The three-legged race.
I'm not the only one with cancer. It actually really helps when I remember that. This feels deeply personal and there are times that I do forget and feel like I'm the only person that is going through this. Then I realize that - unfortunately - a shocking number of Canadians are diagnosed with and in too many cases die from cancer every year. I know that I'm not the only one going through this, even if I'm the only one who really knows what I'm going through.
I've told many people that this diagnosis is "life changing, not life ending". And while it's true that my life has changed irrevocably, there's another person whose life was changed by my diagnosis. In many ways, they have cancer almost as much as I do.
I'm talking about my wife. When I was diagnosed with cancer, her life changed forever as well.
Donna and I had been married for nearly 33 years when I got my diagnosis. Thirty-two years, seven months, and seventeen days, to be exact. Or 11,920 days if you prefer a single unit of measure (and yes, I did the maths) .
11,920 days. But who's counting?
Statistically, about 40% of Canadians divorce before 30 years of marriage. We've had close friends and family members divorce, but we've stayed strong and devoted to each other throughout our marriage. I'm not trying to suggest that every single one of the 11,920 days between the day we said "I do" and the day my GP called to tell me I had malignant colorectal cancer were magnificent - some were downright crappy if I'm honest - but we've always been more devoted to each other than to our egos or the emotion of the situation when times are tough. And right now, times are really tough!
So... what does that have to do with an activity usually reserved for picnics and kids' parties?
If you've ever participated in this event, you will now how odd it feels to have your right leg tied to another person's left (or vice versa), to be gripping each other and not be able to move with complete autonomy. If you work together as a team you can be the first pair over the finish line. If each of you try to do your own thing you will stumble, and if you actively fight each other you will fall and be out of the race.
Right now, Donna and I are running a three-legged race. Not literally of course - although we are definitely silly enough to do something like that - but metaphorically as we both cope with our newly-changed lives, tied together through the diagnosis of cancer.
We are tied together in this journey, leaning on each other for support, and having to cooperate to do something that feels very awkward and unnatural at times. We try to work together but we sometimes forget to communicate, to tell the other person what we are thinking or feeling. Am I frustrated by being stuck on one lily pad when I desperately need to get to another, yet not telling her? Is she scared because although my prognosis is excellent, there is a tiny frightened voice in her head that doesn't want to lose the man she loves? Are we tired from work? Emotionally exhausted from telling people about my/our diagnosis? Fed up with dreaming of cancer?
Yes. Yes, we are experiencing all of those things. Because, well, we're human I guess.
Humans stumble. Sometimes they fall. We feel ourselves stumbling and our natural instinct is to reach out to one another, to hug each other close and say I love you.
We do that. We do that a LOT lately. And it feels good, each and every time.
So far we have only had one day where both of us were struggling. It almost seems like we take turns being up or down on any given day. If I am angry that I have to deal with a dozen different booking people to advocate for my own care, Donna is calm and loving and helps me remember that I am special to her. If she is scared, completely irrationally scared of what if scenarios (because once again, she's human), I hold her close and tell her that I love her right now, and that I will love her until my final breath.
We lean on each other. We learn to take our steps in synchrony, to work together to achieve our goal. We have a finish line, and we try to make sure that at least one of us always has their eyes on that particular prize. It's not a line of chalk in the grass or a ribbon tied between two trees or anything like that; our finish line is a year from now, when I can be considered cured and we can go on living a life without cancer.
Until that point we remain tied together by my diagnosis and treatment, leaning on each other for emotional support, communicating as much as we can about our fears and frustrations and love for each other, and focusing on the real goal we have in life.
To spend more time together.
This. This is why I say cancer could be worse. I could not have someone so amazing to help me and support me as I go through this. I could not be surrounded by real-life angels who walk and talk and curse and would do anything to save me. I could not have the excellent health that will allow me to overcome the scariest word that most people including myself can think of.
I'm glad I'm running a three-legged race. The alternative would be to have my feet tied together by my diagnosis and still try to run the race. If you feel like this is happening to you, if you feel like you are all alone as you face scary words like prognosis and radiotherapy, open your heart and look around.
