I have a doctor’s appointment on Tuesday. Today is Friday. I’m dreading it like it’s tomorrow. I always dread checkups. Because there are reasons I must be checked on by physicians. Some of them are the same as the reasons you have to go to the doctor, but this one is because I survived a cancer scare two and a half years ago.
I lost major body parts in that scare, as well as an entire factory of hormone producing organs. I miss them. I wage a daily battle as a result of that change in my anatomy.
On the up side, I’ve learned wonderful new words like adaptogens, probiotics and breathing . . . deeply. I only thought I was introspective before my surgery. Now I gauge my emotional well-being the way meteorologists check for cold fronts. It’s a tough balance sometimes between being proactive and counterproductive when it comes to heading off another meltdown.
I passed the two year mark last May.
“Two years is a big deal when you’ve had cancer,” my surgeon told me. “After that, you only need to come in twice a year for checkups instead of four times.”
It was really good news. And it feels like good news right up until four days before I have to see her again and walk into a cancer hospital and let her look under my hood and inspect my chassis. I hate it. And it makes me feel sorry for myself sometimes. Until I remember some very important facts:
- · I didn’t have to go through chemo.
- · I don’t have to get blood tests and check for cancer markers.
- · I didn’t lose my hair. Or my breakfast, lunch or dinner. Every single day. The way many women do after a cancer diagnosis.
- · It wasn’t a death sentence.
So let the tears fall. Let the fears fly. That doctor saved my life. And the same God who fought for me two and a half years ago still fights for me today. Even when appointments like the one on Tuesday remind me that once upon a time I had cancer.
They’re a blessing in disguise—they also remind me that I don’t have it anymore.