Damn That Damocles

There's a phenomenon known as the Sword of Damocles. It's the Greek equivalent of waiting for the other shoe to drop. It's something cancer survivors live with forever. Nearly 24 years after completing my treatment for Hodgkin's Disease, the fear still lives within. It was waning somewhat, as I would go perhaps days without thinking or fearing of cancer's return. Of course now it's back, probably for good. In some ways I welcome the return of the fear. It will help me to focus on the present, and live each day with awareness and attention to the important things in life. A dose of perspective is always a good thing.

In my case I think I always knew, deep down, that it was not a matter of if I got cancer again, but rather when. I've said to many that if what I'm going through now is the price for the last 24 years, including my three beautiful daughters, it's a very small price to pay and I would do it again in a heartbeat. My upper body received a lot of radiation ... more back then than they would prescribe today. They blocked out my lungs and my heart with lead, but because my breast tissue was developing at the time (I was 17), it was extra sensitive to the radiation exposure, hence my increased risk. The chemotherapy I had after I relapsed did a number on my heart ... serious enough that my oncologist changed my regimen after two cycles. The radiation has also caused a number of skin cancers ... basal cell carcinomas. I've had three removed so far, some from places where the sun doesn't shine so we know it was the radiation at work.

Fortunately for me and my new tatas the radiation didn't do too much skin damage. It can potentially damage skin to the point where the tissue expanders won't work because it's too leathery. In my case the doctor's confident that I'll stretch just fine. Woo hoo.

So the sword of Damocles once again hangs everpresent over my head. There's something oddly empowering about being in the throes of medical science. I know when I'm through this ordeal I will have been fully inspected from head to toe. That will provide peace of mind, as will the ongoing follow-up that, according to my oncologist, will happen consistently for the rest of my life.

Tommorrow is the day before my surgery. I'm anxious, I'm scared, and I can't wait to get on with it. My parents arrived today. It's wonderful to have them here, though bittersweet given my mom's situation. I'm so thankful that the universe made it possible for them to be here with me. I know it's important to both of us.

Tomorrow I'll spend the day organizing ... getting everything in place so that life in the Donovan household can go on as usual while I'm out of commission. I have an amazing network of friends who have arranged for around-the-clock care for me for the next week. I hope to get back into routine within the next couple of weeks. As a wise woman and friend said to me recently, I'm going to take it one day, one hour, one moment at a time.