That’s right––two years since I started chemo, with the thought that I might have about that much time left, possibly less, according to the oncologist. No, that never seemed real to me. But as I get farther away from it in time, it somehow seems to become clearer what the medical professionals were telling me. But here I still am, two years later. I’ve got the form of recurrent uterine cancer with the worst prognosis and I lucked out.
I think I was probably more eloquent last year, on my one-year chemo-versary, when I was still coming to grips with the fact that I wasn’t halfway through the rest of my life and I could expect to go on living for an indefinite period. Well, here’s the going-on-living part, the quotidian. It’s short on confetti and long on general chores and maintenance, which is pretty much the human condition for most of us, or at least most of the people who would be reading a blog like this.
Last year at this time, I was so…moved by the fact that I was going to live that it was a few weeks before I could think straight enough to get any work done. I think I was more affected by the news that I was going to live than I was by the news that I had terminal cancer. Even now––I mean, I’m getting things done but every so often I still have a sudden moment of clarity, of being surprised by joy.
It’s still in the back of my mind always that life turns on a dime, so sharply it could give you a nickel change (but never does). 2017 could be as good for me physically as 2016, or it could turn around and bite me. My oncologist, that wonderful, down-to-earth woman who makes no promises, has changed my check-ups from every three months to every four––definitely a good sign.
Regardless, everything still happens one day at a time. That’s all anyone gets, and if it’s above ground, it’s a good day.