Six.

When you fight cancer, they tell you about the things you will have to battle. About the hair loss, the sick, the weight loss, the mouth sores, the bed sores, the surgeries, the deformations, the knee replacements, the infections, the fevers. It's information overload, and you try to soak it all in, but the knowledge slowly settles into your bones as your treatment becomes a routine. The slow repetition of infusions, complications and surgical procedures wrap around you in twisted vines until you understand.

But they don't tell you about the fight after cancer. The guilt. The confusion. The emotional damage that sits in the back corners of your stomach and rears it's head at the most inconvenient and surprising times. And they don't tell you what it's like to cope with life after cancer. The limp. The unstable joints. The questions. The label that you can never seem to shake.

They don't tell you about that fight. You just discover that battle all on your own. And then you either let it sink you, or you survive it.

And I refuse to be anything but a survivor.

I am six years cancer free.

I've nearly forgotten about that emotional damage that is still hiding out somewhere in my gut. I mean, I know it's still there because sometimes it rears its ugly little head and comes bursting forth. But I've accepted that it will take a long time to recover from it all, because here's the thing: you don't just come back from cancer. You don't just accept your survival and everyone else's death. You don't just say: "I had cancer and it's okay." Terrible things happen! And it's okay to be human and to feel sad about them. Here's the secret though, about terrible things. It is possible to come back from them, eventually, because beautiful things happen too. And I would never know; never see, never appreciate the beautiful things I have seen in the last six years without experiencing the terrible. I would never know the hope of the Gospel of the LDS church. I would never appreciate the incredible rush of falling in love that I experienced with my Best Friend. I would never know what it means to love someone unconditionally as I have loved my 32 second graders all the way in China. I would never value the sunset over the Yellow Sea, the way my car warms up in the morning, the way my knees bend as I walk upstairs, painting my roommates toes, taking afternoon naps, singing with the windows rolled down. I would never love those little things the way I do now, because I never knew how beautiful they all were. And for that, I am grateful for the terrible thing that was cancer. I am so incredible grateful for it.

I am still putting myself back together; even six years later, and I've come to realize that I might be putting myself back together for the rest of my life. But I am putting myself back together. And that is all that matters.

I am six years cancer free. And sometimes, I forget I even had cancer. But I did. I had cancer and I fought it every day. And it was terrible. But it was beautiful, too.

And every day is a continued battle and I continue to fight it. Because that's what being a cancer survivor is all about, really. Not just surviving, but fighting it every day. And loving every minute of it.

I am six years cancer free.

ungrateful

you made fighting easier for me.
and touched my feet without gloves on your hands.

I don't think I have ever said thank you until yesterday.
and I'm sorry.

Doctor J.

This is the man who I largely credit to saving my life six years ago;

the one who stood by my side through every hard treatment and side-affect that was thrown my way

and the one who I felt genuinely cared about me as a person, and not just as another patient.

This man is my oncologist, and has been a critical part of my life for over six years.

And he is transferring to Chicago in September, which means that I will be transferred to a new oncologist.

and I'm terrified at the thought of not having him on my team anymore.

My Sister's Keeper

Sometimes I think about what would have happened if it wasn't curable. What would I have done if it had been caught later, if I had stopped responding to treatment, if it got to the point where I was signing up for experimental trials to open up, even though I knew there was no hope that they would work.

My prognosis was hopeful when I was diagnosed. Cancer hadn't spread, type was shown to respond well to treatment. Of course, it was still cancer. It was metastatic, but just because it hadn't spread, didn't mean it was going to be an easy ride. And it wasn't.

You'll never understand what it means to "fight for your life" until you are literally fighting to stay alive. What's funny is that it isn't even a conscious decision half the time. It happens while you are asleep; trying to escape from the nightmare that has become your reality. You let yourself slip away, grateful that you don't have to think about anything. And that is when the boxing gloves come out. Because who wants to give up the ability to dream?

I'm glad I didn't die. Sounds terribly blunt, but it's true. I feel like I should say something profound, but really, I'm just trying to grasp at facts that sometimes seem so unreal. My life is so close to normal now that I sometimes forget I had cancer. I had cancer. I had cancer. I had cancer. I forget about the sleepless nights, about the bald head, about being so sick that I thought my stomach was going to land in the toilet, about losing days at a time while being in a drugged induced coma, about the last time I went up the stairs without having to think twice about knees or bones or breathing. Sometimes it all seems so blurry and unreal. Sometimes it all seems so horrible that I choose not to remember.

But it happened. I had cancer.

And I think that it's okay to forget about terrible things that happen to us sometimes. I've learned that if you hold onto something so scary too tightly, you'll never be able to swim forward. You'll just carry a boulder on your back until you sink so deep you lose sight of the shore. But here's the truth: terrible things happen. And sometimes you can come back from them fast. And sometimes it takes a long time to pick up all of those pieces and glue them all together. And even after you put that last piece in, you're still cracked. You are not the same.

