Tag: cancer recovery

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A reflection that resonated with me…

…from “Landscapes of Cancer and Desire” by Annie Ernaux:

At what point did I stop thinking and saying, “I have cancer,” and start to say, “I had cancer”? I feel as though I am still between the two, in a zone of uncertainty because at any time I could slide back from the second state into the first, my cancer having recurred. But if I measure the reality of cancer by how indifferent I was last year to things that interest the majority of people, by my remoteness from world events of that time, and measure the unreality of cancer by the anger those events provoke in me again, by the mostly futile preoccupations I engage in anew, and the stretch of future that I have granted myself by buying a five-year warranty on a dishwasher, for example, then I can say, “I had cancer.”

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May Hike

I love this photo of Tosca’s tail curled like a reverse question mark, as she grows curiouser and curiouser by the day. Needless to say, our monthly hike has been postponed because we went to the beach at the end of May. It was our first real trip with the dog if you don’t count bringing her home from the breeder’s. Despite our apprehensions, she traveled well. Her response to the ocean (first time!) was mixed, however. While she relished racing around in the sand and trotting after us on walks, she was absolutely petrified of the surf. Which is to say, she wouldn’t go anywhere near the water. When we did, she would stand rather plaintively just beyond the tide’s reach, watching us intently. I think it vexed her to sense some kind of danger in the crashing waves, know we were vulnerable to this, and yet be unable to protect us from it. True to her breed, she is very much a shepherd and our family, her flock. Eventually, she at least warmed up to the tidepools and would happily trounce through them—even up to her neck!—as long as one of us was by her side. But that water was shallow and still, whereas the ocean is a restless, roaring thing. It was interesting to see it through her eyes—namely, as menacing and inscrutable, a place we most certainly didn’t belong. Even other dogs who bounded into the water with the same joyful abandon as my daughter couldn’t entice her. Alas! We all have our idiosyncrasies. 

That said, Tosca made remarkable progress during the trip in other ways. By the second day, we were able to let her off leash for the first time ever and she absolutely LOVED it. She even played with other dogs! Just a few, but still. For the most part, she flew around solo in every direction but kept tabs on where we were (which was never far), and always returned when called. This was somewhat shocking to me since she’s only been loosely “trained.” So it must be something else then, something that’s become innate to her species after centuries of domestication? Or perhaps we’re officially bonded together now? I’d read that this occurs over the first three days, weeks, and then months of adopting a dog (I believe it was called the 3-3-3 theory). And I was truly moved by the signs of her attachment on this trip—the way she would whine for us when we crated her in the rental before leaving for errands or meals; how content she seemed to lay, unleashed, at my side while I read in the sand; the fact that she still slept in my daughter’s room (which, of course, wasn’t her room) at night.  So I guess there really is no question. She’s a keeper.

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April Hike

This month’s hike took us along the banks of the Chattahoochee River. It was a gorgeous morning so everyone and their brother appeared to have had the same idea, which meant that the parking lot was full and there were too many other dogs on the trail for Tosca’s comfort. We managed a meandering loop, anyway. 4/12 down, a third of the year behind us, and 8 more to go. Checking these off of the calendar is certainly a welcome alternative to radiation treatments; I heartily recommend it to anyone in recovery from, perhaps, anything at all.

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March Hike

This month’s hike with Tosca & friends was to Arabia Mountain, a huge granite outcropping pocked with craters southeast of the city. It feels a little like visiting the surface of the moon. Or Mars. But signs of spring were everywhere. That’s actually one of the things I love most about this new ritual–taking a hike near the end of each month allows me to witness the slow creep of the seasons in a way I wouldn’t have otherwise. The sounds, smells, and temperatures have shifted subtly with each excursion, much like the vegetation. And Tosca’s warming a bit to new company alongside these new environments (emphasis on “a bit”). When I become impatient with her, I remind myself that certain things take time. Revisiting my last post re: remission is a perfect example of this. I expected my reaction to the news to be instantaneous, but I’m finding that it’s actually sinking in quite slowly. It’s as though a profound weight, which I’ve become so accustomed to carrying that I hardly notice it any more, is being gradually lifted from my shoulders. Each day, I feel a little lighter, and it’s the loveliest thing.

