“You got this” is not what I heard

I’m not quite sure when I heard it for the first time.  Everything from last summer to now is a blur and yet some moments are so crystal clear:

*The phone call from my surgeon on July 18th, 2022 at 4:17pm.  Waiting all day for the phone to ring, hoping it would so I could just KNOW one way or the other, but also already knowing.

*The morning of my first surgery, sitting in the waiting room for them to call my name, Ray & I clinging to each others’ hand.

*Staying completely still through my bone scan in all-encompassing terror that they would find something more.

We were living in North Carolina then, in a “project house” that we had a love/hate relationship with on a continual basis.  The affair was in its fourth year and I’m not sure if the love or the hate was winning. I guess it depended on the day or month and what new issue we decided to tackle.

I only remember at some point later in the journey after seeing the words in text and in cards and notes, Debbie (one of my BFF’s) typed it as we were texting and I was telling her how afraid I was of everything to come.  All the uphill I was facing.  This was not a good look for me.  It felt foreign leaving my fingertips and showing up on my phone screen.  I am the annoyingly optimistic one.  I am the one always looking for that silver lining. I couldn’t see any of that, only an insurmountable wall of struggle, pain and heartache as I watched everyone that loved and cared for me try to be brave for me.

You Got This

“You got this”, she sent. And in a millisecond so many thoughts flashed through my mind:

*I am 6 years old and it’s my first day of kindergarten.  Mr. Highland, the school principal, introduces himself to me in the school bus line while we wait to go home.  He calls me “Angie” and I promptly correct him that my name is “Angela”. He never let me forget that.

*I am 18 years old and on my second “first date” with Raymond. I remember everything about him from that day:  what he wore, how he smelled, his smile.

*I am 26 years old and I am holding baby Liam for the first time. I get to do this again at 29 as the nurse hands me Ryan.

*I am 41 and at my fitness studio, not knowing how I could love my life more.

*I am 47 and truly find out what loss is when my brother dies of colon cancer.

*I am here, in this time, hearing these words and I am terrified.

I am the little girl, the young woman falling in love, the new mom, the happy business owner, the devastated sister and the terrified cancer patient not sure if she will make it through to become a survivor.  I am all these people in one split second looking out at the world and wondering how I’ve “got this”. Sometimes I pick up two different but similar tennis shoes and wear them all day without noticing. How in the hell have I got this?

Thank goodness she loves me

I proceeded to lash out at her in anger.  “NO DEBBIE!!  I DO NOT, IN FACT ‘GOT THIS!!!’’’, using all caps to let her know I meant business. I then ranted some more about how tired I was of hearing that along with a good measure of self-pity thrown in for good measure.  And then of course I felt terrible but I had already hit “send”.  She messaged me back after a brief pause, probably taking a breath because I am trifling, and she said, “Then we’ve got you until you do.” And I cried because that felt so far from possible.

At that time I was still so angry. So much anger. A lot. All directed at myself.  Angry at my body’s betrayal. It’s utter failure to JUST BE HEALTHY.  My worst vice ever in my life???– weekend rum & coke or mojitos.  I mean, COME ON BODY!!  I put myself in therapy.

So Much Support

Since then there have been countless “You got this” comments, seriously, too many to count. Let’s take a field trip to my brain: when you are me, and you have a never-ceasing commentary in your head that is only quiet (maybe) when you are sleeping, you hyper-focus on things and relentlessly try to figure them out. “You got this” became one of those things.

The actual idea of having some kind of daily management in a situation where you feel everything has spun and is continuing to spin completely out of your control is SO FAR from “You got this”.  Please, I beg you, don’t think me ungrateful, I have been immeasurably thankful for EVERY comment.  Every single person that has taken the time to reach out to me is appreciated beyond what I can put into words and I can never repay any of it but then I don’t think it’s meant to be repaid.

Striving to Survive

On a level I wasn’t even aware of, I started making sure that I WOULD “have this” while simultaneously wondering how I was going to make it through to be considered a “survivor” every time someone said, “You got this”, to me. I made sure I walked with Millie and we went to the park.  I told myself it was for her but deep-down where I didn’t notice, my brain knew what I needed was fresh air and sunshine. I did those things until I physically couldn’t any more. 

I drank homemade protein shakes with added green stuff because I wasn’t eating the best due to stomach pain. After a suggestion from my sister, I added Enterade(R) to my daily intake, which is a drink specifically for oncology patients. I did countless small things that I felt might help my body to be as healthy as possible while undergoing chemotherapy. And I kept in daily contact with my support base until I had no energy to say anything and just went quiet. 

