The picture above is my cancer binder – or rather it’s the teetering pile of papers that I intend to get into an organized binder. It’s something I tried to put together right after I was diagnosed, so that I could keep all of the paperwork and pamphlets and brochures and receipts in one place. Over the course of my treatment it went from chaos to beautifully organized and back to chaos again. It has lived on my desk, then the floor, then a table, back to the floor again, and finally back onto the table, where it sits right now.
Every time I get a piece of paper that has anything to do with cancer it goes in that pile. There’s even one of the roses my sister and her husband sent me after my treatment was over – I dried it to save as a memento. There’s my hair (yes, hair) that I saved when I buzzed it off after chemo started – I had planned to donate it to Locks of Love, but never got around to it. It is such a mess that my eyes have started to actually skim over the pile – I have literally stopped seeing it. Whenever I do happen to notice it – usually because I need to relocate the mountain to a more convenient area – I glaze over and freeze for a moment, stuck in that weird PTSD that I get anytime I have to face the memories.
I honestly don’t know why I keep it at all. There’s a very large part of me that wants to shred the whole thing, but then I think that the information will be useful if I ever get back to writing The Memoir. It links me to the details – the dates, the medications, the procedures, the surgical notes and at-home care directions. It contains the first Welcome To Cancer folder I received; filled with brochures for chemo hats and lists of treatment options, and suggestions for how to talk to your kids about your diagnosis. The pathology report of my mastectomy is in there, which I poured over as soon as I was off of the pain meds and coherent enough to read. That report is where I first learned that I was Stage 3. Where I first learned that it was a slow-growing tumor, which meant it must have been growing inside me for years. That little nugget haunted me for months – that I could have had something so dangerous, so life-threatening inside my body without knowing it. That I, who claim to be so aware of my body, could have a tumor in my breast and not know it until it was the size of a tennis ball.
The fact that this binder has remained such a mess is symbolic I think, because my feelings about my cancer experience are a mess too. I am so strong because of what I have lived through, and so terrified of remembering it. Last week for example, I had a routine checkup with my oncologist, and walking into the oncology building I had to mentally drag myself by the collar like you would a dog going to the vet. I could feel my chest tightening, my breath getting shallow, and my eyes locking into place as I stepped through the door. The memories, when they’re in my face like that, are so hard. I prefer to keep them stashed away in the background, but I think keeping them messy and disorganized, covered in dust and kicked into a corner, isn’t working either.
I need to be able to think about the memories and feel peace. I don’t want this weird PTSD anymore, I don’t want to freeze and get lost in my own mind every time I see a freaking pink ribbon. I want to unshackle myself from the pain of my cancer experience. I need to just…let it go. Let it go, let it gooooooo…yeah there’s an earworm for you. You’re welcome.
Inspirational Disney ballads aside, perhaps I can allow the symbolism of this binder to work in my favor – perhaps I can organize it and organize my mind at the same time. Get everything out in the open, get it all acknowledged and categorized, then put it away.
The book I’m working on right now is about release – how to release our limiting beliefs, how to release our attachments to our own pain and suffering. It’s made me look around and rethink the areas of my life that I’m not happy with yet. What am I overly attached to about my problem areas that keep them close to me? What can I release so that I can change how I relate to those problem areas? The ‘cancer’ part of my life is such a hot topic for me, because I learned so much from the process – I don’t want to discount its importance. But it still causes me pain. It still causes me to freeze in my tracks and get lost in the memories.
I need to let it go. I mean, who am I to argue with eighteen million four-year-olds?
I heard a great quote last week about hardships, it went, “There’s beauty in the struggle”. There is beauty in this struggle, there is merit to sifting through the baggage I’m carrying around and choosing what I keep. I have to do this. I have to tackle the elephant that has been hanging out in my office for over a year. I have to face the memories which stop me mid-sentence so that I can put the binder away. So I can put it on a shelf and let it be a part of my history – but no longer be my present. It will cease to be a reminder of my pain, it will be the symbol of my strength that it was always meant to be.
Okay I’m going to take a pledge. I will do this. I will tackle this elephant and get it put away. I’ll even post an “after” picture of the organized binder in my next blog post. There, I can’t get out of it now.
How about you? Do you have a similar pile you know you need to get organized? Do you have an area or a room which represents a part of your history that’s hard to face? Tell me about it in the comments below, or send an email to ajonesgirl@yahoo.com. Send me ‘before’ pictures and take the pledge to tackle your elephant. We can do this, and we’ll do it together.
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