I don’t want to sound like a weirdo, but…

Posted on May 15, 2016 by thesmallc

A few months before finding my lump, I didn’t feel like myself. I sensed something was wrong but couldn’t figure it out. It’s not like I felt sick or anything. I didn’t experience any symptoms of any kind. Plus my blood work had been excellent according to my doctor.

Then, I experienced a series of strange situations that led me to suspect something was def. wrong.

In the summer of 2010, a few months before finding my lump, I felt emotionally down. I would cry for no particular reason. I experienced heart palpitations a lot too. I thought maybe I was experiencing some level of depression but I was unclear as to what the cause of it was. I allowed myself to just be, without consulting anyone about it.

Then, that fall, a few weeks before finding the lump in my right breast, I was on the train. A young bald woman was sitting across from me. Of course, cancer was the first thing that popped into my head when I noticed her. Perhaps she was undergoing some type of chemo treatment, I thought. I was trying to be cautious so as not to seem like I was staring. Her train stop eventually came before mine. As she was leaving the train she suddenly made a full stop, and turned and stared at me.  Her look lasted long enough to freak me out so I quickly turned my face away. I felt nervous.

Then, I started having some strange dreams. One involved a cemetery I am now very familiar with. I’ve never actually visited this cemetery in real life, but I’ve found myself visiting this place in my dreams, repeatedly, at different stages of my life.

The cemetery is located in this colorful little town surrounded by different shaped houses made out of inconsistent looking bricks, and very colorful. There’s a lot of nature surrounding the houses — plants and beautiful yellow flowers.  It’s always sunny and warm. The streets often seem isolated though.

I’ve been dreaming about this cemetery since I was a teen.  I’ve become so familiar with it that I’ve figured out shortcuts for how to get there. The many times I’ve visited this place I am unclear as to why I am even there. It’s not like I am visiting anyone in particular. I seem to know this place very well too. Usually there are people visiting their loved ones. The place looks beautiful with many lights and colorful flowers. I am always on my way in rather than my way out.

On this occasion, in the dream, as I enter the gate, I see many people leaving, but they don’t notice me going in. It is after dusk and it looks like the place is getting ready to close. I continue walking through the graveyard, as I usually do, with no destination in mind. It never feels like a nightmare when I am here. In fact, I feel peaceful, with a sense of comfort. I like this place.

As I continue with my walk, I come across one particular stone. I stop. My full name is engraved on it. I don’t recall noticing a date engraved in the stone. I rest my body on what seemed to be my grave, and closed my eyes.

Then, I woke up in the middle of the night, in a sweat, with my heart beating very fast. But I didn’t think much about it, until I had another dream the following week. This one involved my grandma.

I was in my grandmother’s house (back in Barahona, the town where I grew up, where she raised me). I saw a very bright light shining from the roof, which blinded me. As my eyes were halfway closed, I noticed my grandmother’s reflection floating. She was trying to reach out to me, but something did not allow us to interact. All I heard was a struggling voice which echoed repetitively. Then I woke up.

At this point, I began wondering if these dreams were a way for my body to unconsciously tell me something was wrong.

In December, days after having these dreams, I was sitting in a rocking chair at my fiancé’s apt. He had bought it for me because he knew it reminded me of my grandma. He was trying to talk to me but I was completely absent from reality. My folded arms were positioned in a way that allowed my hands to touch my breasts. I felt something. At that exact moment I knew. I ran to my guy asking him to feel my lump. He felt it too. He asked for me to call my doctor immediately, which I did. I received a response the following day and was in my doctor’s office the next day. After the examination, she recommended a sonogram. She suspected it was a fibroadenoma. I felt it was cancer.

Eventually I had the sonogram. I turned to see the monitor. I saw the dark hole. I knew. Even if the technician didn’t tell me, I still knew. A doctor comes into the room to look at the images and recommends a biopsy. I never shook in my life the way I did on that examination table.

The day before my biopsy, I had another dream about my grandma.