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R e m i s s i o n

Yesterday I received news that my annual CT scan was clear, and it settled in the strangest way. I felt relief, of course, but not the utter elation I’d expected. I say this because it wasn’t your typical scan; if clear, it would be likely be my last. And lo, it was! Yet I felt… so many different things. Which suggests that perhaps few emotions or experiences in life are unalloyed, though some have come close. Anticlimactic as the news was (sadly, medical test results aren’t sent with confetti effect), I still found myself wishing there was someone I could meet for a spontaneous drink to celebrate, but I didn’t know who that person would be at 2:45pm on a Monday. So, at a loss despite this seismic gain, I drove to pick up my daughter in the very same car in which I drove to pick her up after receiving my diagnosis five years ago with an uncannily similar sense of bewilderment. Wow, I thought to myself, I’m still here; I’m in remission; I’ve been cancer-free for 5 years. 5 years! It feels like a thousand lifetimes have transpired since my diagnosis in 2018–-so many awful and unexpected things have happened on both a global and personal scale that I’ve struggled to account for much of any of it. But I could no more account for the grace or good fortune that’s befallen me throughout my life, either. Account. That’s kind of funny. To whom? For whom? I suppose mostly for myself and maybe my daughter, in the event that she becomes curious about all of this when she’s older. I write these things down because then they live on the page, outside of me, and not solely inside, which can be overwhelming. And I share them here on the off chance that they might help someone else going through something similar, just as the few blogs I found my way to in the wake of my diagnosis helped me. To paraphrase James Baldwin, you feel alone in your suffering, and then you read. Or write. Or lean on others (those who helped me get here are countless and range from strangers to closest kin; I offer my gratitude to each and every one of them ❤️ ). Or walk the dog you once wondered if you’d live long enough to be able to have. Cheers to that.

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February Hike

As with all the best laid plans of mice and men, a few things threw a wrench into our family hike today–among them, my daughter having recently fractured her ankle. But Tosca and I trekked out to Constitution Lakes Park, anyway, where a good friend was happy to meet us for a morning stroll. The weather was sunnier and less windy than it was during our last hike but still quite cold. Given that the park is mostly marshland, this turned out to be a good thing because it kept the mosquitoes at bay. Tosca remains petrified of strangers and other dogs, so I’m hoping these outings help her acclimate to new people and environments. She’s finding her voice and verve at home, however, barking up a storm whenever she spies something outside and getting into more mischief inside. Apparently, this is normal behavior for an adolescent, which she now is (and my daughter is soon to be, so it feels like a bit of a test run). Two down, ten to go.

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January Hike

Some keep the Sabbath going to Church, but yesterday, we kept it at Morningside Nature Preserve, a lovely greenspace nestled in the center of the city. I think Emily would’ve approved. Years ago, I received a promotional pamphlet from a local realtor featuring “12 Great Georgia Hikes” and attached it to our fridge, hoping this might inspire us to take them. We’ve since been to a few of the trails listed but not most. Now that we have Tosca, however, I’m remotivated to tackle them. There are 12, so I made a New Year’s resolution to do one on the last Sunday of each month until we usher in 2025 (unfathomable!). Since no one in my family is a particularly seasoned hiker we started small, with an “easy” 2 mile loop not far from our house. Despite having lived here for over a decade, we had no idea this nature preserve existed! And, as with most family outings of this kind, it was a mild disaster. Which is to say, the weather was dismal (it’s late January, after all); the trail, soupy after recent rains; and my daughter, surly and exhausted from a sleepover. Although the trail was supposedly a loop, we still got lost and muddled much of our way back through the surrounding neighborhood. But none of these things kept the experience from being fantastic, at least for me and Tosca, who completely lost her shit when we arrived at the park’s much touted “dog beach.” Warily skirting the few other pets and people there, she raced around like a wild banshee, relishing the sand and stream with equal fervor. It was a sight to behold, as was the mess she made of the car on the drive home (amateurs that we are, no one thought to bring a towel). I’m surprised by how little I cared, though. One hike down, eleven to go.

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Dog Diaries cont’d.

