Well folks, I’m over four years out of treatment, and I’m overdue for letting you all in on how things are faring for me. As usual, it’s kind of stream of consciousness, so bear with me.

Every time I go back to North Carolina for a check-up, I drive. Usually in my fantastically beat up, run down Saturn that Mom and Dad bought while I was in high school. It has been the primary car for everyone except Dad, had a bumper attached by duct tape and gaff tape for an embarrassingly long time, and now terrifies my parents and grandparents when I drive it (Dad tells me he usually gets nervous until he knows I’ve driven far enough that he could come get me if he needed to). But I love it. I love the drive. I love everything about it except for the traffic in NoVA (seriously, Fredericksburg, you can shove it). I love taking my shoes off and driving barefoot. I love that I can rest my wrist on the gear shift (I hate renting cars that don’t let me do this) while I scan through the radio stations when I get out of range of Baltimore, because my car only has a tape deck and radio. Not even satellite, just good old AM/FM. It reminds me of trips taken throughout my life. I had cassette tapes of Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumours” and the Beach Boys for when the mountains killed the radio signal. I’d listen to Beach Boys when it was rainy and Fleetwood Mac when it was sunny. Those tapes somehow got lost between senior year of high school and when the car was officially given to me at age 25, but I still have Violent Femmes’ self titled on tape, thanks to Meggie. When all I can find is talk radio and gospel (which can happen in southern VA) I put it in and sing along, loudly and horribly, to every song. I remember Labor Day weekend when Ryan, Erica, and Meggie came up to Baltimore for the benefit my co-worker Megan had organized for me, and we were lying in a puddle one morning on an air mattress on the ugly tile floor of my carriage house and badly sang “Please, Please, Please, Do Not Go.” Which will now be stuck in my head for at least three hours.

And on all of these drives, I would compose these journal entries that you guys seemed to like so much in my head. It’s always a peaceful time of introspection (except for you, NoVA), and I don’t want to lose that time to lines at security in airport and boarding and rushing around. Just me and 327 miles. Plus, I can’t get Bojangles’ on a plane.

I’ve composed several journal entries that never made it. I had a good, long one last August, after driving back from being Home-home--Newton home--for Kat’s wedding. Kat was my neighbor with the scary dog and crazy curly hair from when my family moved to Newton when I was five, and now that it’s, well, a few years later, she’s one of my peers I admire most and a coveted member of my Chemotheraposse who brought me the silliest gifts to cheer me up during treatment. I still have the plush lungs with a smiley face sitting on my bookshelf. I’ll never be able to convey everything I had written in my head about that weekend. Her wedding happened to be on August 3, and I’m so, so glad to have that date reclaimed. Now when it comes around, I can wish her happy anniversary and have something positive to focus on. I’m glad I got the chance to spend that weekend with Karyn, Elise, and Sam, who lost Ken, their amazing husband and father to cancer that same day I was diagnosed in 2009. I’ll never forget getting that phone call while we’re standing in line filling out paperwork for the upcoming appointments. August 3, 2009, was an atrocious day of immense heartbreak, anger, and grief. August 3, 2010 I spent with my parents in Maine, a trip we had to postpone for my treatment. And now August 3, 2013 is a day where families came together in celebration of the love of two amazing people who have a great life together ahead of them. But it was still a difficult day. It was difficult being at the reception and watching Kat and Gary share their father/daughter dance, sitting near Elise and Sam, who quietly rested their heads together and held hands, while Karyn looked on. My heart was welling over, so I can hardly imagine what it was like for them. I know we were all thinking that, in the midst of all the love and happiness we have for Kat and her family, we were missing Ken, especially on this day, and feeling the loss of future memories, such as this one. It was a reminder of how unfair this disease is, and how much it can take away.

I had a lot of deeply nostalgic reminders on that trip. Driving past my childhood home, overgrown with foliage (Dad, I have a new appreciation for all the hard work you must have done to keep up with the yard! I know how much I hated raking, but you clearly did way more work than I ever knew). Seeing the empty lot where Bowman’s used to be (a tiny shack, literally a shack, where we would go get snacks after school. Gold’n’cheez and Sun Drop with CryBaby rainbow gum that Laura and I would share every Wednesday at LOGOS). The reception was held in the country club where I would go to Rotary lunches with Dad and where my friend Natalie’s reception was held a few years ago. My bridesmaid’s dress was so heavy I had to sit down between songs to cool off.

And people. Oh, seeing the people. This amazing community of families who raised me. Children I babysat who drive now (eek!). I think I posted on Facebook afterwards that if it takes a village, I had a pretty epic village. Cynthia playing guitar and singing. Seeing the women I used to sing alto with in the choir. Being asked if I had written lately (it took me awhile, Sandy, but I was writing in my head even as you were asking me!). I got to spend time with Aaron and Nate, sitting on Aaron’s porch in rocking chairs we had watched countless Old Soldier Reunion Day parades from, gave candy to trick-or-treaters, or did what we did that night--enjoy a summer night with old friends.

The richness of times gone by overwhelmed me on this trip. And as I drove home to Baltimore, I struggled with piecing together the story that is my story now, after being immersed in where I came from.

