Cry Me a Rivulet

One of the most amazing things about Kauai was the way that new waterfalls would magically appear some mornings.  Birthed by overnight rains, they'd show up as thin, long fingers running between the ancient ridges of the mountains that abutted Hanalei Bay.  One morning, I counted eight of them, where there'd been just three the day before.  It was quite a way to start the day.

This morning, 3,834 miles from Hanalei Bay, I'm thinking about those new-born waterfalls and how they relate to me.  Although maybe an arroyo would be a better image for what's on my mind.

I've got a 10 a.m. mammogram this morning, which probably explains my off mood, as well as the feeling that there is a little river running through my brain that wasn't there the other day.

I forget, sometimes, that this whole cancer journey really is a journey and that I'm still on its road. It's tempting to think of it only in the past tense.  Surgery?  Check.  Radiation?  Check.  Pills?  Check.

After my Sept. 9 surgery, my daughter Allison asked if I no longer had cancer.  It was an excellent, strange question, one that I posed to three people.  My surgeon's nurse practitioner said a surgeon would say, post surgery, that I no longer had cancer.  My radiologist said he'd wait until after a month of treatments to consider making such a claim.  My oncologist said he'd like five years to pass until making such a claim.

All those experts, kind of disagreeing with each other.  It's no wonder that, on occasion, I'm aware of a rivulet of concern that runs through me.  Most days, I don't notice it.  But there are times when I realize that my brain, as well as my breast, has been changed by the news that came to me last August.   In those moments, that rivulet becomes something a little larger, a little harder to ignore.

One morning this spring, I realized I'd forgotten to take my Letrozole, the pill that keeps the estrogen-hungry cancer at bay.  Poof!  Rivulet becomes river!

Two nights ago, I could barely move, my joints aflame--a side effect of the Letrozole, which strips the body not only of estrogen but also of calcium and Vitamin D.  And there it was again, that occasional river, reminding me that I'm still on the journey.

And this morning's appointment?  It, too, has spawned the rebirth of that river, not in the form of tears, but in the form of a subtle reminder of the power of the "C" word.

Last week, my physical therapist (another expert, another reminder of the journey) said that radiation changes things at a molecular level.  She said that the tissue itself has been transformed by light.   Just like the rest of me, transformed by this weird combination of light and darkness, joy and journey.

And so, I try to make peace with this river, sitting on its banks and watching its many iterations, a new element in my landscape.