Andrea Stein Fiorentino
Why not her?
June 21, 2006, just one year ago, was a very different day than today. I had just finished my 25th radiation treatment after a half day at work. I trudged home and collapsed in bed by 7 p.m. that night before having to get up and do it all over again for the next six days. I told myself it was almost over and that I'd start feeling better next week.
I was beyond tired because of the radiation, but also because of the time and endurance it took traveling back and forth to get to my treatments. That's one of the many overlooked side effects of cancer treatment — finding time for everything, time that you value more now than you ever did before.
But during those times I was finding new forms of happiness and learning more about myself. I was learning about who I had been, who I was at that moment, and who I wanted to be.
My hair was just coming back in, all fuzzy like a baby duck, and even eyelashes and eyebrows were starting to poke through. I was finally off chemotherapy — hopefully for good — and the weight on my shoulders was starting to lift. I wish I could have said the same about the weight on my hips; that was a gift from the steroids in the Taxol.
I could finally see "the end" — well at least as far as the "hard" treatment goes. I had planned a lot for the upcoming summer, setting my expectations high, thinking in a month or two I would finally be feeling better and back to my old self again.
I forgot for a moment (blame it on that darned ol' chemo brain) that I still had monthly shots to endure for the clinical trial I am in, daily pills to take, an upcoming mammogram in five months, mole checks, bone scans, oncology and research checkups, a rheumatology appointment that was long overdue because I also have Lupus. I hoped that the Lupus would stay in remission because of the chemo, but I wasn't so lucky in that respect. I decided on whether or not to have reconstructive surgery and dealt with the most present issue of healing from the effects of radiation, as I was burned and crispy like a shish kebob. Oh, and then there was the minor inconvenience of my marriage going down the drain faster than a toilet flushes.
That was a year ago.
Today, I look back and realize that there is no end to treatment or to the potential hiccups life will throw my way. One day I may be able to finish or lessen medical treatments, but I will always deal with the psychological aspects — both good and bad — of being a cancer survivor.
I'll never feel like my old self again because that was the old me and that life is gone. I have a new life, a new life of which I am proud: A life with friends, family, hopes and dreams. I could dwell on all of the horrible things that happened during the last year — being diagnosed with cancer, losing my breast, chemo, radiation, ending my marriage after learning that my husband wasn't the man I thought he was — but I won't dwell on any of it. Why? Because cancer has been a teacher to me.
Cancer taught me about survival, not about giving up. It taught me to open my eyes to life. It taught me that it's okay to cry, it's okay to laugh, and it's sure as hell okay to survive.
And that's what I learned: To survive.
I don't like change, but now I see change has to be a large part of the life that I'm starting to lead. I'm going to own those changes because I have chosen to take control and make them.
If I've learned one lesson from this experience, it is this: Do what is right for you. There's a lot to look back on, but so much more to look forward to. A year from now, I'm sure I'll be able to tell a much different story. New memories will happen. I never say "Why me?" Instead, I say "Why not me!"
"I have heard there are troubles of more than one kind. Some come from ahead and some come from behind. But I've bought a big bat. I'm all ready you see. Now my troubles are going to have troubles with ME!" — Dr. Seuss
