Since January 9, 2023, my universe had a new central star - UCSF and cancer treatment. Orbiting that star impacted my travel plans, long-distance visits from friends and family, work schedule - and even my appetite for generating business. Orbiting that star opened my eyes to new people and possibilities that are fun to explore.
Like virtually every cancer survivor I've known, when I received that excellent PCR news, I felt massive relief. And what followed is a void. The star of the universe is no longer UCSF and cancer treatment. At the moment, there is no massive gravitational pull - and I’m sitting in this space of not-knowing and not running for a while as my body spends energy healing and my mind processes WTF just happened. Despite feeling truly lucky, deeply grateful, and very healthy, it's certainly not how I thought I would spend the first half of 2023.
From January 9, 2023, the cosmos of my life reoriented to revolve around a new nucleus—UCSF with its thrum of cancer treatment. This unforeseen force altered the trajectories of my everyday existence: I rerouted or canceled travel itineraries, disrupted my work's rhythm, and long-anticipated visits transformed into long-distance calls. Even my entrepreneurial spirit flickered under this strange new star. Yet, as I navigated this unexpected orbit, bright sparks of human connection and unforeseen opportunities ignited, casting a surprising gleam on an otherwise intimidating journey.
As a fledgling member of an exclusive sorority of cancer survivors, the announcement of my PCR results brought about an overwhelming surge of relief, akin to emerging from deep waters to fill one's lungs with crisp, fresh air. But as the ripples of joy settled, a cavernous silence took place. Gone was the gravitational behemoth that hijacked my life—UCSF and its daily regimen—and, in its absence, a disquieting nebula of uncertainty.
Wisdom now guides me to pause within this vacuum, to dwell in the space where there's neither urgency to propel forward nor the battles of past orbits. At the same time, my body devotes itself to mending from its battles while my psyche grapples with the sheer enormity of the odyssey I've weathered. And amid the residual tremors of fortune, gratitude, and robust health, there’s a surreal stillness—a contemplative interlude not scripted into my plans for the year.
Remarkably, within this calm, away from the frenzy of the central star now set on a different course, new understanding constellations begin to form. The aftermath is not merely a vacuum; it's a landscape rife with growth and new beginnings, and though I tread softly into this open expanse, the realization dawns that perhaps one needs to drift a while before finding a new star to chart the course ahead.
My sister felt the same way when she thankfully achieved PCR twice.
“People expect to feel relieved at the end of the cancer journey or treatment. And so I think the surprise for me is when you don't. The doctors tell you that you are healthy. Don't smoke. Exercise regularly. Good luck to you. Which, after being in the thick of the fight, just feels like a little bit of a letdown.” Tracey Downing
Post-treatment, a handful of medical activities lingered for a few months. Weekly follow-ups from the surgery indicated promising healing trajectories; tinkering with the immunotherapy regimen ensured maximum benefits while granting Neal and me the liberty to travel; other medical appointments addressed issues discovered or suggested post-surgery. These activities consumed perhaps an hour each week, a stark contrast to the total days spent in the past grappling with the anxiety of uncertainty. The worst was now a memory.
While diving into fiction like 'The Secret Life of Flora Lea,' I also found solace in 'Transitions.' a few weeks after undergoing mastectomies and DIEP reconstruction, I discovered that sitting no longer induced pain. However, prolonged periods of standing or sitting proved tiring during the initial six weeks. Consequently, lounging became a more significant part of my daily routine. Reigniting my practice, I increased the number of individuals I coached and managed a couple of Positive Intelligence pods. By June, I was nearly fully upright and haven't looked back since.
I filled the second half of 2023 with new memory-making, starting with our world tour and continuing with concerts by Taylor Swift, P!nk, and Billy Joel. My band played multiple gigs. I went to Disneyland with my daughter. I celebrated my birthday with a fabulous group of women for a great weekend on a lake. I wakeboarded three months and four days after my mastectomy and reconstruction with the full endorsement of Dr. Piper. My Wolverines won the Big Ten and went on to win a National Championship while I wore my custom, Fuck Cancer #63 maize and blue jersey. I marched in Washington for the first time in my life. My sons and my best friend from college marched with me. I have no intention of slowing the pace in 2024 or any time in the future.
The void left by cancer felt peculiar. I recognize cancer itself lacked inherent meaning—it was merely an occurrence in my life (and my friends and family's lives), not an unforeseen one at that. While there are numerous aspects of the healthcare delivery system I'd like to enhance, I'm overwhelmed with gratitude for the remarkable advancements in treatment, side effect management, and surgical procedures. My journey starkly contrasts those of my mother and sister.
Dr. Chien advised continuing the immunotherapy, given its lack of side effects and potential to serve as an additional safeguard against any disruptive elements contemplating another invasion. Dr. Marisa Piper, my reconstructive surgeon and an artist in her own right, completed what I consider her masterpiece in January 2024. My body, still healing, resembles its former self, with improvements in certain areas. Amid the necessity of mastectomies, I decided to request the abs of a 25-year-old. Dr. Piper gleefully obliged.
I've crossed into survivorship, a term whose genesis I can't pinpoint. With my pledge year to the survivor sorority complete, I'm now an official member of this resilient fraternity. My ambitions now lie in dedicating my time to rewarding and fulfilling pursuits. This shift in focus nudges my professional aspirations from the relentless chase of pinnacle achievements towards sharing the wisdom I've garnered, both professionally and personally. As I peer into the future, I'm intrigued by the opportunities that might unfold and what I might conceive in my subsequent chapter. So far, it's been a journey of profound gratification.
When the phone rings, text pings, or email dings, I'll be there to offer reassurances to anyone left reeling from the shock of a recent diagnosis, adrift in the turbulent seas between diagnosis and treatment. I aim to instill confidence that they can confront cancer and that the experience will surpass their expectations. Surprisingly, the journey with cancer is interspersed with moments of joy, often sprouting in response to the struggles and discomforts that cancer brings. The familiar faces around you and the new ones you encounter can fortify you with love, prayers, and humor—if only you let them in. Cancer is a potent reminder to cherish every day, every person, and every word.
My wish is that my story, coupled with the narratives generously shared by others, brings a smile to your face and inspires you to devise your approach, lean on your strengths, and crush the curveball that cancer throws your way. It is more than just a wish—recognizing that life is full of curveballs and many are opportunities to thrive is a testament to resilience, a beacon of hope, and a compelling call to action that serves in the cancer journey and throughout life’s curveballs.