When I think back to life just four months ago – how very different it was. At this time in July, I hadn’t yet even heard the word “malignancy” associated with the first chest x-ray that started this lung cancer journey. Now, four months later, it’s shocking what cancer has taken from me.

What Everyone Knows

It is no secret that cancer of any type is a devastating, decimating illness that radically changes one’s life. Everyone knows that, just as everyone knows a variety of words associated with cancer – tumors, chemotherapy, radiation, weakness, stage, terminal.

I knew those words too, and they’ve taken on radically new meanings as I move through this process. But what I didn’t know, what no one knows unless they’re personally impacted – and I mean VERY personally, either oneself or as a direct caregiver to a cancer patient – is just how much this disease can take from you, how many things you lose along the way.

The Physical Things You Lose

There is so much I used to have that I don’t have any longer. Some things have been easier to lose, some have been necessary to let go of, and some will never come back.

First, cancer takes away any personal privacy. Unlike other medical situations – a broken bone, for example – that are isolated to one body part, cancer quickly becomes a whole body disease, even if the tumor itself is confined. This means any changes in bodily functions – which I euphemistically refer to as “plumbing issues” – must be discussed with your doctor. Skin rashes in delicate places, embarrassing changes in bodily gasses, “lady” changes – all have to be revealed, in case any could be signs of progression, metastases, or toxic medication side effects.

Cancer has also taken away what little femininity I enjoyed. While I’ve never been a girly-girl, now I’m unable to do some of the most basic “girly” things – namely, shave my legs. Because chemotherapy attacks fast-growing cells, such as regenerative skin cells, cuts take much longer to heal and I cannot risk nicks when shaving. So now, I have to use epilator cream (which isn’t terrible), or forgo the process altogether.

Also gone is my energy. The enervation of this disease is extreme. I can no longer go for the lengthy evening walks my family enjoys; instead, I watch the family leave without me, as I can’t manage the distance with poor breathing and loss of energy. I can’t tackle busy days around the house and have to break up chores and to-dos into much smaller chunks, some of which now never get done at all. At times, I can’t even stand long enough to finish the evening dishes.

While I need more rest than ever, cancer has also taken away my ability to rest comfortably. I haven’t been able to sleep in the bed in more than two months, other than a couple of experimental nights that proved it still hurts too much. I am a side sleeper, but curling up on my left side puts too much pressure on damaged nerves, causing pain and stiffness that wakes me up. Curling up on my right side compresses my chemo port implanted near my collarbone, also causing pain and aching that wakes me up. So I continue to sleep in a recliner, missing the close cuddles with my husband and not getting as restful of sleep that would be so helpful.

I love food, but cancer has taken that away as well. I can no longer eat certain foods that now trigger a gag reflex due to associations with chemotherapy and the days immediately following. Furthermore, how I eat has also had to change – the timing of meals, the size of meals, drinks I’m able to consume. I can’t have ice in most drinks, can’t even drink as much (despite needing to hydrate significantly) regardless of fluid – milk, juice, soda, etc.

Cancer has also taken my eyesight. While I already have some poor vision – a genetic inheritance I’ve had for many years – chemotherapy is causing even more vision changes. This is especially frustrating as it appears to be exacerbated by staring at a computer screen, which is my career as a freelance writer. My eyes get tired far more easily, I get blurry vision at times, and it’s harder to see what I am doing. Because of this, I also cannot do the precision craft projects I enjoy, as I simply can’t see well enough. With that change, my birding is gone as well – I can’t even see which species are flitting by the feeders outside my office window.

During what we refer to as “chemo weeks” – the week I have my infusion treatments – there is so much more that is physically taken away. Because of the toxicity of the treatment, I can’t play with our dog, can’t enjoy kisses with any family member (even a kiss on the cheek), can’t have long embraces, can’t have cuddles. I can’t use the same towels, washcloths, cups, tube of toothpaste, water bottle, cutlery, nothing. We have to be so careful, but it is so very isolating.

Cancer has even taken away events. Because of my chemotherapy schedule and its after effects, including becoming heavily immunocompromised, we are unable to take an anniversary cruise we had booked more than a year ago. Instead, it must be moved and rescheduled for many months later. I cannot do the holiday concerts I’d hoped to enjoy, as the available dates aren’t possible with the weakness chemotherapy will induce. Cancer has taken away visits to local craft fairs I look forward to all year, because I’m just too exhausted to manage.

The Mental Things You Lose

More than physical, cancer is also a mental disease. Beyond the mental health aspect – anxiety over upcoming scans, fear that the cancer maybe returning, distress over treatment side effects – there is so much mental baggage I’ve accumulated.

The lack of focus can be extreme; so much so that it is colloquially called “chemo brain” – a general fogginess that can include some memory loss and general distraction. This is not helpful to my work, nor planning necessary for the upcoming holidays and other tasks that require at least some level of mental discipline.

Then there is jealousy. When I see different videos, watch a movie, even see commercial with a woman showing her midriff, it’s so very obvious “she’s never had lung cancer” because there are no surgical scars. This intrudes on some favorite movies, is ever-present in anything I see. Even real women – at the grocery store, in photographs, walking past the house as they get to exercise like I cannot – can trigger this unwarranted emotion.

Every day, cancer is present and I know it, whether I want to or not. Every time I move or stretch, I feel it, even for simple movements. I simply cannot “forget” why I have the physical feelings I do, and it causes rage so powerful I may physically be shaking or feel my heartrate increase with frustration.

Above all, there is still the confusion – what’s going on? How did I get cancer? Why me? Is this all a joke, a mistake? These are answers I will never get. That’s one more mental struggle – how to accept that I will never know, that it simply is what it is.

What I Refuse to Let Go Of

I’ve lost so much, and I don’t know how much will ever come back. But, I refuse to let go of possibilities.

While not all possibilities are positive – it is absolutely possible that I may have to go through all of this again in the future – there are hopeful, optimistic possibilities as well.

Because I’m fortunate to be relatively early stage – 2A – we are still able to consider this a cure situation, rather than lifelong management. There is a possibility that this may be a one-and-done and while the memories and some of the mental anguish will never go away, the cancer itself may never return.

I refuse to let go of that, refuse to let cancer “win” in taking my hope, my entire future, my life. I will get through this, I will go on, I will be some version of me again. I may not know that person yet, but I will in the future.

I can’t wait to meet her.