Today is supposed to be the day. It’s been circled on my calendar for months, in RED. That means it’s important, right?
Today, July 5, 2023, is supposed to be the day when everything is “back to normal”.
I circled this date on my calendar on March 28, 2023, the day before my breast cancer surgery. I remember walking down here into my cubby hole of a workspace and making that declaration to myself. I didn’t know back then what the exact path of my treatment and recovery was going to look like. But given what the doctors had told me about the most likely scenario, I was ready then to declare that today would be the day I would be “back to work”.
I prepared myself last night, logging into my email, checking my calendar, and confirming an important meeting.
What I didn’t do was walk into this office where I now sit having a bit of an anxiety attack. I didn’t look around at the piles of stuff I’d been dumping down here for three months, taking an “I’ll deal with this in July” attitude. I didn’t let myself mentally think about how I might suddenly make the warp-speed jump from the security of the recliner I’ve been rocking for the past few months to the reality of what “back to work” really means.
“Back” implies going backward, to something that feels familiar.
It’s hard to describe exactly what I’m feeling these days. This, how I feel today, feels entirely not like going backward. It feels more like diving into the deep end of a very dark body of water without any sense of what lies beneath it. It’s partially enticing, partially terrifying.
Physically, I am in a pretty good place. I’m largely recovered from the ten-hour surgery I had three months ago. My radiation-burned skin is no longer peeling. My scars, which in my mind rival Frankenstein’s, are normalizing into what they will likely be for the rest of my life. I battle fatigue but have allowed myself to say “no” when I need to. I haven’t yet started the dual pill medication that will be my ongoing treatment for the next five years. I have been doing physical therapy and walking regularly. I even managed to get on my bike this weekend.
Emotionally, I will admit to being a bit of a wreck. I have a weird brain fog going on that keeps me from being able to remember more than one thing at a time. The few attempts that I’ve made to write anything in the past few months made me very grateful for my excellent editors. Persistently, I am fighting a battle with anxiety that is unlike anything I’ve faced in the past. It’s hard to describe, but it eats at me almost constantly, gnawing away at the parts of me that felt like certainties for so many years. I have a good counselor, but there is ongoing work that I will need to do, and it’s not easy work.
Part of the way I feel may have to do with the fact that in the midst of my finishing radiation treatments, I also turned sixty. Even had I not been fighting Stage 3 cancer, that little personal age milestone probably would have led me to some time of mental processing about what I will do with this next chapter of my life.
This morning, I came down into my workplace, let myself have a good freakout, and tried to go about my business. I told myself that if the only things I accomplished today were to log onto that meeting and to clean out one of my piles, I would count today as a victory. I managed to do both!
After the meeting, while journaling, I pulled out a slip of paper from a pot that is a new fixture on my desk. Kit, a good friend of mine from church, gave me this pot shortly after my surgery. It was filled with small slips of paper, uplifting cards, and other little trinkets of love. Kit is the most thoughtful person. Whenever I see her, she typically hands me a little something. Those gifts usually make their way into this pot, waiting for a moment when I need a “pick me up”. About a month ago, I moved Kit’s pot onto my desk, as if I knew that I might need some motivation when I went “back to work”.
After this morning’s meeting, I sat to do my daily journaling. Somewhat at a loss for words (not a normal problem for me!), I was drawn to pull something out of Kit’s pot. Out came a small blue slip of paper with the exact words I needed to read today:
Transformation: Change happens when you take responsibility for your awareness and apply it to your everyday life, small moment by small moment.
Wisdom from Kit’s Pot
I am being transformed, one small moment by the next. On this day, I am not going “back” to anything. I am diving headlong into what lies ahead, whatever that may be. I am fundamentally a different person, not simply because I am a year older or a diagnosis different.
The anxiety I feel these days relates not only to what is happening with me medically. Change of any kind brings trepidation. I need to reconnect with the part of myself that loves the unknown. It’s time to give the recliner a break and head back into whatever this journey of mine brings next.
I have told myself repeatedly since my diagnosis that now is not the time for any big decisions in my life. I’m not in my right mind. But I’m also not allowing myself to simply sit in the unknown, stymied by all of the “what if” emotions I feel these days.
I’m being transformed–emotionally, intellectually, physically, and spiritually. If you are too, feel free to come along for this ride. I think it will be interesting.
A question for you: What type of transformation are you facing in your life? What type of transformation do you desire?
I have been going through a very deep internal transformation on so many different levels. I want to feel like I recognize the person on the other side of the mirror and not keep looking back at pictures of who I used to be. I want to embrace the transformation instead of fearing it.
Thank you for sharing your journey with us.
