Chemo Round 2 / The Lake

There’s nothing terribly unique about my situation. I know this because while I was waiting to get plugged into the Matrix for my second round of chemo today, I spotted the highly anticipated new edition of Health Monitor “magazine” on the table. (Is it a magazine if it only has 24 pages? A pamphlet? A zine? Highlights for cancer patients?) On the cover of the American Cancer Society-sponsored booklet was an average-sized brunette woman, head confidently cocked to one side with an ear-to-ear grin across her proud face. Below was this blurb:

“Christine Ozeretny always prioritized her family’s needs over her own—until a breast cancer diagnosis stopped her in her tracks. Now, with the help of a new targeted therapy, Christine is back to focusing on making memories with her children.”

You and me, Christine… two peas!

Christine is the shiny, happy version of myself that I’ve been tapping into lately. It’s the version of me that I talked about in my last post—the one that doesn’t let life’s trivial nuisances get in the way of cherished memory-making. But, as we all discover when we sober up from something, life finds a way of becoming same ol’ life again…

Going on a four-hour road trip with a newborn baby and a one-and-a-half-year-old is a good way to test the fortitude of your pink cancer cloud. And as all moms know, it’s not just the road trip itself, but the planning leading up to it that makes these this-must-be-a-fun-trip trips so thrilling. The packing lists. The brooding over when the perfect time to leave is so that Winston might nap and Peter won’t simultaneously need a bottle. I wish I could be a little more like my husband and “not worry so much.” But someone has to, right? Maybe not. Maybe if we all went with the flow, things would just flow, but I’m not so sure…

Overall, it was a great trip. My mouth and throat sores were finally gone after a week of painful hell—even getting water down was a challenge. The frequent headaches persisted, but between pregnancy and child-induced sleep deprivation, I’m pretty used to headaches. So, I was able to soldier on.

The best part of the trip was adoring Winston from a perfectly iconic Adirondack chair as he played on the beach for the first time—I felt very Barbara Hershey at the end of Beaches (formerly one of my favorite movies, which is kind of hilarious). At one point, Winston grabbed my hand and pulled me down to the lake. He watched the water as it flowed over his little toes then ebbed back into Lake Superior. As he studied the water, I studied him. I soaked up every little twist of his facial expression as he watched in wonder.

Making memories with our children, am I right, Christine?!

The worst part of the trip, on the other hand, came mere hours later as I was trying to get Winston ready for bath time. Winston just wouldn’t stop scream-crying for a fiber-packed oatmeal bar, a dangerous snack that gives him around-the-clock “monster dumps” (to use my husband’s perfectly accurate vernacular). Nothing else would calm him down, not even a cheese stick, his second favorite and ironically constipating snack. Grandma was with little Peter. Grandpa was cleaning the kitchen. And Jordan was helping his aunt with her first-ever fantasy football draft*. So, that left me to handle Winston as he found every non-verbal way to demand the poop bar, while somehow trying to climb the stairs up to the loft and go outside all at the same time. *A note to wives and feminists about the fantasy draft: I was in full support of this very sweet (albeit unfortunately timed) bonding experience between aunt and nephew. I’m a cool wife. Go Vikes.

I usually don’t enjoy feeling like a cancer patient. I don’t want cancer to define me or keep me from living a normal life. I’m a strong and independent woman/mother and should be treated as such. But in times of stress and chaos, all that I-Am-Woman-Hear-Me-Roar stuff goes straight into the garbage. And all I want to do is shout at the top of my lungs: “Why do I have to do this?! I have cancer!!!” My buzzed-and-badass persona hides behind one of my cancer-riddled organs, and that scared twelve-year-old version of me runs out, yelling at anyone who comes near yet wanting so badly just to be held. The soundtrack of my life goes from Destiny’s Child’s “Survivor” to “Why Me” by Kris Kristofferson. Oscillating between these two equally real identities is exhausting, for me and those around me, I’m sure. It also makes for a very eclectic Spotify playlist.

After I finally got Winston to bed, I needed to be alone. I walked the short path up to the lake and plopped down on one of the Barbara Hershey chairs. As the sky turned pink, so did the lake and sand, reflecting the sunset above. And under that bubble gum sky, I let myself cry. A big cry—because no one was there to witness it. I didn’t have to be strong for anyone. I didn’t have to worry that I was making someone else worry. I could just let out this guttural, ugly cry for as long as I wanted. (Or for as long as I could tolerate the mosquitos eating me alive…) Eventually, my husband came out to console me. He knew I needed space, but also knew I needed a hug. Because he’s a great husband.

I want so badly to be a pillar of strength through all of this. Especially because everyone from far and wide keeps telling me how strong I am. Maybe that’s just something people say when you get cancer. Or maybe they mean it. Maybe I really am strong. But I’m also human. I’m still me, for better or worse. Not even life-threatening cancer can undo a lifetime of hardwiring…

But that’s okay. I’m sure Christine has her moments, too.

Right, Christine?