The Aftermath
When I finished my treatment in February of 2022, I made grand plans. A trip to Europe, the BEST year of college I could possibly have, and a happily ever after. However, the beginning of this school year was really difficult for me.
Let me paint the picture:
I’ve started taking a medication called Verzineo which is essentially like oral chemo (no hair loss though, slay!) Historically, it has been used in stage 4 breast cancer patients to halt the spread of metastasis. Now, it is used in stage 2 and 3 patients to prevent reoccurrence. The side effects have been gnarly.
In the first few weeks of this school year I spent a lot of nights and morning’s throwing up, sick with nausea.
I was suffering from extreme fatigue causing me to skip tons of classes/ fall asleep in class.
I had a two-week 102 fever, which my mom flew out to CA to help me out with.
Lots of stomach issues that I will spare you the details of (!!!)
I am also in medically induced menopause for the next 10 years
On top of the physical effects, mentally:
I struggle with an overwhelming fear of recurrence. Most nights I take Xanax or Ativan, as my anxiety increases before I fall asleep.
I wonder what my fertility looks like after completing treatment and if I will have to complete more cycles to freeze my eggs.
I am in therapy to deal with the trauma of this past year + adjust to what my new normal looks like.
I provide you with this extensive list not to ask for sympathy (I also don’t need suggestions on how to fix these things, thank you in advance), but to demonstrate how forever changed my life is, despite how normal it may look on social media. I actually neglected to share my physical and mental side effects, because I feared that people had stopped caring. I felt that people may be bored of the cancer narrative. And maybe they are! But I’m trying to be better about self-censoring, because I know attention needs to be brought to this issue: it's the concept of the “aftermath.”
An aftermath, to me, is defined as a period of time after a traumatic incident when life… still sucks a lot. Certain days in the aftermath can feel just as difficult as the first. The first: day when we were diagnosed. The first: day when we lost a loved one. The first: day when we were told we wouldn’t walk again. The first: day when we found out our child would be different from other kids.
Most people can think of “the first day” in their head. Universally, it's the day when your life is changed forever- the day that nothing will be the same.
An “aftermath” can last uncomfortably long. It can take more energy than expected. It can be heavy. It can be burdensome. And yet its existence is very, very real.
Life after cancer, or any traumatic event really, is not picture perfect. I’ve noticed that society likes to set fixed amounts of time for grief. There’s a period of time where it's acceptable to grieve publicly. For the first few weeks/months, we drop off meals, we let people cry in our arms and we write them letters. We swarm them with love and support… until giving that kind of energy isn’t sustainable anymore.
I’m not necessarily critiquing this system. It’s natural. After all, we can't spend our entire lives healing the wounds of every individual who has suffered. There would never be enough time.
But people need to know that once we are faced with something difficult, there is no “going back to normal.” For me, this has been an unimaginably wearing reality to face. It is so fucking sad, seriously. A part of me will grieve the loss of my old life until the end of time. And at the same time, there are ways to incorporate this experience into my life that can be beautiful, life- enhancing, educational, and help lots of people.
Currently, I am working on weaving this past year into the intricate tapestry that is my life. My cancer experience is a particular string of yarn that is thick, and dark, and coarse in its fiber. Yet with that, it provides great contrast for the other strings of yarn, which are gold, shimmery, dazzling to the eye and certainly outnumber that one dark string.
My point is: my tapestry may look beautiful to the eye- I work very hard to make it look that way. But that strand of yarn that is thick, and dark, and coarse in its fibers still hurts really bad sometimes.
And I know a lot of other people have tapestries that look beautiful too- but they have a strand that stings and burns and aches on bad days.
So here’s to all of those who live with a thick, dark, coarse string in their tapestry. I see you, I hear you, I am you.
And to those who know someone with a tapestry of this kind- please remember that this string hasn’t disappeared- it's weaved right in, and it’s not going anywhere.
I love you.
XO,
M
Artwork: Bella Hurlbut @BeKindBella
