Just tell them you’re a cancer patient

‘And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.’
-Haruki Murakami

‘Just tell them you’re a cancer patient’, my endocrinologist told me as I left to make a follow up appointment with her, after I lamented that it was impossible to get appointments.

Ah, the cancer card. She laughed, and responded with something about how if it’s true…

Her words dug deep, reminding me of why I was there, why I was making follow up appointments, and why I was headed to get blood taken, for the gazillionth time this year.

Life has moved on, the past few weeks on the right dose of medication, finally feeling like myself, my days of being a hormone science experience seemingly in the past. People told me they could barely see my scar. It seemed forever ago that I had cancer, that I felt scared.

But, I still do. Maybe. Or at least, until proven otherwise.

The brain’s a funny place. I’m struck by what can become the new normal. The new this-is-how-life-is. I am someone who has cancer. Had cancer? Maybe. But regardless, that is part of my identity.

Identities are funny, though, right? Like, I once had a dog. Being a dog-owner was a huge part of my identity. And then I wasn’t. And to some people, I am Cody’s sister. And to others, I am their school coach. And to others, a ski instructor, or Nick’s girlfriend, or friend of Jessica’s. And those are all true, and yet not the whole picture.

So, I have cancer. Maybe.

I am a cancer patient. But at some point I won’t be.

But, I’ll still carry it with me. All wrapped up in the fabric along with all those other things.