Life Update
“How are you?”
“I’m okay! I’ve been a little up and down since my surgery for thyroid cancer, but mostly I’m feeling really good right now. Thanks for asking!”
TLDR; “How are you?” What a beautiful and benign question, one that leaves me tongue-tied. I both love and loathe this question. Love because I can feel the genuine care and concern from these friends who saw my social media posts detailing my cancer diagnosis five months ago. Loathe because how I have no idea how to answer it in any given moment. How much information do I give before it’s too much for the receiver? How do I even begin to frame my response?
Do I inform you that I’m currently cancer free (big yay!!), but that my doctors have to keep a closer eye on things because it turns out my tumor contained a more aggressive cancer than previously thought, one with a higher rate of recurrence (major boo)?
Do I tell you about this wild and beautiful healing journey I’m still on, one that has taken me across the country to a world-renowned Chinese Medicine practitioner in the mountains just outside of Portland, OR? That much of the GoFundMe that people contributed to (thank you thank you thank you) is going toward pricey herbs and supplements that are helping me feel better and healthier than I have in years? That this whole time, I’ve felt caught in between Western and Eastern medicines, yet blessed by the healing gifts of both?
Can I get super nerdy and tell you about the medical procedures I’ve had done and/or the Chinese Medicine framework that explains the energetic patterns behind the cancer?
Do I admit that, in addition to receiving socially acceptable forms of support like therapy and spiritual direction, I’ve also consulted a Vedic astrologer, a Tarot reader, and received energy healings from a friend who encouraged me to call it “apparent cancer”? All of which helped me come to some profound realizations about my life and purpose?
How do I describe the sense that my whole being feels like it’s been rearranged on some level? That in dancing with mortality, I lost some illusion of invincibility that I didn’t know I was clinging to — and yet, in the vulnerability of serious illness, I feel more open to possibility, more open to life itself?
Do I tell you about how, slowly then all of a sudden, I took stock of my life and discovered an urgent need for some rest and quiet? That working full time on the climate crisis while having my own existential crisis was just too much for my psyche to bear? That I just took the last two months of work off and fled the noise and rush of Brooklyn for the trees and lakes of Vermont and upstate NY in order to recuperate and listen to the yearnings of my soul? That I may keep living among the trees for a while?
I could tell you the story of the old me who would have pushed even harder and lost myself to work in the face of uncertainty, but that part of me has gotten quieter. I have learned over and over again throughout my three and a half decades of life to say no to that compulsion. Having cancer was a way of my body saying yet again, “No, really, Chelsea. Slow. Down.”
What I’d really love to tell you, but lack adequate words for is that in the last six weeks, I have begun to rediscover so much about myself. My love of writing. A craving for solitude that seems to deepen everyday. How my body responds to the fresh air and green leaves and birdsong by gifting me a softness and lightness that feels unfamiliar yet innate at the same time.
I write all of this just days before a week of doctors’ checkups (in fact, I will post this just hours before an appointment with my surgeon). For all I know, everything could change, again. There’s no reason to fear that anything’s wrong, that I’ll need more surgery or will have to start taking lifelong medication. This isn’t me fooling myself into blissful ignorance. There’s also no reason to assume that everything will be fine. My hubris has made that mistake before.
This is me learning to savor the morsels of freedom that surrendering to the unknown can bring. I’ve come to realize that I don’t want to mark my healing journey by doctor’s appointments and blood results. I want to mark this time by each moment I was able to take a conscious breath and soften, the moments I decided to ask for help, the many moments of gratitude I’ve felt for my fucking amazing family, chosen and not.
Maybe a better way to put this is: I could wait till after those appointments to give this update, but today’s my birthday and, right now, I am choosing to bask in the glory of being alive.
