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Swept Away: Healing Lost Trust

by Jennifer MolidorPatient and Survivor, Colorectal CancerJuly 31, 2024View more posts from Jennifer Molidor

I am the parent of a kindergartener. For colorectal cancer, I am early onset. Most people at my facility are elderly. How can they relate to cancer at my age, as a mom of a young boy?

In a watercolor painting, there is a lush island coastline. People stand on the shore waving to an approaching woman in a small rowboat. They will welcome the woman with open arms for she is a familiar visitor. She watches friends wave to her from the island as she floats along. After visiting, she will return to the water and face what storms may come, alone. When I painted this scene, I was trying to find the words to express that cancer happens to you and your body and your life, in a way that isn’t true for our loved ones. We are swept out to sea.

Six years ago, I birthed a baby. My breasts made milk. My body knew what to do. Yet the first time I took chemotherapy pills I couldn’t even bring myself to open to the bottle.

Friends texted, “Just do it!” I unscrewed the lid and dumped out those giant horse pills. As I did my 25 daily radiation sessions and took the chemo pills morning and night for six weeks, I got intimately familiar with creams for hand-and-foot syndrome and neuropathy, as well as ointments for places I couldn’t see without contorting my body into a pretzel.

Radiation was one of the most painful experiences in my life. Gone were my beloved afternoon walks. I was lucky to walk to the bathroom. I lost weight from nausea (later learning I’m allergic to the anti-nausea pills). I couldn’t touch hot water but also couldn’t touch cold water. I burned in places that shouldn’t burn. When I used the bathroom, I had to bite a towel and scream.

After finishing radiation, I began IV chemotherapy. Five-to-eight-hour infusions every other week along with a 48-hour take-home continuous chemo pump, for four months. To say I was terrified would be to put it lightly, even though I had taken pills for weeks already.

Cancer treatment means trusting your body with those treating you. Trust in the strangers prodding and reshaping your naked body. Trust that the chemo has been studied and understood and has a chance of working. Trust that the pain is temporary.

I had lost faith in doctors who dismissed my concerns. I also lost trust in my body for not being able to quash cancer and getting what is supposed to be an older person’s disease.

But I remembered I had spent years as a working, single parent, the only one tending to my child’s every need. His diaper rash, sore feet, fear of shots, aches, bathtime and nightmares.

So, I focused on tenderness to my body: cancer-patient-designed massages, sitz baths, soft blankets, and warm socks for my raw feet. I had to wear gloves even when I slept, or my hands would cramp up into lobster claws. I wept with relief on the days they removed the chemo pump. Feeling the water wash over my body after days of not being able to shower. Turning in bed without the fear of yanking a cord out of my chest.

Where the radiation burned me, it demolished the tumor too. A port-a-catheter is still implanted in my chest. My arms and hands are rife with scar tissue from being poked with needles. It hurts so much to be sedated; I choose other pain over sedation. Scar tissue has altered my internal organs. I’m on strict maintenance and do frequent scopes, scans, and bloodwork. I know it isn’t over. I’m a different person now, whatever happens. But the afternoon walks are back.

Trusting your body requires a new way of loving and connecting to your body. Sometimes it means believing you can heal, while sometimes it is in letting go and accepting you can’t. I’ve grown more compassionate with myself and developed a love of my body I’d never felt before. After years spent criticizing my looks, there is a new and urgent feeling of tenderness.

People on the shore will not understand what it’s like to be swept away at sea. Even the most loving caregivers don’t have to face things in the same way. Every little twitch makes me wonder, is it back? I’m trying to trust with my little rowboat I could find my way again. I must.

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