Being different is okay, though. You catch the light differently, form new shapes and surfaces and create new textures. And that's the beauty of it all. If you go through that painstaking process of picking up all those shards and gluing them back together, you become different; you become better. You become a kaleidoscope of everything you were and everything that you could have become, mixed with everything you are now. If you let yourself, you cant take those pieces of a beautiful piece of artwork and turn it into a masterpiece.

I'm a five year cancer survivor and I'm still coming back. I'm still putting my pieces together. I'm cracked and scarred and sometimes things happen that ruin a lot of the work I've done. But I won't let that stop me. When I'm tired, I simply close my eyes and let the boxing gloves come out while I escape to some magical place. It helps me remember that I am still full of dreams and I never want to give them up.

And so, when I wake up the next morning, I whisper to myself: "I will try again today."

Over five years later

and sometimes I still get a shock of surprise when I reach up to touch my head and find hair.
Being alive never ceases to amaze me. And I am grateful for every day that I wake up.

alleograph.

break me down and examine my bones.

the melded fragments, the empty marrow.

I am infused with you.

I am not my own self. I am not my old self. 

I am two of us. I am two halves of one. I am one.

I am stronger.

I live because of you.

I live for you. I live for us. I live for me.

I live. 

break me down. I am not broken.

I am not whole, but I am complete.

I am.

I am.

Life last week.

1. Last weekend was my official 5 year remission anniversary. I hiked R Mountain with three of my favorite girls in celebration. It was really really really tough work and took a lot out of me and I thought about stopping and turning back multiple times. But then I reached the top. Tears just started streaming down my face; because I reached the top. I hiked a mountain and my knee didn't fail and I was alive.
I am a five year survivor. And my live is beautiful.

2. I already posted about shooting Elysha and Sebasthian last weekend; but what I didn't get to tell you was how they took me out for pizza after and came over Sunday so that Sebasthian could explain some of the photos Dustin sent to me a few weeks ago. That was really awesome. Have I expressed how grateful I am for them?

3. I have some pretty awesome friends who really love me. Like Ms. Symone; who left this really great surprise of all my favorite treats in my room on Tuesday to celebrate my five years of surviving.

I'm not dying!

I used to hate my scar. It was puckery and red and just downright ugly and it was a constant reminder about the (excuse my language) Hell I went through when I was 16. And I hated that I would never be able to escape it; that I would always be marked and reminded of the things I had lost and would never get back.

But that was when I was 16 and still coming to grips with cancer and the fact that I was fighting for my life every day. Now that I'm a tad bit older and I can see that cancer is one of the best things that has happened to me (although I never want to have to go through it again), I have learned to love and embrace my scar. It is a daily reminder that I can overcome anything placed in my way; that I was given this life because I am the only one strong enough to live it. It reminds me not to take things for granted; to take the time to walk down the drive way and get the mail because I can. Every time I look at those 16 inches of imperfect skin, I think about the people I love that are in my life because of that dumb tumor named Ricardo. It is my badge of courage. I have accepted that it will be there forever and I don't mind it anymore. And on some days, I actually love it.

Something that I had to learn to deal with since my first surgery was the awkward questions and looks that I would get. It's funny how bold people can be when they see something out of the ordinary. Or how ignorant. On an almost daily basis during the summer, I get the look up and down, the puzzled glance or a statement along the lines of: "Wow, that's a doozy! What did you do?" or "ACL injury, huh?" or "You are too young to have an injury like that" or my personal favorite: "It looks like you're dying."At first, it irritated me. Didn't people have the common decency to not ask about something so personal? Does it look like it was a simple ACL injury? Yes, I know I'm too young to have such a bad knee. DO I LOOK LIKE I'M DYING? Now, I just brush it off and skirt around it if I can. And since August 24th, I can now proudly and with great relief say: "No, I am not dying." Because, in fact, I am five years cancer free. And in the great cancer medical world, that is as closed to "cured" as I will ever get. 

Can I tell you what it's like to be five years cancer free? It's like coming up for air after being underwater for too long. It's like waking up to the sunshine after a weeks worth of rain. It's like I can finally look forward for longer then five minutes without having to look over my shoulder to make sure something isn't creeping up on me. It's like the whole world has finally opened up before me, and it's brighter and more vivid and stunning then I've ever seen, because it is. I don't take things for granted like I used to. And my life is full of opportunities that I can finally take a hold of without anything holding me back because I'm not afraid to be away from Boston for long periods of time. I'm not afraid of losing my ability to breathe. I'm not afraid of my knee failing. I'm. not. afraid. 

I guess I never was afraid of cancer coming back, because if I had to live with that kind of fear, I would have drowned. But I was afraid of having to put my life on hold in order to fight it again. But now I feel like I can finally live without that fear. I can make plans and follow through with them. I can even go to China.

So, no, man at the McDonalds in Raymond, I'm not dying! In fact, I am very, very much alive.

I believe in miracles. In second chances. In love. In God. In answered prayers. In life.