I was back in my grandma’s house. She was standing in the livingroom, staring at the floor. The only light was the one coming from the windows. I approached her and said, “hey mama, I am having a breast biopsy”. She doesn’t respond and continues looking down. “Have you ever had a breast biopsy before?” I ask. “Never,” she says, still looking down. “Well, I am having one” I repeat. “I know,” she replies as she slowing raises her head to look at me. There are tears rolling down her face. She walks towards me and hugs me. I hug her back, confused, and tell her that I am OK. Then I woke up.

I had my biopsy the next day and received the results the following day. I had breast cancer.

Of course all these events I experienced before my diagnosis were coincidences, but I do believe sometimes our bodies have a way to tell us when something is wrong. If this happens to you, please listen to your body and take action immediately. It is scary but it’s better to know than to ignore. And because cancer doesn’t warn you a lot of times, all you can do is be diligent with your health and continue with those regular checkups.

My dreams haven’t taken me back to that cemetery since that year. I don’t know how I’ll feel if my dreams take me there again. As for my grandma? I still have dreams of her, but there are no tears from her. But I am back to crying for no reason. It’s probably the Tamoxifen.

Posted in Awareness | 25 Comments

One year older, and I want a reset

Posted on April 22, 2016 by thesmallc

giphyI turn one year older today, April 22, and I’m wishing I could go back to the year where I left off —before I was diagnosed. I want to reset time to when I was 32, and try to live the life I might have lived if cancer never happened. Sometimes I wonder what those years would have been like.

Would I have felt the same urgency to have a child as I do now?
Would I still have been at the same job?
Would I have been living in the same city?
Would I have kept those friends who are no longer friends today?

Yes, I am grateful I am here to celebrate another birthday. But I often think about all the tradeoffs that came with the decisions I’ve made, or failed to make, since my diagnosis.

I am aware that things could be a lot worse. I even feel a little shameful that I am complaining, on my birthday, considering all the people who don’t get to be a year older. But I just feel like the older I get, the further away I get from doing things I probably would have done by now if cancer never happened.

For example, before, I had the option to build a family and not have to worry about the cancer coming back, and me leaving my family alone. I also had my denial before my diagnosis. I miss the feeling of safety it brought. Today every decision I make is important. Before, I had some room for risks. Today that space is occupied with insecurities and uncertainties. Taking risks seems a lot more dangerous than before.

Of course, being alive is my top priority, which is why I’ve chosen to stay on treatment. And perhaps these treatments are the reasons why I am still here today to celebrate another birthday. But there is a context. By choosing to focus so much on staying alive, I also give up some quality of life. I wish there was a “hold” button I could press to stop ‘getting older’ while I finish my Tamoxifen treatment, but that’s not how things work.  Time doesn’t wait for anyone.

Somehow I’ve adjusted. I don’t want to see my birthday as the only reason for celebration. I want to try to make random days special, when I can. But I don’t like the feeling of being restricted.  This is why I am wishing I could have my years back.

Everyone who has gone through this disease deserves their years back.

Posted in Coping after cancer, Reflections | Tagged | 24 Comments

This is not the drug I take

Posted on April 7, 2016 by thesmallc

IMG_2335_New3I’m on my way home and I decide to stop at the pharmacy to pick up my Tamoxifen refill. The pharmacist confirms my name and hands me the bag containing the medication. I look inside, as I always do, to make sure it is in fact the right drug. Immediately I notice it isn’t. Instead of my usual clear little amber pill bottle, I see a big blue plastic bottle.

“This is not the drug I take,” I whisper to the pharmacist.

“Yes it is,” she says. “It’s just a different manufacture. The container and the pills might look different, but …”

I start to feel uncomfortable. “You mean the pills don’t even have the usual 782 code on them?,” I ask.

“That’s right. These look different but it is the same medication,” she says.

I am having a hard time accepting this. I insist, “are you sure about this? Look, the label says ‘Tamoxifen Citrate’. I’ve never seen ‘Citrate’ on the bottle before. I mean, these pills even look bigger.”

She reconfirms. The drug is the same. Tamoxifen.

I pay and leave the pharmacy with what I still believed is the wrong medication.

