But you left me far behind...

By now, you’ve probably figured out that I like to tell stories that relate to significant events in my life. And Lord knows, there have been plenty of them. I’m a veritable storyteller, without a doubt. A spinner of (sometimes too many) words to share what’s on my heart, and today, my heart is fixed on my radiation journey. Today marks two years since I received my last brachytherapy radiation treatment on my left hand and left forearm in what became my most aggressive treatment to date. And two years removed from it, I can still say that it was life-changing. I was suffering something fierce with open plaques and sores from a flare-up of my skin lymphoma that just wouldn’t quit. I was battling staph infections at a frequency that was too close for comfort and I couldn’t even hold my children's hands without wincing in pain if they grabbed my left hand ‘just so’. That’s significant. And not to mention the embarrassment when I caught someone staring… So, in March of 2018 we tried something new. I consented to my first round of radiation and I was fitted for a brachytherapy applicator and mold. This would allow just the right amount of radiation to touch only the parts of my skin that were affected by the flare-up, in essence minimizing my exposure to this scary-yet-necessary treatment. I worked closely with a whole team of specialists, including a radiation oncologist, a physicist, a radiation therapist and a whole fleet of nurses. We spent hours in a lab together, measuring and fine-tuning and adjusting this mold that would become the applicator for my treatments. And I was equal parts fascinated and terrified by the entire process. You see, when you receive radiation you have to have some really tough talks. You have to hear about unpleasant things, like the risk of burns, the possibility that it may not work (or worse, could make your cancer progress), and the signing away of your potential fertility. Long before my treatments, Handsome Pants and I had decided that we were not going to have any more children, but there was something so final about signing my name on the dotted line of that form. Saying goodbye to your fertility on your own terms is one thing. But because you have cancer and need radiation? A whole new level of mourning, for sure. But what’s a girl to do? Cancer couldn’t continue to run wild and control my life for even a moment longer. Something had to give, and in the end, my fertility drew the short straw. Such is life, I suppose. A noteworthy part of this story and the journey that it symbolizes was my mindset during this period two years ago. By my own admission, I was a bit off the rails. Not only was I afraid of what was to come, but I was mourning what ‘was’ in a sense that had nothing to do with my cancer and fertility. I was grieving a lost friendship. I was mired in a lot of anger and sadness over the breakdown of a close friendship that had left me hurt and confused. This male friend had become someone very close to my heart over the past four years and he left my life abruptly and without any real closure. I’ve always been one to have close guy friends, so this wasn’t much different, but there are a lot of complicating factors when a man and a woman are close friends and it turned out that our friendship just couldn’t take those things, platonic as it was. Even still, my heart just couldn’t make sense of how I should process it, even if my brain told me that it was for the best. I had spent the better part of four years supporting this friend through all the ups and downs of his own life. The late night texts and phone calls that came were always answered with my unwavering friendship. No matter the topic or plight, big or small, I’d like to think he knew I was there for him. That’s what friends do, right? But then I found myself without him when I felt it was finally MY time to need HIM. My husband is wonderful, and so are my family and closest girlfriends, but I felt a void with this particular person out of my life. And in all honestly, it kicked up some genuine unrest. I’m not an angry person, but something was striking me deep down and I just couldn’t shake how unfair it all felt. I took to listening to certain songs, on loop, to channel some of my feelings. And one of them was Candlebox’s ‘Far Behind’. A mainstay in my repertoire since my high school days, but suddenly, it took on some new meaning. And that, my friends, is just the backstory you’ll need as I continue on. So back to the lab and the physicist and the umpteen doctors and nurses. After hours of fiddling, it was time for them to do a CT scan. This would verify that the mold was just right and they could do adjustments as needed, if needed. So, everyone ushered out of the lab and left me alone with one nurse, Marianne. She prepped me for the scan, and just before she left the room, she said, ‘We normally play music during these things. You know, to take your mind off the banging and the beeps. What do you want to hear?’ I replied, ‘I don’t care. Anything is fine,’ to which she said, ‘Usually we play Michael Buble. Does that work?” If you know anything about my taste in music you understand the inner struggle that ensued, but ever the people pleaser, I said, ‘Sure, that’s fine.’ But have I mentioned that I’m a terrible liar?’ My face told her the truth even if my words attempted to deceive. So, I blurted out, ‘On second thought, this situation calls for some Candlebox. Can you queue up some “Far Behind”?’ And she just smiled knowingly and left the room. If you know the song, you know the distinct way in which it begins, and so, you also know the sense of relief I felt at those opening strains. I laid as still as possible in that narrow tube, but it took everything in me not to sing along. Mostly, I was just happy to not hear any Michael Buble, too. I thanked Marianne doubly for that little gift. The following week, I reported for radiation. If you’ve had to have it, I don’t have to tell you how isolating it is. But if you haven’t experienced it, I’ll give you a brief synopsis of what goes down: Much like the week before, my whole ‘Team’ descended upon the radiation bay. Everyone has a job and they get you all hooked up to your mold and some monitors and get you as comfortable as possible on a cold and narrow table. Next, they tell you not to move and begin a count down from 10. In that time, everyone moves to the door, files out and they lock you in this room, with red lights flashing overhead, to receive this powerful (yet still super scary) treatment. And the red lights certainly confirm just how volatile radiation can be. Being alone in that room felt overwhelming at first. Like I was a pariah in the worst possible way. And as I listened to the clicks of the radiation machine, as it slowly moved a capsule of radiation up and down all the affected areas of my skin, I gritted my teeth and felt tears burn in my eyes. I thought of my family, who had just driven through a massive snow storm to get me to this appointment and now waited in the waiting room for me. I thought of my hopes that were tied to this treatment and my prayers that it helped me. I thought of that lost friend, and how no matter what had happened between us, I couldn’t be angry any longer. He might have left me ‘far behind’, but without him, I was leaving my cancer as far behind as possible. I didn’t need him like I thought I did. There was so much freedom in owning that. And then as if orchestrated by the mightiest of powers, I heard the beginning strains of my song. My dear nurse, Marianne, had remembered my request and she sent it at just the right moment. There was no stopping the tears that broke free from my eyes at the realization that there will always be people who care, even if they’re not the ones who you thought would be there in the end. Life will always have sliding doors. People will come and people will go, and most times, there isn’t anything you can do about it. Once you settle into that idea, you’ll have an easier time leaving things ‘Far Behind’, too. Now, please go listen to my song with a whole new perspective. Light and love. Today and always. 💚