Done

The road to recovery is a game of leapfrog between reaching milestones and reaching the end of yourself. You can easily get lost between these two stages.

Reflecting on my days in hospital, the milestones felt like the easy part. It can be measured out. There are specific goals that need to be reached. I needed to sit up for the first time without the physiotherapist’s help so that I could get back to normal. I needed to walk up and down the entire passage so that I could get stronger each time. I needed to drink a whole jug of water to make sure that my kidneys aren’t destroyed in the pain-managing process. I needed to eat a little bit more each meal so that my body has enough nutrients to fund the healing.

The harder part for me was crossing the threshold of resilience when it felt like I was “done”. The mind and heart are the most powerful parts of us. These two parts, together, set the tone for the game of leapfrog. The body cannot heal when the mind is broken or the heart is lost.

During the first week in hospital, I was fighting a losing battle – not against my body, but against myself. The pain was overwhelming. The isolation and unfamiliarity of a hospital room was heartbreaking. I could barely do anything for myself. I felt like I was fading away, and I couldn’t see myself coming back. I wanted to die and I thought I was going to…

But the thing is, for me anyway, when I reached the end of myself I couldn’t give up. I couldn’t just die. Not with a loving family waiting for me. Not with many dreams left untouched and goals left unaccomplished. Not after being reminded of a King that I know has so much in store for me.

The beauty of reaching the end of yourself is that it leaves ample space for Jesus to take His rightful place. Taking the first step over the threshold was difficult – it wasn’t heavy or complicated. It was just strange. It took effort and determination to keep my mind focused on the Right things and my heart close to the Truth.  The effort and determination felt lighter than when I tried to drive it myself.

And just like with my physical recovery, each step became easier to bear. Looking back, I know the only reason I survived that particular game of leapfrog was that my Partner was so much stronger than me. It wasn’t without difficulty, but it set a precedent for all future battles. No matter what is to come I know my Partner will carry me through.

Cancer

Some things in you change when you find out that you have cancer.  These changes can happen all at once or gradually over the treatment time that follows.

The first change is an element of shock that floods your system.  It chills and paralyses you, while all the possibilities of what the rest of your life might look like, good and bad, run through your mind.

In my case, the shock was still wearing off when I went through major surgeries, an unexpected extended hospital stay, and six weeks of radiation.

The shock factor came in waves, but not because of the cancer itself.  The waves were caused by the realisation of what would be lost as a result of it.  On the day of receiving the news of my vaginal cancer, we knew that a hysterectomy at the age of 29 (before having any children) was a possibility.  But the shock of the consequences of this only really set in 20 days later when I went under the knife to have my uterus removed and a couple of days later again for an emergency ileostomy.  After only 20 days of knowing I have cancer, I lost the ability to bear my own children, as well as one of the most rudimentary functions of my body – the shock was real and overwhelming.

The second change that occurred was more gradual, but just as intense.  The cold shock was replaced by the bitter sense of loss.  It is the kind of loss that keeps you awake, despite being pumped full of sedatives and painkillers.

In the same manner that you would expect cancer to consume one’s thoughts and immediate future, the sense of loss consumed mine..  Suddenly, you have to let go of hopes you have been carrying in your heart for years, and lay to rest dreams you weren’t even aware that you had.

During the 40-day hospital stay and weeks at home on bed rest, the losses came to visit often and without invitation.  I’ve had to let go of carrying children, planning surprise pregnancy reveals, anticipating giving birth and worrying about what the babies will be called or even where they will go to school.  I never realised how many hidden dreams were all locked up in that small organ I had.

Six months after receiving the news, the shock has worn off, or at least I have adjusted to it, but the grief is still ever-present.  It is ready to sneak in and overwhelm me whenever I feel weak or tired, which is more often than you would think.

Another change that I became aware of, that occurred silently, was the growth of resilience.

When you’re down, tired, and feel like you have nothing left, you have to carry on.  When the pain is overwhelming and discomfort rules the day, there is no choice but to bear it.

For persons who don’t have cancer or might be fortunate enough to never have suffered a trauma, the inner strength might look easy.  But the growth to unearth and refine it is hard.  In fact, it is much harder than it appears on selfies, social media posts, and in information pamphlets.

After you watch a close family member or friend gracefully bear, and even perhaps lose their battle, you hope to be just as inspiring.  But only when your number is called by this ugly monster do you understand what you saw may not have been the full picture.  Only when I started the journey myself did I begin to realise what an inspiration the person on the other side of the lens truly is for taking a fierce beating and still maintaining a loving nature and a kind heart.

I hope to honour those who walked before me, not just by trying to keep it together all the time, but getting up from the floor no matter how tired or bruised I feel.  I hope to inspire those that follow, not by just presenting a beautiful picture of the destination, but by being transparent about the brutality of the journey.

Life isn’t always pretty and it doesn’t need to be.  What matters is the determination to wipe the tears and push through until you reach the hilltop.  And then when you get there remember to take a breath, and rest.  Allow yourself to process the shock, grieve the losses and rest after the fatigue, so that when you get up you are ready to face the next leg of the journey.