I arrive home and immediately take the new bottle out of the bag to compare the pills to the old ones I have. The label from the old bottle says Tamoxifen, 20 mg. The new one says the same, except for that foreign word, “Citrate”. But the name difference doesn’t bother me that much. I understand that the active ingredients of both pills are the same. The thing that bothers me is that big blue bottle. I examine it, trying to familiarize myself with it. But I can’t. I don’t like it. I put it down.

This is not the drug I take. I refuse to use this bottle. It looks too different from all the other non-cancer drugs I’ve ever taken and gotten used to. I want what I am familiar with. I don’t need more change forced on me.

I pour the new pills into the old bottle and throw the blue container away.

Posted in Awareness, c World, Tamoxifen | 24 Comments

My chemical romance

Posted on April 1, 2016 by thesmallc

chemical romance 2Today is April 1st. And it was on an April 1st that I swallowed my own words.

I once knew a lot less about cancer and its treatment options. I’d often said “I would never get chemo if I get cancer. It’s poison!”

I saw people in my family suffer during chemo. In most cases, their cancers were caught late so they pretty much had to live on treatments until they no longer worked, or until their bodies could not handle them anymore. I didn’t like what chemo was doing to them. They turned into unrecognizable people – they were not the grandma or the aunt I knew, and that made me sad. I hated to see them go through so much pain and suffering only to barely hold on to existence – with no quality of life. I tried to convince myself that if I ever got diagnosed with cancer, I would refuse chemo because I didn’t want to look and feel like they did.

But it is true that you don’t know how you’ll react to situations until you go through the experience yourself. And this is so applicable to cancer. When I was diagnosed with breast cancer I was forced into learning more about the disease. I was also forced to consider all my treatment options if I wanted to live. And I did.

When I was diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of 32, my doctors were very concerned. In many cases, cancer tends to be a little more aggressive in younger people. And mine was. My odds for survival were presented to me in a very matter-of-fact style – what would happen if I opted to receive treatments vs. not receiving treatments. My doctors told me I needed chemotherapy in order to lower my risks of reoccurrence and to help avoid a metastasis in case there were cancerous cells lingering in my body after surgery. Although my lymph nodes were clear, I did have lymphvascular invasion, which suggested some cells could have left their original site to travel to other parts of my body. My cancer was also invasive and, because cells aren’t visible, we had to take the safest route.

All that old talk of me not taking chemo never crossed my mind again. I didn’t think twice when doctors recommended chemo to me (both my first and second opinions recommended chemo) – in order to treat my cancer.

I was determined to live. I wanted to throw every weapon I could possibly throw at my cancer. I pictured myself dealing with a reoccurrence later on in my future and wondered how I would feel looking back at what I hadn’t done. I didn’t want to look back and wonder if I had made the right choice. I wanted to look back and say I did everything I could.

My first chemo treatment was on an April 1st. Oh how I wished it had been only April fool’s. But no one jokes about such things — except those people who fake their disease in order to get money or sympathy, but that’s for a different post.

Today I remember being in the chemo waiting room, waiting for my name to be called. I thought of those patients who waited with me — all in different stages — some in a lot more noticeable trouble than me. I wonder today how they are doing.

I didn’t want cancer to be my reality but eventually my name was called. I approached the entrance to the chemo room. The guy asked for my full name and date of birth, and then asked if I was ready. “Do I have a choice?,” I said. He smiled, but I did not. Eventually I got to my “chemo suite” — I didn’t even know these existed. I saw different types of pre-chemo medications hanging from the chemo pole. I sat on the recliner chair and waited for the nurse to administer the first chemo, which unfortunately was known as the red devil (Adriamycin). They could have used a gentler name for my first time. This day was the scariest of them all since I did not know what to expect. But I didn’t hesitate. For the first time, I viewed chemo as my ally.

In a way, I became attached to the chemo as I continued to get treated – I received a total of eight rounds with three chemo drugs. AC/T. I realized I had a love and hate relationship with it. I hated the fact that I needed this poison in order to live, and that there were no better options. At the same time I felt safer. I was doing something to destroy my cancer. I had to stay in that relationship.

