Phantoms of Daily Life

I remember when I was first diagnosed with breast cancer: I remember falling to the floor and violently sobbing. After adjusting to the diagnosis, I had assumed that I would just have a double mastectomy and move on with my life. Maybe it was all the television and movies that had cancer as a storyline. Having cancer seemed to barely interrupt the lives of these characters.

My family relationships wouldn’t be impacted, because obviously cancer wasn’t traumatic and wouldn’t change every single part of me. Instead, I find myself walking on eggshells with things like pain that doesn’t go away—do I tell my husband and send him into a tailspin? Do I keep it to myself until I talk about it with my oncologist to save my husband’s mental health?

Likewise, do I play “happy normal person” around other family members? The hidden healing from everything I’ve been through. They expressed inability to handle actual thoughts and feelings about reoccurrence fears or healing from trauma, so do I stuff my healing in a box just so we can all get along? Pretend I was not completely changed by my experience? Two timelines play in my mind: how things are and how they could have been.

My heart aches for the friends I wish were still around. I wasn’t the happy warrior. I did not agree that God gave his toughest battles to his strongest warriors. I did not agree that everything happens for a reason. I said how much I hurt. I said how sad and lonely I was. People left who I assumed would support me and sit in the dark with me. I’m haunted by the memories we had. The phantoms of the memories I assumed we would have after cancer. That they would get to know my children. That there would be more long runs and deep conversations. I run by myself and have these conversations in my mind and they whisper like ghosts in the darkness.

I don’t know whether to be heartbroken or grateful that having cancer has made me appreciate being with my daughters more. There were so many times in their short life I questioned if I would have been around. One day, we were playing at the park, surrounded by hugs and laughter, and the gratitude reached such a high point, I had tears in my eyes for the complete normalcy of the moment; I knew my cancer patient self would have longed for this moment. I wanted to go back in time just to hug her and tell her she would see how beautiful her daughters would be. That they would hug her so tight and tell her they love her. That she would run again. She would laugh again. That, yes, there will be pain and fear but also so much laughter.

The thing about life is it’s not all happiness and it’s not all pain. Grief and joy can co-exist in the oddest of ways. I miss how we used to be, but we’re also stronger. I miss the friends I lost so much it hurts; I ache for the memories we’ll never have. But the friends who stayed hold incredible value and I appreciate them more than they will ever understand. I miss all the moments I could have had with my daughters. They were so little and we’ll never get that time back. But I don’t know if my love for being a mom would be what it is without questioning if I would get to see them grow.

These are the phantom thoughts that plague me throughout the day. Everyday moments, everyday contemplations. All I know is I’m so happy I’m still here.