Ten years later, feeling thankful

Facebook friends keep posting photos from ten years ago to show how the decade has changed them, but I'm resisting the opportunity. I don't want to be reminded of what I looked like ten years ago: bald, weak, droopy, always scanning for the nearest bathroom. Thanksgiving week 2009 was when I endured my final round of chemotherapy, and if I have to think about that time, I'd rather celebrate what came after.

Like, for instance, hair. As much as my hair annoys me at times, I definitely appreciate its presence more than its absence. True, I had the chance to experiment with all kinds of colorful scarves during those months of hairlessness, but frankly, I prefer to wear scarves around my neck and hair on my head.

And strength--it's a beautiful thing to be able to walk up steps without feeling as if I'm going to collapse, to stand in front of a class for a full hour without fearing that my head will droop and my legs give out. Since I don't have to devote brain space to estimating the time to the nearest rest room, I have more space for thinking about the grandkids or playing Words With Friends.

Feelings in my fingertips--got that back, mostly. Gained back some of the weight I lost during chemo and radiation, which is maybe not a great thing in the long term but I feel good now. Taste buds restored to normal--fabulous. I don't miss those times when everything tasted like tin and I wasn't allowed to eat sushi.

I do, however, miss my oncologist, who spent a lot of time watching and waiting and testing to see whether the cancer had left the building or might be planning a return engagement. First every three months and then every six months and then once a year--for five years--I endured blood tests, which were not bad in themselves, but anticipating these tests always made me tense. I would wake up in the middle of the night worrying over how I would adjust my busy life if I had to go through chemo again, and afterward waiting for results made me jittery and distracted. I like my oncologist and I kind of miss seeing him regularly, but on the other hand, I don't miss all that stress.

I remember that Thanksgiving week in 2009: I could barely eat and certainly couldn't cook for anyone, so my daughter and son-in-law came for a visit and cooked up a storm for all of us. It probably tasted wonderful, although I wouldn't know. I was happy to be upright, above ground, surrounded by loved ones, and done with chemotherapy. 

Today I'm celebrating in a different way--by offering homemade cookies to everyone I see. I baked ten dozen cranberry white chocolate drops over the weekend and now I'm going around my building pushing them on everyone, from the cleaning crew to colleagues to students and everyone else who crosses my path. I don't even need to tell them why I brought cookies; I just want to make a small gesture of thanks, to pay forward the love and support I felt while I enduring six months of awfulness.

So if you're in the neighborhood, come by for a cookie and help me celebrate ten years cancer-free.