The last day of my chemo was a July 8. I thought I would be happy and celebrating, but instead I felt nervous and scared. Now what?, I thought. I did not want to stop getting treated. But I felt grateful there was an ‘end date’ for my treatment. This isn’t the case for so many other patients – those who struggle with metastatic breast cancer.

Immediately after finishing chemo, I was  prescribed Tamoxifen, the estrogen blocker pill to help keep my cancer at bay. I also have a love and hate relationship with that medication. I hate the side effects. There are times when I want to ‘break up’ with it, but I can’t. I want to continue doing what I can to help lower my risk of recurrence.

So, I stay in this relationship. My chemical romance continues.

Posted in c World, Chemo | 21 Comments

What’s a waste?

Posted on March 26, 2016 by thesmallc

We’ve all heard these statements in some shape or form.

“You’re in your 30’s (or 40’s) and have no children? You’re wasting your time.”
“You still believe he/she will change? You’re wasting your time.”
“You’re still talking about cancer even though you’re in remission? You’re wasting your time.”

Sound familiar?

I don’t completely disagree that I’ve wasted some time in my life. I guess everyone feels this way at some point. There’s always the “wasting time” or “losing an opportunity’” regret floating inside people’s head. But who defines this notion of ‘wasting time’ anyway? I believe each individual does.

Have you had conversations about wasting time since your cancer diagnosis? I have. I’ve also done some reflecting about choices I’ve made prior to my diagnosis. Some people have said that my having been diagnosed should make me concerned about not “wasting time.” They specifically pointed out my past relationships that went nowhere – by their definition – and my not having built a family at this point in my life as examples.

There are many women in their 20’s, 30’s and 40’s who get cancer and haven’t built a family yet. And yes, I am one of those patients who has been revisiting my past and my choices and questioning everything. I’ve had regrets about where my youth went.  I’ve thought about not having children and having been stuck for too long in past relationships. But, at the time I didn’t care that I didn’t know where my relationships were heading. I was young.

This wondering about whether or not I’ve wasted time didn’t start until I got breast cancer. That’s when people started questioning. And I started questioning myself. “You know, I shouldn’t have wasted all that time. I should have had a kid before I was faced with all these obstacles to becoming a mother” — such as not being able to carry my own child because I am on Tamoxifen – a medication to help keep my cancer at bay.

But, beating myself up for all this isn’t going to change a thing. That, in itself, would be wasting time.

And, I ask myself, what if I never had gotten cancer? Would I be focused so much on the possibility that I’ve wasted time? Probably not.

When I was younger, I thought I had many years ahead of me to build a family. I never thought of time. Or illness. I wanted to enjoy my life and build my career before committing to something as serious as building a family. I was not expecting the uninvited visitor that is cancer to come into my life at such a young age. Now, I feel stuck in a different way. I can’t go back to the life I had before cancer but I also feel like I can’t move forward with normal plans that other women in their thirties have. I find myself having to adjust to a lot of unwanted things, in a place where I no longer feel safe.

I still have people asking me when I am planning to get pregnant – saying that I am getting old – even after I’ve explained to them that I am still undergoing treatment for breast cancer. I know that I might not be able to get pregnant. It’s hurtful to be reminded of this. It’s like they can’t accept my reality and aren’t able to adjust along with me. But what’s even more hurtful is the fact that some talk to me as if I didn’t make the “right” choices before my cancer diagnosis. It is not my fault cancer happened to me. I also had my right, as a woman, to not get pregnant or married if I felt I wasn’t ready to do so. At the end of the day, I am the one who will live with the decisions that I make.

There is no learning curve when it comes to life. Everyone’s situation is different. I agree that it doesn’t hurt to examine one’s life from time to time. But the conclusions we reach about time need to come from us.

There’s an old quote that I like, sometimes attributed to Bertrand Russell:

The-time-you-enjoy-wasting-is-not-wasted-time.
I wish that I could keep this in mind more often when I think about how I am spending my time.

Posted in Coping after cancer, Reflections, Self Awareness | Tagged | 24 Comments

Walking away from ‘emotional cancers’

Posted on March 13, 2016 by thesmallc

girlIt’s not really possible to simply walk away from cancer. At least, I don’t find it possible. But I’m wondering — is it possible to just walk away from other toxic parts of life?

