A Matter of Balance

I have a love-hate relationship with Tuesday. Tuesday is my chemo day. Tuesday is both the most scary and the most hopeful day of the week for me and the wave of emotions I feel leading up to Tuesdays each week is powerful enough to either break my spirit or strengthen my soul. Tuesday makes me sick. Tuesday heals me.

Life is a matter of balance.

I’m writing this in the chemo daycare waiting room at Princess Margaret Hospital. I sit here waiting for my pager to beep and buzz and light up. I get a pager every Tuesday. When it goes off, it means my chemo drugs are ready and my room and nurse are all set for me to start my therapy. The pager is like a loud, flashing, noisy invitation to my very own chemo party. Awesome. It’s also a loud, flashing, noisy reminder that I am battling esophageal cancer that has no business being here. Not-so-awesome. But, I get it. It all comes down to the fine balance of the Universe.

I’m now in week 4 of 5 of my treatment. I’m 80% done chemo therapy! 80% DONE! It means I’m near the end. It also means that the next two weeks are going to be my toughest. Although Doctor’s are highly impressed at how well I’m handling the effects that come with undergoing chemo & radiation at the same time, they keep warning me about the final stretch. I like to think that I have some super amazing genes that are keeping the side-effects at bay and that I have a particularly high pain tolerance. I’m also hoping that this is the case as I prepare myself for surgery and what is expected to be a long, very uncomfortable recovery period. My doctors say that I’m simply lucky. The truth: Chemo and Radiation are accumulative. It gets harder every day. Each day is more painful that the last. I feel myself getting weaker. It’s taking me longer and I expend far more energy than normal doing my daily stair climb and stretches and there are days that simply walking from the front to the back of my house is a struggle. My body hurts so much that sometimes, even Mark’s hand on my shoulder sends hundreds of needle-like stabs through my body. I think I hide the pain relatively well though. I’ve even learned how to ignore it. Yet, at the same time, I’m getting stronger mentally and spiritually. Each day I feel more empowered, more hopeful. I feel like a warrior training for a marathon (my wedding aisle walk). I know, that sounds soooo dramatic. But, my mind has to match the drama of my reality in order to get through this. I have to make myself all-powerful, fully strong in spirit and mentally flawless to keep fighting as the battle gets tougher and the monster gets bigger.

I’m lucky. “You look great” everyone says. This is so hard for me to understand. I look at myself and see dark, sunken circles around my eyes. I see a blemished, pale face, and irritated, dry, blotchy skin. I see a reflection of how I physically feel. Pained, is the best way to describe it. But I’ve realized that my battle is not so much a physical one after-all  (in my case, that is). It’s actually a psychological battle. It’s all about keeping my own balance. Not letting my physical ailments diminish my sanity and peace and faith.

I’m lucky. I was diagnosed early. Stage 2 – which means that it hasn’t spread to other areas of my body. I’m lucky. I will not become yet another dire statistic of Esophageal Cancer, the fastest growing cancer in North America and Europe. According to the Canadian Cancer Society, 2100 Canadians will be diagnosed with Esophageal Cancer in 2014. 2000 will die from it. 490 of these will be women. 430 women will die from it. Less than 20 of these women will be under the age of 50. I’m lucky. I don’t belong in this group of statistics. I was diagnosed in time. I have age on my side. I will not die from Esophageal Cancer.

But these statistics still float around in my head. They become punching bags that I mentally throw uppercuts and jabs at. They are the numbers that make me sad and give me hope all at the same time. Let me tell you – the mental battle – It takes its toll. It drains me. It’s a full-time job. And then I sleep. I restore my energy and each morning, I get a fist-pump from Mark who says “You’re Rosie Strong – I Love you” and I am all ready to pick up where I left off, fighting my way through the day. And when I get extra frustrated, he pulls up his car and Mark, my sister Rachel and I go for a drive and blast music and we sing our hearts out to good ol’ rock’n’roll (I had a video to post – but can’t figure out how to do it, so you are spared! You’re welcome).

And so as I sit here, waiting for my chemo party/battle to begin, signified by the little loud, flashing, noisy pager, I’m reminded that life is all about balance. It’s a delicate dance. For every low, there is a high, for every loss, there is a win. For the next few weeks I’m gonna balance increasing physical pain with increasing mental harmony. I will counteract occasional tears (yes, I cry sometimes) with regular laughter (yes, I laugh often). I will feel abnormal while trying to live as normal a life as possible. I will stand in the center of my storm and find my balance. Then one day, as soon as I’m physically strong enough…I will dance.