A key feature of Be Your Own Birder is the idea that we all enjoy birds in different ways and to different degrees, while acknowledging that life is more than just birds. In fact, life can easily get in the way and birds fade into the background until they remind us with a quick fly-by, a unique visit, or a favorite song that they will still be there, no matter what life throws at us.

Life has certainly thrown a curve at me in recent months, and while it has taken time for me to come to terms with what is and what must be, I also want to share that curve. I do this to apprise those who may wonder where I’ve gone and how I’ve been, and in the hopes that my story might have some small influence on others facing similar.

Earlier this year, I had a bad bout of bronchitis – tremendous coughing that lasted for days, creating tunnel vision and disrupting sleep. A round of appropriate antibiotics helped eventually ease the symptoms, but several weeks later, a simple morning cough showed the tiniest, teeniest, most miniscule, utterly insignificant smear of blood.

I cannot emphasize how less-than-noteworthy the blood was. It would appear in the smallest amount one day, then be absent for several days, then, oh, there it is again. I thought – most certainly – that it must be some injury from the severe bronchitis, and I didn’t think much of it at first.

But it didn’t go away.

Since it was nearing time for my annual physical checkup anyway, I let my primary care physician know, and they ordered a chest x-ray to check for an infection or other potential cause. I had that x-ray on July 5, then promptly departed for a family vacation on July 6 (a trip planned for some months as our typical summer cruise getaway).

When I returned, I had messages to schedule a chest CT, as something “suspicious” had been noted and a clearer view was necessary. I scheduled that scan for August 1, and in the meantime, had my primary care appointment on July 18. That appointment was the first time the phrase “suspicious” was expanded to “suspicious for malignancy” which sent some stronger, though not too strong, alarm bells. My doctor also asked why the chest CT was so far away – August 1 was simply the appointment I’d been given, the earliest available at the facility I chose.

So began a bit of a flurry, and I managed to get the chest CT moved to a different facility at an earlier date, July 24. A few days after the scan, I got the call with results from my doctor.

I have lung cancer.

I’ve never smoked, did not grow up in a smoking household, have not worked in a smoking workplace, never worked with heavy chemicals, have not been exposed to explicit toxins, have no family history of lung cancer, have no risk factors.

But what I did have is a 4.5 centimeter (1.77 inches – just a bit larger than a golf ball) tumor in the upper lobe of my left lung.

The next month quickly became crammed with additional scans, MRIs, and blood tests, two biopsies under general anesthesia (the first failed to get an adequate tissue sample), surgical placement in my right chest of a port-a-cath, meetings with pulmonology and oncology, a lung function test, and the initial meeting with a thoracic surgeon. It was a busy month, and all the while, the cancer grew.

Thankfully, it did not grow too much – already being of appreciable size – and I gained a great team of a top oncologist specializing in lung cancer and the latest treatment research, as well as a top thoracic surgeon who is head of the department and evaluates other thoracic surgeons. I did get second opinions, researched far too much on my own, and dusted off what I knew of high level biology and more along the way.

Come September 5 – two months to the day after that first chest x-ray – I had robotic-assisted thoracic surgery (RATS) to remove the entirety of the upper lobe of my left lung and part of the lower lobe. It was a slightly more extensive surgery than first planned (which was only supposed to take the upper lobe and leave the lower lobe intact), but the tumor’s position made it possible to be encroaching on the lower lobe, so a bit more was necessary. After two hospital nights, I was discharged with bagful of medication – nerve blockers, muscle relaxers, opioids, blood thinners, etc. – two types of breathing therapy exercises to protect lung function, a lung-shaped pillow that has actually been very helpful for positioning, and a long road ahead of me.

I hurt. Moving hurts, breathing hurts, standing up, sitting down, turning, walking, bending, lifting – it all hurts. I’m scared of trying “new” things – like picking something up off the floor – in case one of my six incisions catches, tears, and hurts even more. I’m unable to do some basic personal things alone, unable to do daily tasks alone, unable to keep up on the day-to-day in ways that are always so easy as to be unconsciously automatic.

But I am still here.

And I still can’t believe I have lung cancer.

There is much more to come. Within the next few days I have more appointments with surgery and oncology to follow-up on the lobectomy and discuss next steps, which will include chemotherapy and targeted therapy. What type, how much, how long – all of that is yet to be decided, because of course we are still waiting on test results, pathology, and recovery.

I wait, I worry, I fret – and along the way I try to heal. My family is being amazing, helping as much as they are able and far more than I’d ever have wanted to ask. My clients – as I remain a full-time freelance writer – are beyond understanding and flexible as I do what work I can, when I can. My friends have been wonderfully supportive (including suggesting a gift registry with items for support, help, and distraction through healing and chemotherapy), and all in all, I’m managing from moment to moment.

Some moments are better than others, of course. What is missing from most moments at this time are the birds – I do see them now and then, outside the windows, in the skies, flying by as life is flying by me. Will the birds still be there when I can be back? Yes. I look forward to those days, though they’re for certain sure far in the future at this time.

For now, it’s one day at a time of breathlessness, pain, exhaustion, worry, fretting, adjusting, and learning to live as I never have before. Will I get there? One breath at a time.