I’ve realized that I need to free myself from some painful relationships that have kept me down. Situations that are just too draining to try to fix, or fight. In order to truly achieve this freedom though, a person needs to be at peace with the decision and stick with it. But when emotional pain is connected to family and close friends, it makes things difficult and sensitive.

Walking away from some relationships instead of working to “fix” things through forgiveness or giving-in has been challenging for me for a couple of reasons.

As a cancer patient, I’ve often felt pressured to face my unfinished business. People tell me that I would be more at peace with myself if I did. There’s also this misconception that ‘running away’ from problems is a sign of weakness. But here’s the real problem though — holding on to painful relationships has done more harm than good in my situation.  Why would I want to condemn myself to suffering by trying to meet other people’s unrealistic expectations of me?

The other issue is that my needing to walk away from emotional difficulty means I’ve lost some level of support. People judge without understanding. People condemn. So on top of me dealing with the fears and uncertainties cancer brings, and on top of all the other work and life challenges, I also have dealt with the burden of trying to make others understand where I am coming from. I find myself exposing my emotional scars more often than I really want to. It is exhausting and disappointing when people won’t try to see from my perspective. Or, maybe, they don’t want to see from my perspective to keep some level of denial.

It seems I am often expected to accept bad behavior from people because I’ve been diagnosed with cancer. They expect me to be more welcoming of people’s imperfections, to forgive and forget quickly when other people’s actions and attitudes have hurt me. It’s as if the survivorship relationship I have with my breast cancer is supposed to have made me more enlightened and humble and grateful. If I can feel more at peace in relation to my health situation, there is no excuse for me not to be able to reset my other toxic relationships.

But I don’t take my cancer personal. Cancer isn’t a person. It doesn’t have feelings or the ability to recognize its mistakes. Cancer isn’t aware of the pain it has caused. It doesn’t discriminate. And cancer’s actions are done with no understanding of what’s happening. There are no manipulations or intentions. I can never have an honest, productive conversation with cancer. It’s simply impossible. No matter how many times I ask questions and demand answers, cancer will never respond. It’s frustrating because I can’t fully walk away from it. It will always be with me and not by choice. And none of it is negotiable. But I’ve been forced into this relationship.

With people however — even with family — the relationship is a choice.

When it comes to this notion of “forgiveness,” people have different ideas about what it means. I myself have thought about it from time to time. Recently, Eileen Rosenbloom — a friend and fellow blogger— wrote about the concept of ‘forgiveness’ and what it meant for her to forgive (you can read her post, “Forgiving the Clueless”). I was touched by her piece and in many ways it resonated with me, particularly this part:

“Forgiving requires me to let go of the offense but doesn’t demand I continue a relationship with someone who spews toxicity, even when it’s sprinkled with concern. It doesn’t force me to be friends with someone who upsets me.”

I am aware that emotional cancers caused by family can be a lot more painful than those caused by strangers because there is an expectation that families aren’t supposed to hurt one another. But they still do.

Sometimes we choose to carry those emotional cancers with us for the rest of our lives for different reasons – religion, family dynamics, financial needs, etc. But I often wonder if we contribute to those emotional cancers by allowing ourselves to be hurt, over and over and over again. Is it possible to fully walk away from emotional pain? Can we truly live (and die) in peace knowing there are still unresolved issues to deal with?

I may not be able to walk away from breast cancer but the good news is I still have control over building healthy relationships and creating a healthier environment for myself. Why would I want to live the last years of my life feeling sad?

Realistically, I don’t think I win either way by trying to cure my emotional cancers or walking away from them. But I need to stick to the situation that gives me less pain.

Posted in Coping after cancer, Reflections, Support | Tagged , | 21 Comments

A lesson from an elevator

Posted on February 26, 2016 by thesmallc

elevatorLately I’ve been anxious about aches and pains. Always worried about a reoccurrence, even after the tests and MRIs come back looking fine.

