Today is a surreal day, one I never once imagined I’d ever reach and one that has seemed both too close and too far away. Six months ago, I was diagnosed with lung cancer.

Today I mourn, for the life I’ve lost and will never get back.

In Mourning

How it all began is so crystal clear, with one dominant theme – I felt fine. No pain, no shortness of breath, no lumps or bumps, no problems other than the merest smidge of intermittent blood from typical morning coughs. I felt completely fine, but had a 4.1 centimeter tumor in my left lung.

What followed has been a whirlwind of things I never imagined. More appointments, scans, and tests than I care to count, unending needle pokes for IVs and blood draws, battling the megalith that is the health insurance industry, learning hospital procedures, side effects, recoveries, more appointments.

Along the way, I lost so very much. Physically, I lost most of my left lung just six weeks after the diagnosis. I will carry those scars the rest of my life. My lung capacity and breathing patterns will not stabilize for nearly a year, and I will forever be at greater risk for breathing issues and respiratory infections. For the rest of my life, months, years, or decades, I will need scans and tests to watch in case this nightmare returns.

The internal scars are even harder. The emotional and mental whirlwind has taken me to thoughts I never wanted to have, thoughts that will now never go away. This has irrevocably changed my life, and the life I had six months ago is so far gone I can barely remember what it was like to not have cancer.

So I mourn, I wonder, I question, I rage. I still don’t know the why – why me, why now, why did this have to happen. These are questions that will never be answered, no matter how many tests or scans I endure.

But, I also celebrate.

In Celebration

Unlike so many who struggle with this disease, I have much to celebrate. While I do feel depressed, distraught, estranged, and out of control, I simultaneously feel joyous, grateful, and blessed.

Yes, I’m blessed to have cancer.

I will forever be grateful that my primary care physician took even that tiniest of symptoms seriously and ordered a scan. It could have been prudent to have a course of antibiotics first, assuming a bit of lingering infection from the bronchitis I’d had earlier in the year. Or it would have been easy to brush off such a miniscule symptom and propose monitoring instead, let’s see how how it is in a few weeks.

Then where would I have been? A larger tumor, perhaps one that decided to go out and explore its surroundings – stomach, spleen, spine, and brain.

I’m grateful to have such a keen oncologist, one who not only specializes in lung cancer but who is on the forefront of new research and the most aggressive treatments. This has opened options for me that have ensured the best possible outcomes.

Likewise, I’m grateful to have a thoracic team that is the utmost in expertise and professionalism, taking what have been very painful, scary, and confusing procedures and making them as smooth and seamless as possible. This has ensured my treatment has been able to progress at a pace that has astonished my care team.

I’m so blessed to have a husband and family who support me. Some are blood relations and many are not, but all have been here to keep me grounded, to offer encouragement, to be that proverbial shoulder we all need now and again. These many hands holding me up have allowed me to relax, to breathe (such as it is), to simply exist and know that I. WILL. NOT. FALL. The cliff has loomed large, but I stand on the edge of it and just breathe.

Ironically, in the past six months, I have not cried. I have not given in to the despair which is very much there. I have raged, I have held my own personal pity parties, I have sluffed into depression – but the tears remain at bay. Because while I mourn, I also celebrate.

Six Months

Today, six months after that confirmed diagnosis, I am still here. I have had four different surgeries, progressed through four increasingly challenging rounds of chemotherapy, done weeks of breathing rehabilitation, adapted to more medications than I can count, endured brutal side effects, and begun targeted therapy that will be a fact of life for years to come.

My final surgery, the removal of my chemotherapy port, was on Monday, January 20. It was smooth and successful, and that small interloper is no longer implanted in my chest. The scar is bruised and bright, but it will fade.

Now, it’s a matter of maintenance. I will continue to have bloodwork tests searching for cancer cells every three months, and internal scans every six months, for some years yet. A final deadline will depend on many things, including any changes in my own physiology, recurrence of the cancer, insurance compliance, and other factors. It’s an ever-changing finish line that one never reaches.

But I’m here, moving forward, and I will not stop.

The Next Six Months

For the past six months, my life has been taken from me in so many ways. Now, I will spend the next six months getting it back, and more. I have goals, hopes, and plans, and I will not lose them.

One of my favorite songs, playing now as I write this, is “Something Just Like This.” It is powerful, yearning, and appropriate.

Where d’you wanna go?
How much you wanna risk?
I’m not lookin for somebody with some superhuman gifts,
Some superhero, some fairytale bliss
Just something I can turn to, somebody I can kiss
I want something just like this.

I want to go far, and I will risk it all. I have no superhuman gifts, I’m not a superhero, and life will never be a fairytale. I do have people to turn to, someone to kiss. I want this, I have this, and I will not let it go.

It’s time to fly again.