself and others and finally used my 62nd birthday as the driving force behind leaving my 23-year career. And then – as I wrote in my last post – all hell broke loose and the country started shutting down.

Looking back at my cancer journey, I see parallels to what I experienced and what I was hearing about the pandemic.

When I first found the lump under my arm, dread and horror flooded me, bringing me instantly to tears. Then I pulled it together and rationalized, it’s probably no big deal. Watch it and see what happens.

When the news of the coronavirus started making its way across the ocean, many people said, it’s no big deal. It’s no worse than the flu. Everyone is overreacting. The country watched and waited, not really taking any actions.

That lump I found began to hurt. I went to my general practitioner, who ordered a mammogram, which resulted in an ultrasound, which ended up with a biopsy. Still, not really admitting to myself what might be happening, I sat in the clinic for the biopsy wondering if this was the day that would change my life.

As the coronavirus hit the United States, hot spots began appearing across the country and officials began ordering one precaution, then another and another and people questioned every decision wondering – is this really necessary? It’s no worse than the flu.

The day I got the phone call with the biopsy results is embedded in my mind forever. While a small part of me had wondered if this might be something big, the bigger part of me still denied anything serious was wrong. That phone call crashed down on me, bringing with it the weight of the word CANCER in big bold letters. Not only that, metastatic – spreading, – not know where or how far or how fast. I could no longer deny the battle I was facing.

As the coronavirus, COVID-19, became very real to many Americans, the news of social distancing, being safer at home, and schools, restaurants and business closing, came crashing down hard on people and try as they may, it was hard to deny the reality of such an extremely contagious, potentially deadly virus. Reactions were dramatic.

Suddenly, everything they took for granted was being ripped away from them, much like life before cancer is ripped away from anyone diagnosed with cancer and going through cancer treatment consumes your days. As COVID-19 became very real, it consumed every waking moment and possibly invaded sleep, if you let it.

Every cancer patient, or anyone who has had a serious health issue, will tell you, your perspective on life changes dramatically when you are faced with the possibility of losing everything. Moments are more precious, little is taken for granted, time slows as you try to absorb all the good around you. A cancer survivor never sees life the same way again. It alters your view, changes your priorities and adjusts your attitude – almost always for the better.

As the country and our state of Wisconsin come out on the other side of COVID-19, I hope people pull from the experience lessons that will change them and their lives for the better. I hope they remember that family is everything, that many things we think are crucial are rarely important, that it’s ok to be imperfect, that rest, health, exercise and good nutrition are vital, that at the end of the worst storms lie the brightest rainbows, that nothing should be taken for granted.

I remember vividly my new perspective as I went through treatment and knew I was going to survive this round of the fight. I’ve seen that perspective dissolve over the years of surviving until I feel I’m back where I once was, thinking time will stand still and wait as I cram 20 pounds into my 10 pound bag of life, trying to fit in more than I should, more than I need.

This pandemic has redirected my perspective again and I look back to the clarity I had seven years ago where I spent summer weekends watching dragonflies dance as I recovered from each treatment. I long for that simplicity, similar to the simplicity forced on everyone as they social distance.

As safer at home orders lift, will people remember the beauty of family meals, even if it was carryout to support a local restaurant? Will they remember the peace of not chasing in a million directions and wonder how much of that is really necessary? Will they realize that life slowed down is better for our overall health? Will they understand that sometimes the biggest lessons in life come from not getting what you want, from having to wait, from being bored, from finding the beauty in something that is difficult?

Seven years after my diagnosis, I am nearly halfway through the 15 years of life expectancy the clinical trial had shown when I started immunotherapy. In those seven years, two people I know died of melanoma recurrences. Several others with a breast cancer diagnosis have passed away after the disease came back.

Why was I driving myself back into the ground the last year or more when I was given the grace of 15 additional years, hopefully more?

As I’m looking at the sunset of a long, somewhat unexpected career (I never intended to be a journalist, it just happened), I look forward to the sunrise of something new, refreshing and bright – both on the other side of a pandemic and on the other side of refocusing my life.

April 19 will always be embedded in my memory. Hopefully next year, I will remember what day of the week/month it is when that day arrives.

You did what?!