Although I know we are all going to go one way or another, I am not one who likes to hear people say things like, “you know, you can always get hit by a bus!” when it comes to my cancer. Such comments minimize the patient’s concerns about their situation – they’ve already been diagnosed with the disease. But it is true that many of us never know what we will die of. And I’ve been in denial about all the other possibilities. I shouldn’t be.

In my latest worrying, I realized that I forget an experience I had two summers ago while visiting my dermatologist. I was dealing with a weird rash on my thigh that continued to worsen. No antibiotics worked. It ruined my entire summer. (By the way, stay away from waxing salons that double-dip.) Eventually, the dermatologist recommended a biopsy to find out what was going on.

I arrived at the appointment building and waited for the elevator to take me to the 11th floor. I entered the elevator, alone, and hit the button to my floor. I noticed that the elevator was moving faster than I had remembered the previous times I had taken it. Maybe the building operators want to be more efficient, I thought.

Suddenly, the elevator stopped. Not on my floor though. There was no indication as to which floor it had stopped on. The door didn’t open either. I was confused and feeling a little nervous. My heart beat started rising but I did nothing at that point, just waited. Seconds later the elevator dropped — I don’t know how far, but so quickly I reached for the walls to steady myself. It stopped. I held my breath. When I tried reaching for the intercom, the elevator decided to jump up again, this time even faster than before. I lost balance and went down on the floor, holding onto the walls as best as I could so not to hurt myself. The elevator suddenly stopped again, then made unsettled up-and-down movements, making my body jump. Finally I reached up and pressed the alarm button and heard it ringing far below.

I reached for my cell and called the doctor’s office. “Please help me!! I am stuck in the elevator!” I yelled. The receptionist responded, “Stay calm. I will call security right now. I am so sorry!” As she was hanging up, I overheard someone say, “I thought they fixed these elevators.” That only added to my tension.

As I sat on the floor of the elevator with my phone, I nervously looked for texts I’d received from my love ones and started to read some of them. I was panicking, but laughing. “Here I am, stressing dying from cancer all these years,” I thought. “Now I am going to die inside an elevator.”

The elevator continued to move, now slowly, drifting up, then down. Someone spoke through the intercom, asking if I was doing OK. “Oh yes, I am!” I said. In a way, I was almost relieved that an elevator would take me and not my cancer. I felt the elevator continue its slow up down motions, never completely stopping. The voice asked me to turn off the alarm, and that they were on their way to get me out. I let the alarm ring. I felt better hearing some kind of sound — felt like I was being heard. The alarm was also my way to scream my frustrations.

Again, I reached for my cell. I called my co-worker and she told me to calm down. I continued getting calls from my dermatologist’s office. “Are you doing OK? Can you breathe?” Although the air conditioner had stopped working, I was able to breathe. I contacted my guy, and as usual, he ran out of his office to come get me.

The elevator eventually stopped moving. I heard noises outside. The intercom voice said that they were trying to fix the switches to make the elevator move again, and not to panic. They would get me out.

After 35 minutes of them trying to ‘get me out,’ they were unsuccessful in saving me. They informed me that they needed to contact the fire dept.

I continued to sit on that floor. When the fire dept. showed up, it only took about 15 minutes for them to fix the ‘problem’. The elevator finally moved up and stopped, but it never made it to any of the floors. The fire dept. forced open a ‘special door,’ and I saw that I was between two floors, just below the 5th Fl. They pulled me up, off the floor, and out through the opening.

They said I looked very pale. No shit!

I took the stairs up to my appointment. Everyone was gathered, waiting, as if I was a bride entering church and being forced to get married. They all looked concerned. They offered me drinks and foods. There, someone informed me those elevators were supposed to get fixed. I was surprised he told me that considering the potential there was for me to file a complaint. But I did not do it. I was just tired and happy to be alive.

After my appointment, I took the stairs to the lobby. My guy was sitting there. Once again he had arrived to take me away from trouble. I was still in shock. He too noticed how pale I looked. What he found strange was the big smile on my face.

Yes, I laughed. At myself.

The odds of dying in an elevator are slim. But it happens.

