Reconnecting

June 1, 2022

 

You might think that I would feel worry-free after the good news I received from my last scan. Unfortunately, this isn't the case. For some reason, there was actually an uptick in my feelings of sadness and anxiety.

My situation hasn't shown up in my dreams yet, and sometimes it takes me a minute or so to transition from ignorant bliss to waking reality. I made a sign by our bedroom door that says "Thank you for my healing miracle!" written in capital letters on yellow paper. But it's hard to feel grateful when I first wake up. 

After I shared my blog on social media, my old high school friend Kathryn sent me a Facebook message. She asked for my address. Later, she told me that she felt compelled to tell me something. Her husband was diagnosed with stage 4 melanoma several years ago. He was given a 17% chance of living and had come close to death for almost a year. But then the FDA approved a drug, they tried it, and it healed him. 

I remember meeting Kathryn through some mutual friends in high school, and gravitating toward her because of what a nice person she was. We became friends, exchanged notes, talked about boys, and laughed a lot. It was heart-wrenching to imagine what she had been through, but I was glad to know that her husband was spared and that she decided to share this inspiring story with me. "There's no reason why you can't have a similar miracle," she said. I agreed.

I was expecting the card I received from her in the mail about a week later, but not what was included with it: a very generous Grubhub gift card with a list of the 18 women who had contributed, many of which I hadn't spoken to in 20 years. 

"I don't ever want to hear you say you don't have any friends again," Matt said as I tried to suppress the tears.

I emailed my blog to everyone I remembered in my contact list. My soul was ready to reconnect with as many people in my life as I could. I've forged a sort of cocoon around myself for the past year, strengthened by the isolation caused by COVID-19.

I received a response from Teela, my best friend from childhood. She moved to Montana when we were in fifth grade, and although we wrote to each other for several years, we hadn't seen or talked to each other since. She sent her love and told me she had a lot of friends that were going through similar things.

Laura, a former fellow cheerleader and friend, emailed me back, sent her thoughts and prayers, and thanked me for sharing my journey. She asked if I was going to our high school reunion. I knew our 20-year was coming up, but I hadn't thought to check the Facebook account for my class lately.

I haven't been to any of my class reunions yet. I considered going to this one, partly because of the generous gift cards my old friends had contributed to. But I just let the cat out of the bag on something that I don't normally go around advertising. I felt ready to put it out there, but it's much easier to write than talk about. I didn't want people to feel awkward, treat me differently, or even bring it up. 

My graduating class's Facebook page encouraged members to submit "before" (high school) and "after" (present) pictures to be in a slideshow at the reunion. I figured that if I wasn't going, I might as well submit my pictures. I also happened to be going through a large bin of stuff my mom gave me, and I thought I might find a high school picture.

Going through the bin felt like a slideshow of my life. My mom must have saved everything I ever did in school. There were countless report cards, awards, drawings, and assignments. But there were also pictures, including one I had never seen before. It was Teela and I standing next to my parent's old station wagon. I'm wearing a little denim jacket with my arm around Teela, whose hair is pulled up into a side ponytail. I couldn't resist sending it to her, and we ended up talking on the phone after almost 30 years.

But probably the most poignant contact was from Chelsea, a customer I became friends with when I worked at the post office. We lost touch over the last year or so. Chelsea said that she hadn't reached out because she had been going through something similar.  About a year ago, she was diagnosed with stage 3 ovarian c-word. Needless to say, I was dumbstruck. 

Chelsea said that reading through my blog was helping her work through the trauma of it all, and that she could relate to my emotions very well. It's hard to describe what it was like to hear that. I was sad, of course, but I also felt a deep sense of joy, not only because my writing had helped someone, but because I knew that our friendship would be rekindled in a very meaningful way. Suddenly, I had a friend that I could talk to about all of the emotions unique to being told that your days are numbered. I didn't know that this would be so helpful until it happened.

Chelsea has already experienced far more difficult things. In the past year, she had a 14-centimeter t-word removed during a total hysterectomy, terrible chemotherapy, and a myriad of side effects including instant menopause and the loss of all her hair. They brought her CA125 down to the miraculously low number of eight, but that didn't rid her of the nightmare. Her oncologist told her that the type of c-word she has is very aggressive and has a high recurrence rate. 

One of many things we have discussed since then is that after your diagnosis, you are changed in a profound and irreversible way. Life feels completely different and you know that it will never be the same. People's everyday problems suddenly seem so trivial.

This kind of perspective can be a blessing. It can help you become a better person. Even so, I sometimes wish I could go back to not knowing, like I do in my dreams. 

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