The Monday before my 62nd birthday, I gave notice at my full-time job, setting an end date on a 23-year career. And then the United States and specifically the state of Wisconsin started shutting down. Literally. Schools closed, people were told to stay home and work remotely – and I just gave almost a two-month notice for a job where I’ve worked remotely for the past three years. What the hell is that for timing?

When I made this life-changing decision, I was looking at reducing the number of hours I would work weekly by only working my part-time job at the YMCA. Instead of 60-70 hours, it would be 20-30. Nice. A week and a half later, that job shut down to wait out COVID-19.

When I made this decision, I considered what working two jobs was doing to my health. On April 19, it will be seven years since my diagnosis of metastatic melanoma. When I went through the clinical trial, they told me there had been success of extending lives 15 years. I’m nearly half way through that extension and working two jobs and still being here for my family was pushing my limits. I felt like I might be dancing with the devil.

When I made the decision to leave a full-time job as a journalist, I rationalized that because of back issues, I can’t sit for more than a couple of hours without increasing levels of discomfort. I’ve tried numerous types of chairs, stability balls, and a standing desk, none provided the relief I needed for long hours at a computer. I admit there have been times I was near tears because I was on deadline but I could find no comfort for my back. I needed to either be moving or in a horizontal position. And it’s really hard to work on a laptop like that, believe me I’ve tried numerous times.

I gave plenty of notice from my job as a journalist, since there are only two of us on staff and I wanted enough time for a replacement to be found. And then COVID-19 put the brakes on nearly everything.

Admittedly, I’ve had moments of near panic as I watched COVID-19 march across the country, knowing I was leaving a job where I could work remotely and – most importantly – get a paycheck. What had I been thinking?!

Then I started settling into COVID-19 socially distant life and I realized – Oh. My. Gosh! I don’t know how to slow down. Now, this is genetically a problem to start with. My family is hard-wired to push hard, put it in overdrive and go some more. I grew up on a farm where 14-16 hour days in the heat of summer were common. Work had to be done and by golly we got it done and then some. I hadn’t slowed down since – I had cancer.

I thought back to that time, how cancer had changed my life and my perspective on everything. Somehow though, over the last seven years, that changed perspective has slipped and I’ve fallen back into an invincible, I’ve got melanoma beat mindset and there is nothing that can take me down.

Except there is.

It could be COVID-19, but I’m following the rules, washing my hands, struggling with not touching my face, and keeping a safe social distance. More importantly, COVID-19 highlighted the desperate need to slow down and appreciate life in a new, fresher, slower perspective – the same type of perspective I had when going through cancer and treatment.

I thought of the thousands of people who had their life plans cut short by COVID-19 and by cancer. I thought of John Lennon’s lyrics, “Life is what happens when you’re making other plans.” I thought of the chant we say at Beat Cancer Boot Camp, “We will do more than survive. We are strong and we will thrive.”

I was good at making plans to become a personal trainer and work more in fitness, but I knew life was happening while I was making plans. Would I get to the end and look back on unfulfilled plans?

I hadn’t been thriving the last year and a half. I had been surviving. Getting through each week, sometimes barely, and it was taking a toll. My closest friends told me, “You look like shit.” (Those friends are the best ones to have around.) I was afraid I had opened the door for melanoma to walk back in, because I knew it would, given the chance.

So I mustered up courage and quit. If I had waited another couple of days as the coronavirus moved in, I would have chickened out, even though journalism is taking a hit too with all the shutdowns. I’m still working, but in the fitness world, the brakes were hit hard.

I’m now counting down the days to the end of my journalism career. And looking forward to starting new ventures and expanding my horizons in the world of fitness and health. Yes, it’s scarier than all hell, especially with a rampant, deadly virus, millions unemployed, the world shut down and fear an overriding emotion of every day.

But I’m also looking to the lesson this brings, which is much the same as what comes with a cancer diagnosis. Slow down. Appreciate the little things. People matter. Breathe slow and deep, it will be okay.

“Vulnerability is not winning or losing; it’s having the courage to show up and be seen when we have no control over the outcome. Vulnerability is not weakness; it’s our greatest measure of courage.” ― Brené Brown

Right now I’m feeling very vulnerable. I think many are, yet we have to show up and be seen, for if we don’t we will merely survive when we should be strong and thrive.