Loss of Power

Today I am struggling. I have for some time now been trying to navigate life after active treatment of my cancer. I know that this is normal, but it is not talked about enough. It is such a complex issue for me that I don’t even have the tools to articulate all of it yet. I just wanted to put that down before saying that today added to my struggle. In August of 2024 I went to see a rheumatologist after receiving some bloodwork and complaining of pain in my ankles and elsewhere in my body. The plan was to rule out any inflammatory concerns or auto-immune disease. An x-ray of my ankles revealed bone spurs in both heels and a possible rupture in my left achilles tendon. The plan was to complete bloodwork and start PT to address the heel pain. I was feeling confident and especially efficient that I had a plan and that I had also booked a mammogram for the next hour because the office was in the same medical complex. I left that office and walked across the street to get a mammogram. This mammogram was scheduled by my doctor after I’d found a lump in my left breast. Maybe you know where this is headed. After that day any plans related to my rheumatologist visit were forgotten and instead replaced immediately by my cancer journey. God, I hate that word. Journey.

Fast forward to Fall of 2025 and I have completed my treatment for cancer but still experience so much pain in my ankles. I have now delayed treatment for this issue for more than a year. I see an orthopedist who fits me with night splints, suggests that I buy several pairs of pillowy and expensive shoes, and sends me to physical therapy. I complete five months of PT and find zero pain relief or improvement. In fact, the pain seems to be getting worse. And now we arrive at today, when I am going back to my orthopedist to ask what else I can do “because,“ I say, “I think the pain is affecting my mental health.” 

What followed was, dare I say, a scripted plan of my options going forward. The two options included two different surgeries. Each surgery was different in its approach and documented effectiveness but both would require a full year to complete recovery. For each ankle. In the midst of the speech there was even a paper whipped out from who knows where that even had a full recovery schedule outlined. The doctor even said that the “knee scooter” would be best for getting around during recovery while I was teaching. While he mapped out the recovery from cast to boot to brace and (more) physical therapy I just cried.

Maybe he doesn’t know what it’s like for someone who has just been through a year of cancer treatment to be told that they are looking at two more years of another type of treatment. And so many things are running through my head. First of all, I don’t live in terms of years right now. I am keenly aware that my cancer will likely return, and quickly. Am I to spend that time seeking pain relief only to have my cancer return in the meantime and have wasted the time in a fucking cast and boot and doing PT twice a week for two years? “I think at this point,” the doctor says, “it’s a quality of life decision.” I reach for more tissues as I make note of the doctor’s assistant, Caleb, who has been in the room the whole time, typing all the details of my visit into a laptop on a standing desk. Both Caleb and my doctor avoid looking at me. “Quality of life” feels like a term reserved for people living on borrowed time. [It’s ok if that idea lives secretly in my head but it is NOT ok for you to say that out loud.] “My surgical assistant will be in touch with you about a date for surgery.” He and Caleb exit. I check out at the counter, fold the paper I was given into messy fourths, shove it into my bag, and head down to the lobby to call an Uber (busy family with teens=car shortage.) I swear to you that as I am standing in the lobby waiting for my Uber, Caleb, apparently just freshly off of work, walks past me and stops to use the restroom. After he exits (and I’m still crying) he stops, turns to me, and says, “Take care.” Dammit, Caleb. 

What happened next was the worst Uber ride I have ever experienced, but I’m so exhausted I can’t even get that part out. I’ll get to that later. So, more to come.

 It’s clear to me that of all therapies I have sought out, writing is the most effective. It is the work that I need.  If you see me, hold me accountable. Instead of worrying about me, tell me to write more. Because it is saving me.