Gratitude for Life’s Little Stresses
A part of me still believes—perhaps as a self-preservation mechanism—that there will always be some sort of harbinger to prepare me before a life-altering event. That I won’t be caught off-guard, because I have my life organized and I know where I’m headed, and somehow I’ll be one of the “lucky ones”. That my parents will live to be 100, that my husband and I will die of old age in our sleep, and that our bodies will continue to function up until then. Isn’t that the dream we all want to believe?
Last week I was reminded of how little control I have over life’s course—whether it’s an event to celebrate or a loss to grieve, unanticipated change doesn’t give a warning. It sweeps you off your feet and changes the trajectory of your life in an instant.
Nearly 15 years ago when I was 27 years old, I noticed my belly was getting bigger. I wasn’t pregnant and chalked it up to a slowing metabolism. I happened to have my annual OBGYN appointment around the same time; when I mentioned the bloating, the doctor suggested an ultrasound. What they found was unexpected, to say the least—a large growth in my abdomen that “probably isn’t cancer” and would require surgery.
If you’ve heard Minima’s origin story, you know that the tumor turned out to be ovarian cancer. What ensued was several months of debilitating chemotherapy treatments while I envisioned the new business, Minima, that I would begin when I was well.
Every year since, I’ve had to visit the oncologist for an exam and labs to make sure the cancer doesn’t return. 15 years ago, I was told there was a nearly zero percent chance of recurrence since I completed chemotherapy. Nonetheless, statistics don’t matter if you happen to be the one in a million.
Something in my labs this year raised a flag for my oncologist. She wanted me to get a CT scan and told me it could reveal a cancer recurrence, a benign growth, or (less likely) nothing at all. My husband came with me the day of the scan—we were in the same narrow beige hospital hallways where I’d received treatment so many years ago. I felt haunted by the past, and wondered if these same hallways would become a part of my life again.
When my oncologist first told me I needed to get the CT scan and what the possible outcomes were, I told my husband I’d rather die than go through chemotherapy again. I knew it wasn’t true, but it’s how I felt at that moment. Over the course of the next few days as we waited for the results, I came to terms with the worst-case scenario. I allowed myself to grieve the life I might lose; I told my husband everything he’d need to do to take care of me, and how hard it would be for both of us; I told my parents and a couple of close friends—one in particular was a two-time cancer survivor who lovingly said, “I’m not going to tell you it will be okay. It’s good to think through the possibilities.” I reread the entire cancer journal I’d kept 15 years ago and it felt like my 27-year-old self was holding my hand, walking alongside me. She reminded me of the grace and strength I could muster in situations like these.
The results of the CT scan came back with unexpected good news—they didn’t see anything wrong. No cancer, no benign growth, nothing. I couldn’t believe my good fortune!
As someone who tends to sweat the small stuff, this whole ordeal was a reminder to enjoy life a little more. Whenever I feel stressed about something, I often remind myself to be grateful for the current set of stressors I have, because they are temporary and I am still healthy and alive.