Mailbox Love

HERE. Here is where Debbie knew what she had been talking about and the “We’ve got you” part came into play. The DAILY support, whether I answered texts and phone calls or not, never stopped.  There has been a core group of people that have checked on me every single day. EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. And sometimes they would say, “You got this, Angela”, and in my head all I could think was, “I don’t”. However, the truth behind their words was actually, “We’ve got you. We’ve got you until you can do it.”

The Next Steps

As soon as I was physically capable, I began walking again.  I would have good days and bad days – I still do – and on one good day in March, post-chemo, I saw an advertisement for a 5K at St. Pete beach in late April.  “WHAT A GREAT IDEA! I’m sure I’ll be SO MUCH BETTER by then!” Gosh, I love my daggone optimism… I hadn’t even begun radiation yet.

I’m Totally RAD

April 10th rolls around and I begin 28 sessions of radiation. The first week I was scheduled at 5am. FIVE AM!!  What’s the first thing I saw when they called me back to the treatment room?  A bell to ring when I’m done.  Guess what saying was displayed above the wall!!!  GUESS!!! I just can’t get away from it.  Those first 5 treatments I would come home and go straight back to bed until the dogs woke me up. Then I would nap in the afternoon. Then I would be in bed by 8:30pm.

5 down, 23 to go. Week 2 begins with a change to 6 am.  It is after Easter and some people have vacated the state and the patient load has lightened up a bit. I don’t go back to bed after every session, now I make it through the day to about 2pm, not daring to plant my butt until then because if I do I’m asleep. Ray is amazed at my new napping ability.  He is the all-time-king-champion of napping and I have NEVER been able to nap in my life since I was a toddler.

What Would You Do for a Cupcake?

April 22 arrives and it’s the 5K day.  Did I mention the theme?  Race for the Cupcake.  That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, this is a walk on the beach where you get a cupcake at the end. Halfway through, at the turning-around point, the volunteers were handing out water and more than one of them yelled to me, “You got this!!” Ray & I just busted out laughing. We then had a lively conversation about everything that I’ve talked about here.  He said, “I’m getting a t-shirt with that on it.” I replied, “I’m not worried, you speak a good game.” It turns out he does speak a good game. Damn I love him.

I did it. It was not pretty.  It took us an hour and 4 minutes to complete. But I did it. You could have wrung my sweaty clothes out like a wet dishrag but I finished. AND I got my cupcake. We then spent the rest of the day on the beach, enjoying the sunshine and celebrating me not being laid up on the couch anymore.

In The Grind

April 24th, week 3 of radiation begins, I am done with 10/28 sessions at this point.  A few little bumps have appeared but nothing terrible or painful. Still a 6am appointment time and still napping daily if I sit down which usually HAS to happen around 2pm.  Between being so sleepy and heel pain/neuropathy, and not yet being recovered from the last 6 months of surgery and treatments, I am worn out. The 27th I hit my halfway mark.

Counting Down

May 1st, week 4 of treatment.  I have completed 15/28 sessions.  I’m on the other side.  My skin still looks really healthy.  I plaster the area from my collar bone to my lower rib cage and my arm pit with the special lotions up to 3 times a day.  Then I put the lotion in the basket so I don’t get the hose. (IYKYK) I wear a crew neck shirt when I’m outside and a long sleeve SPF shirt when we go to the beach. I am still doing everything I can for my body to help it the best that I physically can so it will heal with the least amount of permanent damage.

May 8th, I have done 21/28 sessions.  The dr. looked at my skin today after treatment and her eyes got so big IN A GOOD WAY.  She couldn’t believe how good the area looks this many days in.  I’ll take that as a definite win.  May 23rd is coming and it’s a big day for me mentally.  I have a bone density scan scheduled as well as my port removal.  It’s time to say goodbye to that little device. The bone density scan is a follow-up as well as a baseline moving forward.

Looking Forward

For the first time in just under 10 months, I’m cautiously optimistic that I might actually “got this”.  Everybody that has been here with me whether daily (sometimes even hourly), every few weeks or just here and there checking in: I, again, cannot ever speak into words what that has meant.  You were all part of the “We’ve got you”.  Thank you.  Ray & I cannot express how much we appreciate you.

On May 17th I’m going to ring the radiation end-of-treatment bell and I’ve got this.

– a.