The tingling, the tightness in my neck. Is it a sign of continued healing or of tissues beginning to clench in a death grip? No longer in the acute phase of recovery but not yet sure of my “new normal,” I live in the gap between confidence that all will be well and the uncertainty, the anxiety, that nothing will ever feel right again.
One year ago I underwent an exorcism of sorts, three discrete surgeries lasting eight hours. First, a robotic scalpel excised the tiny mushroom blooming out of the base of my tongue. Next, my surgeon sliced open both sides of my neck, performing a near decapitation to facilitate removal of forty-three potentially cancerous lymph nodes. Several hours later I was transported through a maze of hallways from the recovery bay to the med/surg floor, the clanking of the gurney wheels and the IV stanchion jostling me further toward consciousness. Raising my free arm to shield my eyes from the brilliance of the ceiling lights, lightly brushing my neck along the way, I was reassured to find my head still attached to my body. An odd concern, I know, but one excused by the lingering mind-altering presence of anesthesia and painkillers.
My room was dark and quiet, a welcome respite. Propped in bed at a forty-five-degree angle, I catalogued the tubes dangling from my body: an IV going into my left arm; drains exiting from my neck and chest; a nasogastric tube scratching my throat; the supply tube for the humidification mask descending from the back wall. Feeling an urge to urinate, I pressed the call button. The night nurse detached me from my tethers and gripped my arm to steady me as I waddled to the bathroom. Garish fluorescent rays ricocheted from the ceiling across the glossy beige walls to the mirror, the shiny porcelain sink and the toilet. The floor tiles began to swirl, the voices in the hallway echoed, my legs began to give way. Grabbing the sink edge, I retched out the oxycontin given to me just before transport into a basin held by the nurse.
“One more drug my body has no use for” I whispered, “Tylenol will have to do.”
Back in bed, grateful for the absence of light, for the hypnotic whoosh of the compression booties on my legs, for the pole holding the bags of life-sustaining fluids dripping into me, for the cool mist soothing my burning throat, I lay floating between sleep and wakefulness, feeling and numbness, hope and despair.
“There’s nothing there,” Dr C said triumphantly at my one-year surgiversary after palpating my neck, stroking my clavicles, running his fingers along my jawline. In the cancer universe, unlike in the real world, negativity is a positive. What he could not sense was what did remain: the residual numbness in my chest wall; the tightness along the barely perceptible scars on my neck; the tingling in my left ear and the congestion in my right one.
Grateful that I am still classified as “NED,” meaning that I have “no evidence of disease,” I am nonetheless in a constant internal dialog with the muscles, the nerves, the taste buds and the salivary glands affected first by surgery and then by radiotherapy. Each morning I greet them as if we have never met, never shared the same body before, because not only is this body not the same one that went under the knife and then endured 50 greys of radiation, it is not even the same one that existed yesterday.
Change is a constant in every body, every day, but most of the time we are completely oblivious to it. Ten months of occupational therapy and fifteen years of personal training have made me exquisitely aware of the nuances in my day-to-day ability to call upon the multitude of neurons and fibers that make performing even such as simple task as raising my arms above my head possible. I am not who I used to be a year ago as an athlete or as a person. Who am I now, and who am I becoming?
When will growth stop –of nerves, of muscle, of confidence — with decline rather than progress the new normal? The only answer I am sure of is, not today.
THE MEMOIR LIFE 
Well written- condensing life-altering physical interventions into short piece is a wonder. I identify. My husband had cancer of a very different kind and ultimately did not make it- and my two surgeries were due to stenosis and exacerbation of living with what is now primary progressive MS for over 55 years. Your writing resonates as both truthful and healing for yourself and others as you share the long road to acceptance and healing with hard work and a flexible attitude as your constant companions. Blessings on your journey
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Thank you for the kind words. My husband also did not survive — this exact type of cancer — which makes my recovery all the more layered. Each day one perseveres!
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You perfectly captured the hours and days following these exorcisms, and the tenuous “return” of your body and all that goes along with that. The early years are the worst. It gets better.
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Beautifully written. Hoping your sense of your body returns.
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Thank you, I’m working on it!
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Oh my goodness. Yes, perfectly captured, including, or especially, the emotional toll. My repeated thought through the reading was, “Was she alone? Please let someone have been there with her, bearing witness, standing by.”
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My NY daughter was stalwart through the period of diagnosis, surgery and recovery from surgery. Widowed by this same disease, I went through radiation and occupational therapy alone. I chose not to tell very many people what was going on, preferring as they say, to lick my wounds in private, with a few trusted neighbors/friends keeping tabs on me. I could only manage my own emotions, and not those of too many others, if that makes any sense? Remarkably, I never “looked like I had cancer,” so my privacy was protected. I am just now able to share more widely, able to fully grasp all that I have been through and survived, able to, I hope, have my words help others to appreciate the gift that is life.
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I completely understand. It would have to be someone who would just be a quiet presence for sure! I don’t think I know that person. Maybe my younger sister. I have long admired your writing, Trish. I feel sure your words will help others.
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WOW Trish- It takes a lot of courage to live! I’m proud of you. Thanks for sharing your experience- so well written, as always. Marilynn
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Thank you!
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Thank you for sharing your experience, Trish. You’ve describe each scene and its impact on you so well. Day after day after day, we all do what we must to survive and fell like ourselves, getting better. Hard to think about the inevitable decline, it is true. “Not today” is a good mantra. Namaste.
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Welcome back. What an ordeal. Glad things are successful (so far). Keep plugging away, keep blogging about it. I would love to read your thoughts as you learned of your diagnosis and treatment plan.
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Thank you! I actually hesitated to post this because isn’t everyone sick of cancer stories? So I am surprised that you wish to read more, but will try to oblige!
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For me, it comes down to what the writer can do with it. I think a strong writer (you) would do a good job showing the fear, frustration, resignation, etc of the situation. As I once obnoxiously told a writer battling an opioid addiction: “good material.”
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Well, you are correct that the prospect of a grizzly death does stir the emotions!I suppose the challenge of any essay is to make the reader think, to connect one’s tiny life to something more universal, and facing mortality and one’s own capabilities, frailties, contributions to society or lack thereof, unfinished business, etc. certainly fits the bill.
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I hope I wasn’t too flippant with my ‘good material’ bit. I was sort of poking fun at the person I used to be. Inside joke with myself.
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Nope. It made me chuckle.
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I’m so pleased you are on the road to recovery. Hope you continue to get better day by day, week by week.
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Thank you!
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Glad to see your name pop up in my feed. Thankful always for science and medicine and the smart, compassionate people who make all that magic happen. I’m often humbled by the stories that spring from illness. May your healing continue to be both swift and complete. Nice to have you back*
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Thank you so much. One of my greatest sorrows at the moment is the devastation going on at the NIH and in the scientific community in general. There are so many people whose lives will be upended by this. Such a tragedy, and so unnecessary.
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