Someone recently asked me, ‘Do you ever feel like it’s time to move on?’

Despite the initial sting, I leaned into my “all feedback is relevant” headspace and realized how much I appreciated her asking because I knew she genuinely wanted to know. And I also chose to appreciate her asking because I’m guessing other’s have wanted to ask but just haven’t… 

Here’s the deal. To be sure, there are some things in life that are move-on-able. And I imagine as you read that you can think of things in your own life story that fit into this category. I do, too, and so I know what it feels like to ‘move on’ from something…even big somethings. Cancer is different for me, though, because it has been so massively transformative, so much so that there is a distinctly different “before-cancer-Amber.” And I live in a body that is literally [word used correctly] Frankenstein-ed (parts removed and rearranged and transplanted), cells poisoned by chemo and cells annihilated by radiation, nerves obliterated leaving no topical sensation behind while making all the pain seep deep below the surface. There isn’t a move I make, awake or asleep, that doesn’t SCREAM cancer. Therefore, ‘moving on’ isn’t a thing in the very practical sense. 

But beyond this (maybe?) obvious set of reasons, lies the more subtle. No evidence of disease does not mean I’m now immune. Cancer doesn’t work that way. And even when (and we can be real – ‘if’) I reach the threshold of 10 years out, I’m still not immune. Not to mention I’ll forever be with thisbody. . .  And because I’ll always be with this body, and this transformed mind, soul and spirit, I’m not, nor ever will be, writing about a ‘back when.’ Instead, I’ll always be writing from the ‘right now’ as it is ‘right then.’

And maybe what is the biggest, most impactful reason why ‘moving on’ isn’t a thing from my perspective is that early on in treatment, I promised myself I would not waste cancer. That promise didn’t expire on treatment’s last day, rather, it continues. I am not going to waste survivING as much as I wasn’t going to waste fighting. So…I am survivING on purpose. And survivING implies that it’s ongoing, not a completed to-do item off of my life list. Maybe the best comparison I can offer is that it’s like having a child. The very second you learn of that child’s existence, no matter how teensy that little being is, you will forever have a child no matter how big or how old they get. You don’t ‘move on’ from that. . .rather, you ‘become’ that. And ALL of it changes you.

*Post 976

Feelings :: 12/2/17 :: Post 96

I’m grateful I can fight. And battle. Even when the side effects are brutal.

My head is so tender. My poor scalp is so painful. My skin hurts. The palms of my hands are on fire and they itch. I have cracked and bleeding fingers and toes. My eyes get tired. And my vision is changing. And I get headaches. My nose is so sore. It’s dry. It’s itchy. It hurts to the touch. 

But I’m thankful I can fight.

See :: 12/2/18 :: Post 448

Choosing to face this and actually see all of it…….

Hard. So hard. 

Grateful, though, that I’ve chosen to walk life like this. As hard as it is, I’m grateful for the richness. 

Living Changed, Head to Toe Day 2 :: 12/2/19 :: Post 811

On my last day of work just before my bilateral mastectomy, I had several people offer me ‘things to do’ while recovering. Some gave me books. Some let me borrow their favorite movies. Others offered word search and crossword puzzles. Such kind gestures that I took really not knowing what it would be like to recover from such a barbaric yet life-saving surgery. 

What ended up happening, though, is that I spent hours in the silence. I didn’t fill the quiet moments with noise. I sat with my pain and my anguish and my emotions. I listened for what my body was feeling…what my heart was screaming…what my mind was saying. I listened for the Lord in the midst of the hell I was in knowing that if He doesn’t waste anything, I wasn’t going to either. I wasn’t going to waste the quiet and what it offered. I wasn’t going to look back and wish that I had taken the opportunity to receive ALL that this was. 

In the weeks and months and years to follow, in the chemo and radiation and numerous additional surgeries, all the way to this present day, I have a comfortability in the quiet now. I yearn for it, even though the quiet has the potential to be dreadfully hard. It holds a weight that is both unmistakable and remarkable…and so very rich. 

Living changed from head to toe, Day 2 – my ears and what they hear… Learning how to exist in the silence has been incredibly powerful. And I will commit to continuing to seek the quiet because of how much it actually speaks.