I have been and will continue to pray for you. Lisa. This piece is honest abd I love that.
My husband has cancer and we have been locked down for 3 years. We miss our children and grandchildren.
I have been diagnosed with myositis and, after being a runner for 25 years, daily Mass abd Adoration, I can only walk with a walker and am in constant pain.
So I know what it is like to have your life turned upside down. I have the most profound love for Holy Mass and Eucharist and now I am blessed if I can get there on Sunday.
This is a very lonely and scary place.
You have come a long way in 3 months and making good progress. I am also working on being aware of each moment and paying more attention to what is going on in my mind. It is a difficult and sometimes painful process to see what for so long I have been able to avoid. Transformation is hard!
I’ll continue to pray for your complete healing. The transformation I’m facing is trying to get back into the work force after battling breast cancer.
I totally relate to so much of what you said. With so many changes it’s hard to see where God is leading us. Going forward. Beginning again. Transformation. Yes.
Thank you for sharing this beautiful and honest reflection. I love what you said about not going back, but going forward. This is where we support each other, and you remain in my prayers!
The journey of life transforms us into the likeness of Christ. We, like the Velveteen Rabit become more real each day. In the midst of that transformation, we may not look the same, or act the same, we are not the same. We are not the same, we are God’s handy work, the lump of clay on the potter’s wheel, resting in His hands, as He creates a masterpiece. He is not finished yet. Patience calls us gently to wait on the Him.
After seven car accidents in one year and a half, I live my life in a tremendous amount of pain. Just to preface, none of the accidents were my fault and all were crashes. I prayed with each person before the police arrived. I do not believe in pain medicine. In the last fifteen years, I have had no choice but to transform my life with the help of Christ. I, who once a ballet teacher and exercise addict have had to learn to find other activities which I am able to do. Many do not understand the pain I suffer, especially my seven adult children. I was once mommy on the spot cannot help them nor even lift the grandchildren. Many friends give tons of free advice. I tried them all to no avail. These are sufferings that only God understands. I wait on Him.
What have I learned? I have learned great suffer gives great graces. I have learned the blessing of offering it up for those suffering worse than I do. I have learned to say no, sometimes with tears in my eyes. Lastly, I have learned to lean on Jesus my Savior, and to lean on my husband, my protector. I wait for my miracle to unfold knowing that the greatest miracles happen on the inside. God alone is the miracle worker.
Lisa, we are thrilled to have you in a place where you can share so intimately with us! I look forward to receiving your emails again.
Transformation! Wow! I like that better than “change'” After 24 years of homeschooling, my youngest child is heading off to high school this year. There are a few new options open to me. I am not sure, yet, where God is calling me, perhaps He wants me where I am (I am youth minister at my church) and just to invest more. But other opportunities are available to me, also. So, I pray, “Lord, how do you want to transform me?”
Thanks, Lisa, for sharing! Continue to grow and be transformed by His strength and grace.
When I looked up the meaning of transformation, it doesn’t really fit my state of life. It says “A marked change, as in appearance or character, usually for the better”. In my situation, I can say that I have experienced a marked change in both ways, but not for the better. The only “better” is that I’m more faithful in my daily prayer life which includes the rosary any day that I can. Since my 35-year old son died, three and a half years ago, I don’t have the wherewithal to enjoy things I used to, put as much work into gatherings in my home, etc, and I look different. My daughter says she can see the sadness in my eyes even when I’m smiling or laughing. Yes, I sometimes DO still laugh, but I’m not the same and friends have left me because my son died. Unimageable, but true. When I need friends, they have abandoned me – came to the funeral and don’t hear from more than a few any more. I have made new friends who also attend bi-weekly meetings of parents who have lost adult children. I’m so thankful for them. Grief brain must be similar to chemo brain. One of my previous friends (who is still my friend, thankfully) has been battling cancer for seven years and she has the brain fog as well. Lisa, please know that I will ask St Peregrine to intercede for you. Take one “pile” at a time. It will still be there tomorrow if you don’t deplete it today! +JMJ+
I left a long, thoughtful message, but it’s gone. Not sure why it wasn’t allowed.
I apologize. My original comment has been posted.
I moderate all comments on my blog prior to approving. I am working diligently on work life balance these days, meaning trying to get good rest prior to logging onto my computer. Sometimes, it may take me a while to get to comment moderation. Thank you for commenting and for your patience with my schedule.
What a journey you are on, Lisa. I’ve noticed that when I am ready for transformation, God often honors my readiness, but it is not the transformation I thought would happen. So now, as I too approach 60, I am trying to hold my transformation desires loosely, allowing God to be the potter and I the clay.
Continued prayers for your healing and recovery.