How to Live in the Cancer Place

The other night a dear friend wondered if all this cancer writing isn't keeping me "in that place." I didn't entirely understand what she meant, but I bristled at the inference. I muttered something about how writing helps me process before we were interrupted and the conversation ended. I've been obsessing over the question ever since.

I should have asked what she meant by That Place. Because I suspect we don't share the same perspective about where I am or where I should be. That Place suggests a phase or a situation I can choose to leave. Like maybe if I wasn't harping on cancer all the time, I would just be over it already. I would forget about all I've been through and move on with my life.

That Place isn't somewhere I can get past, it's my ongoing reality. I can't ignore the fact that I endured cancer treatment for a second time. The reflection in the mirror won't let me forget that my breasts were removed and replaced. The feel of jeans pressing against my numb, swollen torso reminds me how my belly was sacrificed to build those replacement breasts. The constant ebb and flow of lymph fluid trapped in my arm, my hand, my back, my shoulder announce the everlasting residue of my first cancer treatment almost 2O years ago. Hot flashes remind me, shot nerves remind me, doctor appointments remind me, my stupid weird hair reminds me. Writing doesn't keep me here, it helps me cope with where I am. I live in That Place.

I understand the impulse to run away from the place. I did it fairly well in 1999. John and I were living together in a glorified studio in the charming Bucktown neighborhood of Chicago. I called it a loft on my generous days, the high ceilings and exposed heating duct made it feel like one, but the kitchen had mini appliances, the bed was parked in a corner, the bathroom was tiny. By the time treatment was over, it was downright claustrophobic.

Mostly I couldn't get past the smell in the bathroom. I don't remember what hand soap we bought, but it lingered and elicited a visceral nausea. Standing in the bathroom was awful. I had cradled that toilet for days, washed my hands repeatedly with that soap, steadied my weak limbs in that cramped stall shower. I couldn't get out of that apartment fast enough. I ran away as fast as I could, back to normalcy, or as most survivors say, The New Normal.

My new normal then meant getting a new home, getting married, and getting pregnant with my son. And getting cervical dysplasia. And lymphedema. And uterine polyps. And getting pregnant with a girl who would one day have breasts, too. I wrote about most of it, publishing articles in Pregnancy magazine and the Chicago Tribune. Then I stayed healthy for longer stretches and could often forget about the cancer. I didn't quite run from That Place, but rather moved slowly further and further away.

Until I was diagnosed again in June of 2O15, five days before we were finally set to move out of a rental house and into our own home. There would be no running away on the other end of this treatment, we were settling in for the long haul. It was a relief to convalesce in this new house, with a pool to entertain the kids for the summer and a bright, airy master bedroom window filled with trees. John and I hung a TV opposite our bed for the first time ever, and I filled the shelf below it with sweet items people sent me in support. Those things are still there: both Wonder Woman dolls; pictures of my name on a ribbon tied to a wish tree in Ireland, on paper lanterns lined up at a cancer walk, and on a sign held by Winnie the Pooh at Disneyland. A stone, bookmark, bracelet, drawing and cards etched with words like Believe, Strength, Calm, and Powerful. A beloved picture of me with my siblings, in which I happen to have the short curly post-chemo hair from my first go-round. A weird plastic baby on a toilet from my sister, sent to make me laugh. A photo of the Tetons from my dearest friend in Wyoming. A bright, crisp worry doll.

I marvel that I haven't removed those items. These decorative reminders of my recent illness could easily find their way to a memento box in the garage or even to the trash. No one is going to play with Wonder Woman anymore, and I'm not even sure from whom this particular Be Strong greeting card came. Why do I keep these things so prominent? It didn't even occur to me to clear the shelf.

A couple months ago, John and I discussed the state of our shared office space, two flights down near the laundry room. It was structured to be neatly shared, a wall of Elfa shelving my talented friend Heather designed. John took a tall shelf near the door for his standing desk, while my computer was set up with a yoga ball for a chair next to the window. When I sit at the desk, the window is behind me, and my view is confined to blank wall. The shelves above my head held a few newer non-cancer related totems, but I couldn't see them. It was less inspiring than a corporate cubicle.

Meanwhile, John was hosting conferences calls at home more and more, and I took my laptop to a variety of tables in the house. The kitchen is uncomfortable. The dining room table is too low. The bedroom called to me. The window is still bright and airy and filled with trees. There is meaningful art on the walls, from photos of my favorite hikes to wedding collages, an Ansel Adams print, a mixed media collage I made based on the Mary Oliver poem "Poppies." And there's that shelf of cancer totems. All of me in is this bedroom, even the darkest memories.

I bought a desk and officially moved my work space right next to my convalescent bed. I see the same things I saw when I was bed-ridden during chemo and after surgery. I can picture my sister sitting right there on the floor between the desk and the bed, where I dozed while she quietly kept me company. I hear the same birds and lawn mowers. I work in that cancer place now.

Perhaps complaining about my cancer hair or pondering yet another blog post about cancer sounds like I'm stuck somewhere, but I am acutely aware I'm not still lying in that bed for 10 days at a stretch. I am balanced on this stylishly-covered yoga ball, stretching my back and lymphedema arm, healthy and grateful for it. I look around the room and see pieces of me on the walls and shelf, and feel integrated. Whole. Living my new normal.