Monday was Radiation Day 20, and with that, my treatments came to a close. After my last nuking, the radiation technicians asked me if I wanted to keep my plastic mask. Nodding my approval, they went looking for a bag. It seemed that the only one they could find was a pink and purple pastel gift bag with pretty flowers, shimmery organza handles and turquoise sequined tassels, so they dropped the mask inside and handed it to me, apparently oblivious to the rather odd juxtaposition of the terrible radiation mask against the sugary sweet gift bag.
I proudly showed off the mask to my parents and husband, who were actually a little stunned by how absolutely horrific it looked. I am not sure what I am going to do with the rather large, bulky mask, but it just feels right to hold on to it, its vacant eyes a witness to the month I spent being microwaved. I now have this curious attachment to it, like I used to have with my retainer, which incidentally, I don't think I have thrown out either.
The end of radiation was a little anticlimactic. In September, when it was thought that the completion of my chemotherapy marked the conclusion of my battle with Hodgkin's, my family, including in-laws, went out for dinner to celebrate. A month later, when my oncologist called to tell me that the cancer had made a comeback and that I would need radiation, in some ways I was catapulted back to the time of my original diagnosis and all the associated feelings of fear and uncertainty. So this time around, when it came time to celebrate the end of my radiation treatments, while we once again commemorated the occasion with a dinner, we were a little more guarded. Instead of toasting to the end my treatment, we reframed the event to mark Dan's and my departure back to Toronto. We really aren't a superstitious bunch, but why tempt the "evil eye".
With treatment apparently over, I was overwhelmed with the unsettling feeling that I had been trying to avoid for months as I thought, "What Next"? Yes, I had my job to return to - but when? Would I be able to achieve a better work-life balance this time around? And of more immediate concern, how would I transition back into the world of the healthy? The doctors have repeatedly advised me to take a few months off, although my plan has been to take a few weeks off at most. I realize that the focus should be on my health - and it will be. However, it makes me anxious to feel that I have fallen behind my cohort, that I have fallen behind in my carefully constructed life because I was slapped with a disease that put everything on hold.
For some people, an abrupt interruption to their lives followed by months of treatment will dramatically shift their world view. They may wish to leave their job and set out on a new path and do the things they always wanted to do. For others, this same interruption just means that the pause button had been pushed for a while on their life (thankfully not the eject button), and they just want to go back to doing what they used to do. While having Hodgkin's Disease has certainly been life-altering, and has allowed me to grow in new ways and discover new interests, I still just want to get back to the office.
No matter what impact cancer has had on an individual, I would imagine that for most survivors, it isn't always easy to immediately glide back into the world of the healthy. When you have cancer, it really can feel like you have landed on a different planet. The hospital, with its blue gowns, its sanitizers that reek of alcohol, its weird machines and long needles, is an alien world when you have been healthy all of your life. That is why the name of the immensely helpful website for young adults, Planet Cancer, is so apt - when you get cancer, you just aren't in Kansas anymore.
The moment you were diagnosed, you were abducted by odd creatures in white lab coats (with a proclivity for spewing out long lists of side effects), and you have spent months on end trying to adapt to this strange new world. Then one day the frequent hospital visits come to an end. You'll be out with friends and it will be fabulous, and then your mind will wander for a moment back to all that you have been through, all that may still happen, and you know that no one else can really understand. That healthy state of denial that most people have is a luxury that is not available to you after you have had cancer, particularly in the weeks and months after its aftermath.
All of a sudden, the alien creatures that have taken you captive for months on their foreign planet have said that you are free to go. But they don't take you back to the land of the healthy - they basically just show you the exit sign. So when treatments end, the question becomes: How do you find your way back?
Strangely, since my treatment has ended, I keep getting that feeling of "did all that really happen"? In the weeks after I was diagnosed, there would be moments where I would almost forget what was going on, and then a surreal feeling would wash over me as part of me asked the rest if this was really happening. This mind-bending state wasn't entirely unpleasant, since it was in those fleeting moments that I could allow myself the possibility of being in a reality where none of this was happening, where everything was fine and this was all a very, very bad dream. The worst sensation was what came next, when the kaleidoscope of thoughts came into focus and I could no longer deny that I really had left work, that things like IVs and CT scans and chemo were no longer foreign, and that, in essence, I had cancer.
I think that these eerie moments have recurred because I am trying to build a bridge back to the world of the healthy, and it just isn't easy to connect your "healthy" identity with your "sick" identity. I suspect that as the days go by, the memories will fade and life may become a little more carefree. I am reminded of a comment in my "Chemotherapy and Radiation for Dummmies" book. It lists ten myths about cancer, and number 10 is: "Nothing is ever the same after cancer". The authors say that "this myth has a lot of truth to it. But then, nothing is ever the same after your first kiss, or the birth of your first child...or your first trip to Venice. Frankly, nothing is ever the same - ever - whether you get cancer or not. Some people say that change is good. You may or may not agree, but this we know to be true: change is inevitable".
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