First everything, then everything else

Fifteen years ago this week our house was buzzing with bridesmaids and relatives; one minute young people were setting off fireworks in the meadow and the next they were practicing swing-dancing in the garage. One day a host of strong voices sang their hearts out in harmony as their classmate played on a majestic pipe organ, and the next day friends and family gathered in the yard for a picnic while the neighbor's combo played old-time music. All this in celebration of our daughter's wedding--the high point of what turned out to be a roller-coaster year.

There's a reason I refer to 2009 as The Year Everything Happened, and it would be easy to focus entirely on the most horrible thing that happened--the cancer diagnosis that led me to believe I'd be lucky to be alive for five more years. But fifteen years later I see cancer as just one twist in a thrill ride that led, eventually, to a happier place. How did we get here?

Early in 2009 I switched from film to digital photography, took a class in Scientific Imaging and learned to use PhotoShop, all in preparation for taking thousands of photos of birds and bees and flowers and family and joyful celebrations.

My experience taking the Scientific Imaging class inspired an essay that I delivered at a conference and later published in the journal Pedagogy. In a banner year for scholarship, I delivered papers at three academic conferences in 2009--Pittsburgh in March, British Columbia in June, Philadelphia in December. Never before had I delivered three papers in one year, and probably never again. 

In spring I finished my term as English Department Chair and was elected Chair of the Faculty, but in the fall I had to hand over the gavel to an interim Faculty Chair when cancer treatment made it impossible to fulfill my duties. In spring I celebrated the opening of our new campus library and in summer I moved into a brand-new office over there to serve as the inaugural Director of the Worthington Center for Teaching Excellence--another role I had to postpone until after I was done with treatment.

In spring a beloved colleague announced her retirement plan just weeks before being diagnosed with a cancer that rapidly proved fatal. (We had the same oncologist.)

In May I attended my daughter's college commencement and watched her confidently leading hundreds of people in singing at the Baccalaureate service. We'd shopped for wedding clothes, paid deposits, attended showers, and poured heart and soul into designing a joyful series of wedding-related events. In June it all came together in a service so beautiful it made me smile right down to my toes. What a blessing to welcome a wonderful young man into the family and watch the happy couple ride off into an unknown future full of possibility.

Ten days later I went to the hospital for a routine hysterectomy and came home with a diagnosis of endometrial cancer, with a five-year survival rate just a little better than 50/50. The roller-coaster had hit its high point and was quickly careening downhill toward a series of heart-wrenching twists and turns: an allergic reaction to the first chemotherapy drug followed by months of chemo that took away my hair, my energy, my sense of taste, and my dignity. Radiation treatments, every weekday for five weeks. Steroid buzz, brain fuzz, toenails falling off, a constant need to be aware of the location of the nearest bathroom.

A dead car--how could I get to chemo? My brother gave me his ancient Volvo wagon, which doggedly kept me going for years afterward. Friends and colleagues stepped up to adorn my bald head with hats and scarves, drive me to early-morning appointments, deliver my favorite brand of ginger ale, and encourage me when the simplest tasks seemed hopeless. After I had a port installed to make chemotherapy delivery easier, a friend drove me home in her convertible with the top down, which made me feel like the Grand Marshal of the Survivors' Parade. Another friend wrote my cancer treatment theme song, "Kicking Cancer's Butt," and cheered me during the long hours connected to an IV at the cancer center.

In the fall of 2009 I taught an honors class in humor theory and took great comfort in the joy my students brought into my life. They picked up the slack when I was just barely getting by, and I'll never forget their hard work and compassionate care. "I'm holding you in the light," said one student, and I've often passed that promise on to others.

We were blessed with a garden that produced so many habanero peppers that we had to share the joy. My husband made enough habanero jelly to heat up the palates of all our pepper-loving relatives and friends. Habanero jelly may be the perfect metaphor for that eventful year: blistering heat wrapped in smooth, sweet bliss.

I had my final round of chemotherapy a few days before Thanksgiving and then lounged around recovering while the rest of the family did all the holiday cooking. In December my husband and his twin brother celebrated their 100th birthday (50 years each!) and we welcomed a bouncing baby chainsaw into the household. My husband managed to sing in the community production of Handel's Messiah despite having slipped on ice and torn his rotator cuff hours before the performance.

By the end of the year I almost felt like singing too: my hair was coming back and I was looking forward to resuming many of my academic duties. I was eager to put 2009 behind me--but not all of it. I wanted to forget the parts when the roller-coaster dropped into a bottomless abyss and then wrenched me around brutally, but I desperately held on to the high points: the wedding, the supportive friends, the comedy class, the habanero jelly.

Fifteen years ago I didn't think I'd be alive today, but think of what I would have missed if the doctors hadn't caught my cancer: my son's college graduation, the births of my three grandchildren, the publication of a bunch of articles and a collection of essays, a teaching prize that allowed me to pay off my medical debts, a return to the Worthington Center, a chance to assist my parents in their declining years, my nephew's wedding, so many great students, so many great books, so many meaningful moments with family and friends and, sometimes, simply with myself, so many photos and hikes and canoe trips and peppers and peach pies and all the mundane pleasures of life.

I've never experienced another year quite like 2009, which is just as well because it nearly killed me. For a time I feared that The Year Everything Happened would be the end of me, but instead it became the beginning of Everything Else. 

Eventually the roller-coaster glides to a stop and we lucky ones get to step out of the car and put our feet back on solid ground. Maybe nothing particularly interesting is happening there, but we get to keep walking forward, and sometimes that's enough.