Dear 16-Year-Old Me, love Chelsie

Dear 16-Year-Old-Me,

I know you are facing some really tough stuff right now. I know that at times, you feel pretty hopeless and tired. I know how terribly scared you are and I know how sick you feel. I know you feel discouraged and heartbroken and at times, totally alone in your fight. I know about the tears you cry when no one else sees you, I know about the pain, both physical and emotional, and I know how hard it is for you to loose the use of your left leg and to become crippled. I know you don't think anyone will ever understand how you feel...trust me that I do.


I want you to know, and to never forget, that you are loved, and that the fight you are currently fighting will always be worth it. Your life is worth it. And I want you to know that you will make it through this battle, and come out a better person for it. Keep staying positive, despite every set back you face, including those week long hospital stays, the mouth sores, the infections and the fevers. Chemo is nasty and it will give you a run for your money, but you will finish it and your hair will grow back! Learn to love every simple and small moment you have, never take anything for granted and don't forget about the lessons you learn during this year. Get as involved as possible with the kids around you; even though you will experience the heartbreak of losing a lot them-they will change your life more then you could possibly hope to help them, and they will fuel your fire to keep fighting.

Be patient with your dad, he's doing the best he can while mom is with you. He loves you and worries about you and wants you to be okay. Tell Juli how much her friendship means to you often, because it turns out that she'll be the only true friend who sticks this year out with you. Don't worry about the kids in high school who forget about you or who just stay around because of obligation-they won't matter in a couple of years and you will care less about where they go and what they think of you. You don't need to value your worth on what other people say or think; you are the only one who can be a judge of that.

Listen to the doctors, because they know what is best, not you. Trust them; they are keeping you alive.

Work hard in school, even math, and especially English. Spend more time talking to Mr. Gaucher and Mr. Adams, because they will inspire you to major in English and to teach. Do not let anyone's comments about your limp, your cancer or your feelings get you down-they don't understand and they won't, so don't waste your breathe trying to explain. You will feel lonely, but remember that you aren't alone. Count your blessings, name your miracles and I promise you that after high school, it will all get better.

Go to the ocean often, drive with the windows rolled down and as much as you love Hamilton, remember that he is just a car and he won't be around forever. Don't worry, Dad keeps his promise and you will quickly fall in love with Cazz. Regardless, remember what those cars mean and represent to you and love them for that, not for the material possession that they are.

College is going to change your life and who you are. You are going to make some of the best friends you will ever have and you are going to fall in love (the real kind) with your best friend. You are going to really figure out who you are and who you want to be, and you are going to love yourself again, and even better, you will love yourself because of your flaws, scars and imperfections. You are going to look back on these years and see God's hand in this trial. Try to look for it now. He's not going to leave you alone to fight this by yourself, so don't be afraid to lean on him. He will never leave you comfortless.

Chelsabelle, I want you to know how proud I am of you and your determination to keep fighting the good fight. I know how hard it is to stay positive when your life is so drastically changed, but I'm glad you try your hardest to look for the silver lining. Keep choosing to be happy, and always remember that you are alive for a reason. Survivor's guilt is tough stuff, but focus on your purpose for being here and it will be okay. Never apologize for feeling things, you are human and it is your right. It's okay to cry about the things you have lost, but don't dwell too much on it. I know how tired your body is, but I promise you that when the time is right, and when the technology advances, you will have the opportunity to get most of your life back. It will be another long fight, but as always, it will be worth it.

You will never be able to turn your back completely on this year. You will always have to look over your shoulder to make sure you are still clear. But I promise you that one day, you will be thankful for this trial. You will see how it was necessary and needed to help you become who you are today, and you will love it for that. Hold on to that.

In five years, you will be walking limp free again and I know that seems utterly impossible right now, but it will come. You will be planning on teaching English in China and nothing is going to stop you or take away that dream. You will have the opportunity to support the love of your life on his mission in the most unusual circumstances, but you can do it and you will learn so much from it, so don't shed too many tears over it.

Your life is beautiful. You are beautiful. Hold on to what you know and stay true to yourself. Believe in miracles and you will see them. Say your prayers. Tell your family you love them. Write often and read even more. Learn languages. Set goals and then work hard to achieve them. This is YOUR life, and no one else's. You can do whatever it is you set your mind to and nothing will stop you or change that, not even cancer. I believe in you.

Love Always,
Chelsie

five years ago...

i was in the same place.

unable to walk, half of my left leg taken apart and then literally screwed back together

and my life paused while i fought to regain some little piece of normalcy back.

but the difference is that today...

today,

i stand firm in my beliefs and

i know that everything happens for a reason.

i love who i am and what i stand for and who i've become from fighting for the last five years.

i know what it's like to work hard for something

and to never give up.

i know the value of true friendship, and true love.

i've learned how to stand up for myself and my body

and 

i believe in miracles

but most of all:

 i am cancer free.

five years ago, my life changed forever.

and today, i've never been more grateful for that day.

=]