I take the dog out and wait patiently for her not to pee. She’s already changed my relationship to time and space in subtle yet fascinating ways. There are now small pockets of each day when I find myself communing with the world differently—inhabiting it differently—because I’ve taken on the rhythms of this creature. For example, when we first brought her home, I worked the night shift. Which is to say, I took her outside to do her business whenever the need arose. Or what I assumed was the need; sometimes, I was mistaken. But more often than not, any nocturnal pacing, sniffing, or whimpering signaled a bathroom break. And so, bizarrely attired in pajamas and a parka, I would stand shivering beneath the half moon in the dead of night while Tosca squatted in the shadows, her head turned away from me in a touching semblance of modesty. It was then I realized that I’d never actually been out in my yard at 3am before. How still it was, how inky and many elbowed the trees appeared, how quiet. I found myself immersed in an unexpected moment of solitude and reflection that would have otherwise been filled with fitful sleep, and I felt grateful for it. Although Tosca’s now fully potty trained and can go the entire night without needing to be let out, these moments still crop up at other times. Like this morning, when I stood in a downpour while she flatly refused to do the same, waiting. Musing. Getting wet.

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Dog Diaries

She heaves belabored sighs like I did in my twenties (so dramatic!). She dreams. She startles easily and doesn’t lick or leap at strangers. She cowers when we encounter anything but squirrels on our walks. In short, she doesn’t seem like a typical dog, much less puppy. No; Tosca is an old soul, moody and mercurial, silent and standoffish (in two weeks I’ve only heard her bark three times)—in other words, she’s basically like a cat. It’s a bit bewildering. Yesterday I told a friend that she’s all I feel compelled to write about. Then write about her, the friend encouraged. Because of course when you’re writing about the dog, you’re also writing about other things. And so I will. Because she’s felt oddly allegorical from the start (and what, ultimately, isn’t?).  

Years ago, before adopting Tosca, my family came close to adopting another dog. At the time, I was advised by a colleague—the zealous owner of two German Shepherds—to pay very close attention to the dog’s behavior upon meeting. He insisted that it should be alert, engaged, happy, playful, wagging its tail, making eye contact, rolling over for belly rubs. My colleague acted all of this out as if we were playing a game of charades while I nodded, similarly pretending that I’d never seen a dog before in my life. As it happened, the dog we almost adopted was not like this—hence the “almost”. Neither was Tosca, but we brought Tosca home, anyway, because we’d committed to doing so for our daughter. Despite her eccentric temperament (perhaps even because of it), she somehow felt like our dog.

What’s interesting is how quickly she’s become my dog. I’ve read that they do this; they pick their person—nominate an alpha, as it were—and, in sizing up our little family, she must’ve decided that I was the leader of this outfit a la O Brother, Where Art Thou?. My husband doesn’t mind (I lost him to a love affair with our cat years ago), but my daughter does. The dog was her present, after all, and even though she’s the one who mainly feeds and plays with her, Tosca has nonetheless become my shadow. I find myself tripping over her constantly, as she’s always at my feet. And as any dog lover will tell you, there is no purer pleasure (or annoyance). Particularly now, when I sense my other shadow, the one for whom this curious creature came to belong to us in the first place, drifting ever farther in search of her own lovely suns.

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Noel, noel

Our family’s big ticket Christmas gift this year was a new puppy, though I guess that’s a little redundant (are there old puppies?). We brought her home from the breeder’s farm in KY yesterday. How we found our way to this particular dog, from these particular folks, is a story unto itself, I suppose. My daughter—now nine—has long been obsessed with animals and has always wanted a dog. Both my husband and I grew up with them, but we already have a beloved elderly cat as well as an unfenced yard, so we’ve been hesitant to add a puppy to the mix. But sometimes it’s just time, and a confluence of concrete and ineffable factors makes this apparent. Like loss, for example. Just so much loss taking on so many different shapes over the past few years that welcoming something new into our lives felt strangely imperative. Not as a substitute for those losses, but a tonic to them, perhaps. And while I wanted to adopt a rescue from a shelter, my daughter became fixated on the relatively rare breed my husband grew up with: English Shepherds. They’re next to impossible to find, with breeders in far flung corners of the country and waitlists for unpredictably timed litters, but our daughter managed to find one within a six hour drive, the only puppy left from last spring’s brood. Cowgirl was, if not the runt of the litter, then certainly overshadowed by her siblings, all of whom got scooped up quickly. Sweet tempered and skittish, she hadn’t shown much promise working the cows, so her owners put her up for adoption at 10 months. We said we’d take her, not exactly sight unseen (they sent a recent photo), but close. It felt like quite the leap of faith, driving all that way for an unknown quantity, but I needed to take this leap more than I’ve needed anything in a while (my daughter, of course, carried nothing but absolute conviction in her heart). Dear reader, it was rewarded.

Tosca is my shepherd; I shall not want.