I bet you'll find an army of angels, just waiting to run a three-legged race with you.
But you can't have my angel; we're already running our own race...
I've told many people that this diagnosis is "life changing, not life ending". And while it's true that my life has changed irrevocably, there's another person whose life was changed by my diagnosis. In many ways, they have cancer almost as much as I do.
I'm talking about my wife. When I was diagnosed with cancer, her life changed forever as well.
Donna and I had been married for nearly 33 years when I got my diagnosis. Thirty-two years, seven months, and seventeen days, to be exact. Or 11,920 days if you prefer a single unit of measure (and yes, I did the maths) .
11,920 days. But who's counting?
Statistically, about 40% of Canadians divorce before 30 years of marriage. We've had close friends and family members divorce, but we've stayed strong and devoted to each other throughout our marriage. I'm not trying to suggest that every single one of the 11,920 days between the day we said "I do" and the day my GP called to tell me I had malignant colorectal cancer were magnificent - some were downright crappy if I'm honest - but we've always been more devoted to each other than to our egos or the emotion of the situation when times are tough. And right now, times are really tough!
So... what does that have to do with an activity usually reserved for picnics and kids' parties?
If you've ever participated in this event, you will now how odd it feels to have your right leg tied to another person's left (or vice versa), to be gripping each other and not be able to move with complete autonomy. If you work together as a team you can be the first pair over the finish line. If each of you try to do your own thing you will stumble, and if you actively fight each other you will fall and be out of the race.
Right now, Donna and I are running a three-legged race. Not literally of course - although we are definitely silly enough to do something like that - but metaphorically as we both cope with our newly-changed lives, tied together through the diagnosis of cancer.
We are tied together in this journey, leaning on each other for support, and having to cooperate to do something that feels very awkward and unnatural at times. We try to work together but we sometimes forget to communicate, to tell the other person what we are thinking or feeling. Am I frustrated by being stuck on one lily pad when I desperately need to get to another, yet not telling her? Is she scared because although my prognosis is excellent, there is a tiny frightened voice in her head that doesn't want to lose the man she loves? Are we tired from work? Emotionally exhausted from telling people about my/our diagnosis? Fed up with dreaming of cancer?
Yes. Yes, we are experiencing all of those things. Because, well, we're human I guess.
Humans stumble. Sometimes they fall. We feel ourselves stumbling and our natural instinct is to reach out to one another, to hug each other close and say I love you.
We do that. We do that a LOT lately. And it feels good, each and every time.
So far we have only had one day where both of us were struggling. It almost seems like we take turns being up or down on any given day. If I am angry that I have to deal with a dozen different booking people to advocate for my own care, Donna is calm and loving and helps me remember that I am special to her. If she is scared, completely irrationally scared of what if scenarios (because once again, she's human), I hold her close and tell her that I love her right now, and that I will love her until my final breath.
We lean on each other. We learn to take our steps in synchrony, to work together to achieve our goal. We have a finish line, and we try to make sure that at least one of us always has their eyes on that particular prize. It's not a line of chalk in the grass or a ribbon tied between two trees or anything like that; our finish line is a year from now, when I can be considered cured and we can go on living a life without cancer.
Until that point we remain tied together by my diagnosis and treatment, leaning on each other for emotional support, communicating as much as we can about our fears and frustrations and love for each other, and focusing on the real goal we have in life.
To spend more time together.
This. This is why I say cancer could be worse. I could not have someone so amazing to help me and support me as I go through this. I could not be surrounded by real-life angels who walk and talk and curse and would do anything to save me. I could not have the excellent health that will allow me to overcome the scariest word that most people including myself can think of.
I'm glad I'm running a three-legged race. The alternative would be to have my feet tied together by my diagnosis and still try to run the race. If you feel like this is happening to you, if you feel like you are all alone as you face scary words like prognosis and radiotherapy, open your heart and look around.
I bet you'll find an army of angels, just waiting to run a three-legged race with you.
But you can't have my angel; we're already running our own race...
<3
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