Surgery and Scars

So last week I had my port taken out of my body. It was in my right chest, for those of you who are wondering. I was so excited to get it taken out, I was sobbing as I walked into surgery. I think I made all my nurses cry too.

I woke up faster than expected and we were home before dark, a big one when it comes to driving +3 to the hospital.

But it is afterward I wish to talk about. For I always felt like my port was somehow an invisible ball and chain keeping me connected to my chemo. I guess I never really noticed just how much I physically felt the dumb thing either.

Like, after the wound healed (well over a year ago) I still couldn't sleep on my stomach. It never hurt, it just felt like someone was pressing on the mussels in my chest and I could never sleep that way. So I gave up even laying on my stomach. Now I am tentatively  experimenting with it again. My body finds it odd after over two years of no stomach sleep, but I suppose I will get used to that as well.

When I had my port placed, they put a huge bandage over the site and it took a few weeks before they just pulled it off. Now they have gone back through the same scar and have only little piece of something and the rest was all skin glue.

So my new normal today includes finding some glue on my side from the heart monitor (which I somehow missed for two days on my body after I changed twice!) and scrubbing it off with viciousness the task did not require.

My new normal also includes being gentle with the site as a yellow skin has formed around it and is sensitive.

On a side note, I hope I am allowed to swim next week.

-Rachael

Welcome to the New Normal

To borrow a line from a book I like, I am both happy and sad and I am still trying to figure out how that can be. I was diagnosed with Leukemia in January of 2013. Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia to be precise. I was 18. I was scared. To death.

And then somehow, I do not know just how so do not ask, I made it. On May 27th 2015 they gave me my last round of toxic chemo, took out the port in my chest, and sent me on my way. I was cured. I was done. I felt like I was being shoved out into the world and told, "Go forth and be normal!"

But how can "normal" be when I don't even know what normal is anymore? Is it normal for a 21 year old to wake up in the morning and gasp at the wonder of a new day? To stop in the middle of a task at work and just try to take in air as I take in the idea that it is over somehow? Is it normal for a 21 year old to feel deeply indebted to God for every heartbeat and question if I am using each moment to the fullest?

I guess looking at that list, the new normal isn't so bad. It is just a lot of pressure. Like, who else do I know that got a second chance on life while they were still young? I am a living, breathing miracle, and I am still trying to learn just what that means. Nobody looks at me the same. Again, not always a bad thing, but still, the difference is sometimes unsettling. Like, all I did was survive people. I am no saint, no angle, and I do not have superpowers (as cool as that would admittedly be).

I lived. And I guess there is something special about living when everybody knew you could die. I wish to explain what it means to live on the other side of cancer, so that is why I have this blog. Maybe my thoughts could help someone else. Or maybe they will just help me. I hope they help both of us.

-Rachael