Thanksgiving

I've noticed that cancer people like to celebrate cancerversaries: diagnosis, end of chemo, remission,"rebirth". These might all be the same thing, I'm not sure. My own experience of cancer has been so ape shit bonkers, I haven't had any psychic space left to mentally file my cancer dates. I don't remember when I was diagnosed or when I got my first biopsy--I just remember it was before Thanksgiving because the subsequent holidays and birthday were a total bummer. I know the date I was in the hospital only because I got so many preposterous bills afterward. Frankly, the dates aren't super significant to me, but as I navigate through another chaotic year as a Waldorf teacher, I bask in every singular difference from this year to last. On Tuesday, for example, as I bent over to pick Babybel cheesewax out of the carpet in my classroom (gawd, I need to write those fools a cease and desist letter on behalf of all elementary school teachers), I thought of how totally marvelous it is to reach toward the ground without losing your eyesight. Each morning, as I shake my student's hands at the classroom door, I think of the month before I took medical leave, when I was so weak I had to sit on a stool to greet them. I remember all the autumnal walks that were cut short last November by my minimal lung capacity, and it's safe to say this is the most epic level of gratitude I've ever felt on Thanksgiving.

So I guess this is the season of my own obnoxiously-titled cancerversary. It's kicking up a lot of emotions, both happy and somber. It's certainly generating a lot of unscripted crying.

In review, this year I did a lot of things I never thought I'd do:

1. I asked for help.
2. I surrendered.
3. I received chemotherapy.
4. I went out in public looking fucking terrible.
5. I uttered the words, "I'm happy to be alive."
6. I let a stranger wipe my ass.  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
7. I got a 2nd tattoo. A cancer tattoo. (But not a stupid one.)
8. I developed a love and sympathy for cancer patients.

Most of these things still bring me a certain level of discomfort to admit, but the last item is particularly humbling. Prior to this year, I believed that cancer was just a manifestation of one's own terrible baggage--a total karmic thing. I felt invulnerable to it because of my own life choices, both physical and mental. When the universe cosmically bitchslapped me upside my face, I had to contemplate a lot of things that were bigger than myself. I realize now that surviving cancer isn't as simple as eating cruciferous vegetables or shifting one's consciousness. It's not something to shrug one's shoulders at and assume the universe is teaching cancer patients an important existential lesson. (Not that I have to tell you. You are probably not a heartless shrew, like I am.) Cancer is not to be fucked with. Cancer is a Demagorgon and if it doesn't kill you, it's definitely gonna kill Bob. I am so damn happy not to have a giant lump of cancer in my chest, but the bullshit doesn't seem to stop. There's peripheral neuropathy in my fingers and toes, there's painful degeneration in my spine, and now there are pre-cancerous cells in my cervix. I'm going in for surgery on my birthday weekend and I can't help thinking that this is crossing the line from karmic into RUDE. Regardless, today I am grateful. I give thanks for the chance to reexamine my own beliefs. I give thanks for my continual transformation as a human being on this earth. I give thanks for having been humbled. I give thanks for the absence of an itch. I give thanks for the immense love that is shown to me everyday on so many levels. I give thanks for the chance to celebrate a cancerversary.