We cry for ourselves and those we love as we look into their eyes of shock, sympathy and fear. To remove their pain would make it easier to bear ours.
We hurt. Nerves of memory, the itch of a breast that isn't there.
The pulling of muscles readjusting.
We fear every round of treatment. Every raspberry Jell-O'd I.V.
We grimace at every Nupy shot to the stomach, though we are told it will keep us well.
We know that every organ is being assaulted though we can't feel the damage.
Killing us softly.
We stretch to see the x-ray technician's screen so that we may see first, prepare ourselves for that look, that body language that says there is more.
We breathe in deliberate rhythms, calming ourselves in wait of the counts: red vs. whites.
We anticipate that first wave of nausea, timing the Kytril just right becomes the game.
We read but we don't remember. With walk with the deliberate shuffle of a body dying.
We taste nothing.
We smell everything.
We want nothing.
We laugh only to prove that we still can. There's no heart in it.
Will we win?
We negotiate - with ourselves, with the nurses, with our oncologists.
More. Too much or not enough. Another round.
Then it is finished.
We are finished.
More blood work. A P.E.T. scan: results 0.
The doctor is smiling. The nurses are smiling. They are finished.
We are smiling. We hug. We leave.
We are empty.
We carry our pink balloons to the car - and let them go.
Everything is different now.
We wear the pink ribbon of survival to convince ourselves we will.
We are different - forever.
We are lost and yet so deeply found.
Would everyone please just stop, wait, let me catch up. Give me time to be me again, though I fear I will never be me again.
A stranger once asked me within weeks of my "Dismissal" to describe in one word how I felt.
Free.
Free of pain, free of illness, free of doctors, nurses, results, numbers, saline bags, vials, pumps, scans, x-rays, the port, needles, oh yes, free.
But this freedom is different. And it didn't come easily.

You see there is another battle that only those in the club know. We know. We see it in each other's eyes. Not a glance, not a nod, not a declaration of survivorship by years, months and days. We welcome newcomers through eyes of heart, sisterhood, respect, courage and truth.

The industry of cancer, the physicians, caregivers, the pharmacists, see their objective as a mission of physical cure. Although by definition, the word "cure" in the world of cancer is curious - because we don't know. But with healing hands pocketed in their lab coats, they gather to see off another cancer patient who has successfully completed everything they subjected their wilted, gray bodies to. The "gold standard". Everyone is happy. They did their best.

But you all don't know about the fight that has just begun. The second battle.

We go home. What was important is no longer. Everyone is joyful. You're home. You're back. You're expected to do the laundry, shop for groceries, return the phone calls from the office that have been stacking up, prepare for your son's graduation party and reunite with your lover. They are tired of cancer. Impatient with what their lives have become in your absence. Desperate to return to normal. Desperate for you to return to normal. If you felt better, you'd feel guilty.

Nothing looks, feels or sounds the same. We float through the day, looking for an anchor. A ladder down into the mundane of everyday existence. There is a translucency to everything. A clarity that is frightening. Nothing is important.  

There is anxiety in that. The building blocks of your entire life, past, present, future, relationships, dreams, attitudes, all tossed into the air - and they are floating, waiting for you to give the signal so they can tumble back into some organized structure, approach - a go forward plan.

But it doesn't happen - for a long time. Time. Please give me time.

To re-adjust. To think through what's just happened to my body and my heart. To find the "new normal"

I need to think, to adjust, to change, to face the new day, because now I am different. Now I am lonely and I am fearful. But I will be strong, clear, and free. Just give me time.  

By Lynette Jennings, Survivor, March '03
The conception of the "2nd Battle Arts Retreats" and construction of Eagleheart Center was prior to Lynette's own diagnosis. She credits her experience with breast cancer as "giving her back her life". She speaks nationally on survivorship and art.

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