There is an aloneness about cancer, a separateness, that makes me feel apart from the rest of the world. It's not the kind of isolation that comes from being intentionally excluded, but rather knowing that you are different and cannot fit in with everyone else. The treatment processes, the pain and fatigue, the fuzzy thinking are all constant reminders that I am walking another path in the world, at least for now.
In many ways, it reminds me of traveling in a new country where everyone speaks a language I can't understand and is part of a culture with different rules and norms. Or perhaps it is that I am in the midst of a familiar culture, but I no longer can fit in with the rest of the people here. I have changed and I can't participate in the simple things that would allow me to fit in with everyone else. My focus for the summer is my disease and all the steps I must go through to prevent it from spreading and to heal from the treatments. I don't have time for summer picnics, happy hours, hikes and games. I don't have the strength to explore new places and meet new people. I spend way too much of my free time recovering alone.
Most of my previous life has been packed away for now, set aside for another time. Much like the boxes we moved from our house in the Gorge, they are stacked and waiting for us to open them and bring the contents back into our new house. When my strength returns, and there is time for things besides cancer, these parts of my life can be brought back from storage. I know they will be there waiting, but for now so many things have been set aside.
I have felt this isolation and aloneness before, but never for months at a time. The closest feeling was a day I spent exploring Tokyo alone. There were thousands of people all around me. I took the subway to Asakusa to shop and explore. The narrow streets were full of people, but I felt completely alone. I bought my souvenirs, had lunch in a small restaurant, and took lots of pictures. It was a good day and I was happy, but as I was on the subway heading back to my hotel, I realized I had not spoken more than a few words all day. I did not understand anything that people around me had said either, all day long. As I sat there on the train, I felt invisible, like I did not even exist.
I wonder if I would be feeling this much isolation if I was still living in the Gorge. Would I feel so alone if I lived where more of our family and friends were? Joe and I had just been starting to settle into our new home on Bainbridge. We were enjoying exploring Seattle and things to do in the area. Then when cancer came into our lives, that also was put on hold. We know the hospital and our medical team, but have lost progress on building community in our new place.
Somehow, I think the aloneness would still be there, no matter where I live. When I first started writing about my journey, I said that I did not want to be defined by cancer. The reality for this summer, is that breast cancer is my life. While going through chemo, cancer really does define you. It dictates what you can do, what you eat, the many medicines you must take, how strong or weak you feel each day. It is almost all I think about, and all I can plan for each day.
I totally appreciate the many wonderful supporters, all our friends and family, who have been cheering me on and sending their messages of support. I can't tell you how much the cards, notes, and messages on caring bridge or in email mean to me and help me through this journey. The truth, though, is that this is a process and a journey I have to go through all alone. No one can take the load from my shoulders, even for a day. I carry the burden on my own, because it is in my body, until we get through this summer of breast cancer.
