We have a lot of anniversaries we reflect on in our lives, significant moments that maybe, even at the time, we didn’t realize would be significant for years to come.
From the first moment September 5 became prominent on my schedule in 2024, I knew it would forever be a date for reflection, for contemplation, for just taking a deep breath and being grateful that I can do exactly that – breathe.
Today is the day I lost more than half a lung.
Whirlwind
It’s challenging to breathe in a swirling vortex, when circumstances are spiraling out of your control and life is so much of a blur you can’t focus on anything but the whirlwind itself.
One year ago, I was in the midst of that storm of scans, tests, and today, a surgery more enormous than most people ever face. I don’t feel like I did anything, other than what I was told – dress like this, prepare like that, put this on, take this off, hold still, answer questions, sign forms, and ultimately, let others manage what they do best.
I feel very grateful that I have had a phenomenal team around me through all of this, ensuring the best possible results with every frantic, shortened breath.
As I was wheeled into the surgery suite, I was curious. So much equipment, and surprisingly little space. It was chilly, but I was given blankets, made as comfortable as possible on the stiff table. A whiteboard with staff names – and my name. This was really happening.
Some kind words, a mask over my face, and honestly, I don’t remember much else. Some blurry, half-formed memories of the recovery bay three hours later, then being in my private room and my husband coming through the door. This day was undoubtedly harder on him than it was on me. Tiredness, stiffness, sluggishness, fading in and out under the influence of opioid painkillers and sedatives.
The pain would come later. The numbness on my left ribcage that is with me even a year later. The breathlessness of a dramatic and sudden reduction in lung capacity. The scars, physical, mental, and emotional.
Yet even after this huge step, the whirlwind didn’t stop, the winds only changed direction. The months ahead would yet be filled with chemotherapy, side effects, sleeping in a chair because the bed was too painful, changes in physical abilities and life itself because, truly, life will never be the same.
Photo by Melissa Mayntz
A Lost Year
It’s so very hard today to recognize that, in fact, a full year has passed. I have missed so much in this past year, because I have not…
- Decluttered the house – closets, desks, etc.
- Ridden a roller coaster – my own way to fly.
- Worked on crafts – cross stitch, latch hook, cards.
- Volunteered in any way – library or school.
- Advanced writing projects – articles and books.
- Caught up on longer letters to friends.
- Gone birding – Beyond the yard into the field.
This is not to say that bits of life haven’t gone on, because they certainly have. I’ve returned to cooking and baking. We’ve taken cruises. I’ve worked full-time throughout. I’ve read oh-so-many books. I’ve tried and tried and tried to breathe.
Even six months ago, I thought this day would mark the end of this very turbulent period, the end of the storm. Yet now that the day is here, I’m finding it’s still only the beginning.
I’ve been told, over and over, to be gentle with myself. To recognize and acknowledge the trauma I’ve endured and in fact, am still enduring.
There are many lessons I’ve learned through all of this. I’m not a patient person by nature, but the very necessity of a lung cancer diagnosis, the vicious regimen of treatment, and the ongoing side effects have required more patience than I ever thought I’d have.
It’s hard to wait. Wait to get answers, wait for treatment, wait to heal. I’m still waiting, on scans and bloodwork and test results every few months that can help me breathe easier, even if just for a short time, as I wait to see if the cancer comes back.
In the meantime, today especially, I take deep breaths and be glad that I’m here to take them. The roller coasters, the crafts, even the birds will wait along with me.
One breath at a time.
Sending soft, feathery hugs, Melissa. You have been through quite an ordeal and still manage to live your life. Minus the roller coasters, crafts and birds in the field. Like you said, they will be waiting for you when you are ready. One day at a time.