Waves of Emotions in the Midst of Uncertainty

Little cakes molded like oranges at Kantouni Sweetery in Pyrgos, Greece

I mentioned in another blog that, while preparing for my biopsy, I was trying to figure out what information to trust. Some sources said I could not fly for at least a week afterward, but the interventional radiology team that performed my biopsy told me I could fly as long as I did not lift anything heavier than five pounds. We flew out on the 22nd—just four days after my biopsy—on a nonstop flight to Athens. The husband handled all the luggage which was helpful. I was able to sleep through most of the flight, but when I woke up about an hour before landing, I felt pain in my lower right back. The discomfort lingered for another day, then faded on its own.

Greece was heavenly—an escape in every sense of the word. We truly unplugged. I was even surprised to find that I could sleep in. We laughed, played, rested, and let ourselves simply be. We loved exploring the island of Santorini and wandering through the ancient streets of Athens. Still, as the trip came to an end, we had mixed feelings about coming home. For me, coming home meant facing reality again. It meant facing cancer. Truthfully, I did not forget that I had cancer while we were away. I simply set it aside for a little while. But there were two moments during the trip when it came rushing back to the front of my mind.

I arranged for us to have a couples massage at the resort. As with any massage appointment I had ever booked, I had to fill out a form. And there it was again—that question: cancer. The options were PAST or PRESENT. I remembered the relief I had once felt being able to mark PAST after my endometrial cancer was resolved. This time, it hit me hard that the truth was PRESENT. I dreaded circling that word. We handed in the forms, and a few minutes later they came back to tell me that their policy was not to massage people with cancer. I felt blindsided. It felt as though they were treating me as if I were made of glass. During my experience with endometrial cancer, I had massages approved by my oncologist, and I knew how therapeutic they could be. I pushed back and insisted. Eventually, they asked me to sign a waiver stating that I would not sue them for giving me the massage. I lay on the table with tears in my eyes. My sweet husband reached out from his table to touch me. I looked up, and with a gentle, reassuring smile, he said, “Enjoy the massage.” That was exactly what I needed. I let myself exhale. I relaxed. I received the massage. Later, I looked into why the therapist had been so hesitant. Apparently, some massage therapists still believe the misconception that touching a person with cancer could somehow spread cancer cells through the body. 

While we were exploring the Parthenon in Athens, my husband kept holding me close to make sure I would not fall on the stairs as the crowd pressed through the site. At one point, as he steadied me, I felt tears well up. I was overwhelmed by the fact that I am married to someone so thoughtful, caring, and selfless. And in that same moment of gratitude, my mind drifted to a painful question: how much time would I have left with him? I had to gently pull myself back to the present and remind myself to stay inside that moment instead of letting fear steal it away.

Last Sunday, we were trying to put the house back in order after returning from our trip. We sorted through the mail, and my husband came across information about life insurance policy options. He asked whether we wanted to explore them. We are newly married, and of course we want to build the strongest financial future we can together. I told him that I would not qualify for a traditional life insurance policy because I have cancer. Even if everything were resolved, I would still likely have to wait several years before becoming eligible. Saying that out loud felt awful. He gently told me not to worry, that we would find other options. His steadiness in that moment meant more than I can say.

Work has kept me busy this week, but underneath it all, my anxiety about tomorrow’s appointment with the urologist has been growing. We will be discussing treatment options, and I know how important that conversation will be. I also had to advocate for myself to make sure I would have a good interpreter at the appointment. During the first round with cancer, I had no interpreter for the two opinions I sought, and that was incredibly frustrating. The interpreting services confirmed that I would have the same interpreter who was present for my biopsy. She was wonderful, and knowing she will be there gives me some comfort. 

Right now, that is what this season of life feels like: learning to hold fear and gratitude in the same hand. I do not know exactly what tomorrow will bring, and that uncertainty is heavy. But I do know this—I am still here, still speaking up for myself, still loving and being loved, and still trying to stay present for the life that is unfolding right in front of me. Maybe that is courage: not the absence of fear, but the decision to keep showing up anyway.