I picked back up on that train of thought when I went back to Cary for my check-up in mid-January. Thinking a lot of time, and the passing of it. I had just gone to Alabama with Mom and Dad to see Mom’s family, so even more memories were bouncing around. Even though Mom and Dad live in Cary now and it’s not my childhood home, there are still things of mine that evoke memories that seem like another lifetime now. The handpainted Grease ornament that Donna had given to the entire cast (I can’t even fathom being on stage at this point in my life). The colored pencil drawings on the wall that I spent hours on. I still have the dresser I had when I was a little girl. We moved when I was in the middle of kindergarten, and I was pretty upset about moving, and the dresser wasn’t mine in the old house...it was the Big Girl Dresser. I don’t know how accurate this memory is anymore, but I remember Dad telling me I had to race him if I wanted to get it, and running my little heart out. Obviously I "won," but I think that was the plan all along…

We all have stories like this. We make them every day without knowing it. Little things that seem like nothing, that feel overwhelming later. And I think about the narrative that my life is now, and how it came to be. The girl I used to be seems so foreign. I’ve always thought of myself as easily adaptable, but somewhere along the way I accidentally adapted into...numbness. I felt like I would be able to handle whatever life threw my way, and I did. And now, it feels like I’m up at bat, waiting for the next pitch...and it’s not coming. I don’t like the blank map. I want the guide with options I can choose from, but I don’t want to create them out of thin air. It’s daunting to me.

I’ve said before that I feel like cancer pressed pause on my life, and I’m trying to figure out how to press play. I realized something during this latest check-up. I’m not waiting to figure out how to press play--I’m waiting for permission. I’m waiting to feel confident that if I go back to school, or move abroad, things won’t be pulled out from under me again. I realized this when my doctor and I were discussing the plan over the next few years for me. They want to keep doing tests until five years post-treatment...the end of January greeted me with the four year anniversary of the last radiation session. So I have a check-up in July, another one in January, and then once a year for five years...and then, that’s it. Seven more check-ups. And as long as things continue down to be clear, that’ll be it (until one of the many things that could develop as a result of treatment hits me, like my recent diagnosis of hypothyroidism). It’s so, so strange to think about. Being done. And then I realized...just like I don’t have to wait for my beloved 1999 Saturn with 148,000 miles to be “done” (which some may argue, it already is, and to them I say, “pfffffft”) to get a new car, I don’t have to wait to be “done” with my check-ups--with cancer--to move on. To think more about where I’m going and less about where I came from. To figure out the balance between honoring who I was and supporting who I’m going to be. Because to the future me, I haven’t been very fair. Allowing myself to be happy is something I’ve always struggled with, and cancer shattered that more than I initially understood. Cancer was a companion, however poisonous, and there’s a part of me that misses it. You’re not supposed to say that.

You’re not supposed to say that you miss seeing the same doctors every day, but I do. You’re not supposed to say that you let cancer take over your life, but it did for me. You’re supposed to say, “I won’t be defined by my disease.” But I was, and still am in some ways. You’re not supposed to say that you don’t regret having had it, but I don’t. You’re not supposed to say that chemo actually got easier, not worse, but it did for me. You’re not supposed to say that the appointments were reassuring, even in their uncertainty; but as a 24-year-old who was living what was already an uncertain life a year after my post-college internship ended, the course of treatment had a sense of routine that I found comfort in: Go to the appointment. Lie down here. Close your eyes. Hold out your right arm (oh, that’s a good vein, they always say). Shave your head. Place your hands on the bar--a little closer, that’s it--now take a deep breath on the count of three--one, two, three--relax. Tell people how you’re doing. Share your story.

And as I see the last year of my Five Years Out dwindling down day by day, I realize I have to find a new story. And I have to give myself permission to write it, and live it. My New Year’s Resolution was simply this: to be easier on myself. To not put pressure on being on the right career path or feeling a certain way. To rediscover the part of myself who celebrates the unconventional, and to be okay with the fact that my journey with cancer might be unconventional.

On the latest visit, Mom sat with me in the waiting room. Well, I got there first, and she joined me. There were a few others sitting in our group of chairs--a lady in her fifties reading a book, an elderly gentleman sitting by himself, and an older biracial couple. You never know the story of why these people have the misfortune to be sitting in the same room as you...is it them? Is it a loved one? A parent? A child? Are you waiting to go in or for someone to come out? But no matter what color scheme you choose and how many windows let in how much light, the fact is--it’s the Cancer hospital. You don’t forget it. Well, Mom joined me with a couple of bags of chips since I hadn’t had breakfast (I always forget what my when-to-stop-eating time is because I forget if I’m going in for a scan or an x-ray) and I could not get it open to save my life. This loud, stupid bag of chips that I am ripping at will. Not. Budge. I try tearing the corner off, then pulling it apart from the bag itself, then ripping from the top hoping to find an invisible perforation, then pulling at the seam that runs down the middle of the bag...nothing. This thing was superglued. And because it was loud, everybody noticed. And the gentleman in the couple across from me gets up and offers to help. I sheepishly hand it over to them, because it was a pretty quiet waiting area, and the din of the bag was surely annoying. Well, this tall, strong man can’t get it open either. And we start to laugh. The elderly gentleman to my left starts digging for a pocket knife. The woman by herself looks up and chuckles. And we all share in this great moment that for all the problems we might have, right now, it’s just us versus this bag of chips. We forgot. The place of silence and doubt suddenly had this silly laughter. And that laughter sounds better than any other to me. I hope their journeys are going well and their bodies are healing, these strangers who laughed with me.

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Speaking of time, I’ve been spending a lot of time running these days (and losing sleep on Saturdays because of it!). Two of my friends and former co-workers, Aimee and Chrissy, are running in the Nike DC Women’s Half Marathon on April 27 and I roped them into doing it with Team in Training for me! It’s been great running with these women, and I know many of you have already donated (thank you so much!). We’ve also had the privilege of running with Georgia, whose father founded Team in Training to support the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society when she was diagnosed as a child. I’m almost 75% of the way to my goal and we’re just over 50% to our team goal, so anything you can do to help us would be much appreciated!

http://pages.teamintraining.org/md/nikewhlf14/annaewelker

http://pages.teamintraining.org/md/nikewhlf14/86Cancer

Thank you all for continuing to go on this journey with me. I hope all of you and yours are doing well.