An Imperfect Metaphor

This piece was originally written for the podcast It’s Going to be Okay and was adjusted by the author for print. Click here to check out the podcast episode.

I recently got unexpected good news within a still terrible situation. I’m 31 years old with metastatic breast cancer. That means it will kill me (as long as something else doesn’t come out of left field to take me first). I’m simply hoping for as much time with as much quality of life as possible. For a while, the metastases in my liver were growing, then they were shrinking, and now I’m considered “NED”, or no evidence of disease.

Don’t be fooled though, I still have stage 4 cancer. If I stop going to infusions every three weeks, it will start growing again. Eventually it will still come back.

All of this is so confusing, and some people may think that this means I’m cured. I’m not. Therefore, it’s difficult to know how much to share and with whom. When talking about this with a close friend, she said, “I know it’s so easy, when faced with something unbearably hard, to pretend it’s not happening or conjure some version that breaks your heart a little less.” I know that’s what these well-intentioned people are doing, but it can feel invalidating when they express this kind of unrealistic thinking. I’ve tried to come up with some way to explain and frame it for others to understand, and I think I may have found that in my garden.

After my infusion today, I had the motivation and energy to deadhead our beautiful lilac shrub. Doing so now, when the blooms recently became brown and crispy, will ensure we’ll get just as many, if not more, blooms next spring.

I’m not good at metaphors, but looking at our lilac made me think of my body and the cancer in it. The spent blooms are like the cancer, which started in my breast, then spread to my sternum, and then to my liver. The cancer has been removed, radiated, and treated with various chemo drugs. Our lilac stands tall with healthy and lush green leaves. I appear healthy to people who don’t know the truth. I’m like the lilac, except while I can rid it of all the old flowers, we can’t rid my body of all the cancer cells.

It’s an imperfect metaphor. Lilac blooms have beautiful details and they are decadently fragrant. They are enjoyed by bees, hummingbirds, and humans. Cancer is none of those things. Still, I stood there imagining the cancer cells being as dried up and fragile as a spent lilac bloom. Every spring, I celebrate when I see the lilac’s blooms begin to appear. I will be devastated all over again when active cancer returns to my body.

Last fall, when I was diagnosed as being Stage 4, I grieved while deadheading and pruning our hydrangeas. I wondered how many more times I’d see them bloom and have the chance to cut them back to enjoy again the following summer.

Today, while caring for our lilac, I felt something I haven’t felt in a while: hope. Reaching this “NED” milestone means I should have more time than my doctor and I previously thought with the people I love the most.

Cancer is still terrible and heartbreaking and a thief of futures and possibilities.

But, today, thanks to an effective treatment plan, a dedicated medical care team, the love of my husband, family, and friends, and because of a lilac plant, I’m taking a deep breath and feeling grateful.