One Year Out

Yesterday, I was challenged to go through an exercise of writing a letter to my former self at a low point in my diagnosis. And I realized it's been almost exactly one year since my metastatic diagnosis. So I took some time to reflect back and here is what I wrote:

Dear Self,
One year ago today, you were making appointments for a bone scan and a CT scan to find out what’s been causing that pain in your back. You’ve had so many scans over the past four years, but the anticipation and then waiting for results doesn’t get any easier over time, does it? And you don’t know it now, but you’re not going to get good results this go-round. You’re going to walk out of Andrea’s bridal luncheon and see a message from the doctor’s office, as well as a new appointment scheduled on your behalf. And you’re going to realize before you even talk to the doctor that something must be wrong. Why else would they book an appointment for next week when you already have one scheduled for the following week? 

You’re going to log into Epic and read the radiologist’s report from your scan this morning and see the words “osseous metastasis,” “pathologic fracture,” “significant findings,” and “metastatic bone lesion.” And then you’re going to look up the prognosis for metastatic breast cancer online and see these words: “incurable,” “terminal,” “average life expectancy of 3 years.” And you’re going to have to call your husband to tell him you’re going to die. You’re going to call your little sister because you need to talk to someone but you can’t tell your best friends because your best friend’s wedding is tomorrow and you don’t want to upset anyone right before the big day. And you’re going to lose it when you have to spell out to your sister what the scan results mean: “There’s treatment, but there’s no cure.” “Most women live about three years after being diagnosed.” “Three years.” Sob. 

You’d finally gotten your life back on track after the divorce. Not even married to your new husband three years. Only four years out from your first diagnosis. All you wanted was an ordinary life and all you’ve gotten is anything but. You’re going to cry again when you finally tell your best friend what the results of your scans were. Even though she’s on her honeymoon, she forces you to tell her and then her new husband has to pull the car over on the side of the road because she’s crying so hard. And you’re going to cry again when your sister tells you days later that she was in Wal-Mart when you called and even though she held it together while she was on the phone with you, she starting sobbing right there in the aisle as soon as she hung up the phone. 

But now it’s a year later. You’ve made it a whole year. The time has gone by fast, but the cancer hasn’t kept up. You’re still where you were a year ago and that’s a good thing. Actually, you’re even better. Your back pain is mostly gone. The radiation helped with that. And you’ve found ways to make good come from this. You’re not going to let this be something that sucks you into the pit of despair and keeps you from doing what God has called you to do. For who knows if you were brought here “for such a time as this”?

Maybe, instead of that ordinary life, God has this extraordinary one for you. The devil meant it for evil, but God meant it for good. The devil’s not going to win this one. You thought you were strong before, but you’re going to become even stronger. God’s grace will follow you every step of the way. Just keep saying yes to the things that cross your path. Find opportunities to help and be helped. Connect with other patients. You’ve always wanted to make a difference in the world - maybe this is your calling. It looks a lot different than you thought your “difference” would look like, but when has God ever done the expected? 

Keep trusting Him. He’s faithful. Your life is not for naught. It’s through this that your light will shine.