The temporary wisdom from my elevator experience kept me calmed about my cancer for quite a while. I wasn’t even worried about the biopsy my dermatologist performed after that incident.

Cancer is all about worry, uncertainties and fear. Once it happened to me it changed everything. But I need to stay rational. After all, I can always get killed by an elevator! I still forget this lesson.

Posted in Awareness, Coping after cancer, Reflections | Tagged , | 17 Comments

I let her decide

Posted on February 20, 2016 by thesmallc
Candy Girl

Photo by Jay Adra

I’ve been seeing a survivorship therapist at MSKCC for the last couple of months. We mostly talk about my challenges with survivorship — how I’ve been dealing with my caught-between-two-worlds identity crisis, about feeling unsafe, and about grief. But we sometimes explore other topics too — for example, about family drama or about my job. During my recent visit, we touched on the topic of…my inner child. A topic I am very sensitive about.

I had brought up a dream I had last year where I saw myself at 6 years old, and as my adult self, interacted with my younger self (you can read about it here). In the dream, I try to coach my inner child, and to my surprise, she ends up trying to coach ME instead.

Apparently I’ve been very judgmental of my younger self — the way I was so shy and how I didn’t stand up for myself, for example. My therapist said that perhaps I should welcome that child into my life more often. She even went as far as suggesting I allow my inner child to make some decisions from time to time. So risky, I thought. But she told me that my inner child would have never judged me the way I’ve been judging her all these years. She was right about that.

My therapist also asked how I felt about my inner child. I said that I love her very much. I told her I also miss her, but considering my current circumstances and recent experiences, I am afraid she’ll be hiding for a while. I want to protect her. I, the adult, need to take on my current responsibilities and challenges.

My therapist said that my inner child possessed a level of wisdom I should not be dismissing so easily, as that wisdom could help with my survivorship. Although we didn’t go into details about what that ‘wisdom’ was (we may continue the discussion next time I see her), I suspected I knew what she referred to.

I remember myself as a child. I was such a free soul. Hardly ever complained. Forgot and forgave quickly. And yet, when I think of myself as a little girl, I often wish that she had been someone else. Someone closer to who I am today. Perhaps more aggressive and outgoing…someone who didn’t forget so quickly. But, who said that behaving like a child at times doesn’t have its advantages? Why can’t we create a bridge between the child and the adult? It’s like my survivorship challenge. Maybe I will never live in either world — the cancer world and the non-cancer world — 100% of the time, but I can create a bridge where I can allow myself to enjoy part of that world I miss so much. The world where cancer didn’t exist. I can take a break from the cancer world, because I still can.

After finishing my talk with my therapist I headed for my train home. But on my way to the train I came across Dylan’s Candy Bar. I have always seen it but never dare entered the store. All that sugar? No way! But that day I allowed my inner child to make that call. That probably wasn’t what my therapist intended when she suggested I allowed my inner child to make decisions. But the experience I had made me realize something new.

I went into the store and felt like I was a kid again, except with a lot more options. I didn’t question a thing. I grabbed gummy bears, bubble gums, chocolate, jelly beans, candy corn, chocolate-covered almonds, sour worms, sour watermelon slices, and many other kinds. I looked around the store and thought about how lucky the other children who come here are. I didn’t have those candies growing up, or the money. I smiled a lot in that store.

At home, I told my guy about what my therapist had talked about and my trip to the candy store. He reached for the bag full of candies. “Hey, those are for my inner child!” I said. “What, she doesn’t share?” he replied. When I caught myself making the decision, I quickly shifted to allow my inner child to run the show. “Actually, she does enjoy sharing. You can take what you want,” I told my guy.

Later that evening, I sat by myself and started to eat the candies. I didn’t think of sugar, weight gain, my health, or cancer. I watched a reflection of myself in the blank TV screen, a little girl eating candy. I saw how much I’ve changed, but also how much I’ve stayed the same at the same time.

I allowed my inner child to make a decision that day and it felt alright, even if it was just for that one moment. I allowed her to come out and play, but not for too long. Not for too long.

What are some things you miss about your younger self?

Posted in Coping after cancer, Reflections, Self Awareness | Tagged | 18 Comments