Shades of Grey

“Don’t define your world in black and white because there is so much hiding amongst the greys.”

But what if I like black and white? I find many people think of cancer in black and white. You’re either in treatment or you’re not. You’re either sick or you’re healthy. Not too many people think of the in between. I’ve been living in the middle for a long time now. I’ve gotten used to it, but it still bothers me.

I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer with lung metastases when I was 23 in 1999. Most types of thyroid cancer aren't treated with chemotherapy because there aren't any chemotherapies that work on it yet. People like me are treated with radioactive iodine that we swallow down with a big gulp of water. I've had that three different times. My last treatment was in 2005. My blood work and other tests show that the treatments worked but that a small amount of cells remain and are fast asleep. It also shows that they are now resistant to the radioactive iodine.

I'm stuck in the middle - sandwiched between the land of the newly diagnosed and the land of the cured. I reside in the land of stable disease (or as Kris Carr of Crazy Sexy Cancer calls it, "progression free disease"). I guess you can call it chronic disease, too, like diabetes. Being in the middle comes with a lot of different emotional junk, but then again every stage of cancer comes with its fair share of emotional baggage.

You look at others with cancer enduring rounds of treatment and think, "Thank God that's not me." You're supposed to be grateful that your disease is stable and that you don't have to have any treatment. You should feel blessed that the only thing you have to do is stay on top of your follow-up appointments, making sure that the bad cells in your body are behaving themselves. You should be jumping for joy when you get a thumbs up from your doctor and a "see you next time."

Sometimes I act that way just so that I appear normal to my family and friends.

Truthfully, you're not that psyched to have stable disease. In fact, you’re pretty angry. You're thrilled for your friends who are through with treatment but can't help but be a little envious. Afterall, they have an easier time filling out health related paperwork. You don't often see the question, "Are you in treatment, out of treatment, or is your doctor watching you because there are cells asleep somewhere in your body that are resistant to treatment and they may wake up sooner or later but we don't know for sure?"

You feel like a head-case for almost wishing cancer would rear its ugly head just so you could KICK ITS ASS right out of your body. So you keep that to yourself (unless you decide to put it in a public forum and risk being ridiculed). But then again, I don’t want it to wake up. If it did today, I would be on a clinical trial because of the whole resistant-to-current-treatment thing.

That circles back to being grateful and feeling guilty for not always being grateful, etc.

I could live with this stable disease well into my senior years, or it could wake up a decade from now. Either way, my doctor says I will not die from this disease. I don't feel sick. I don't act sick. I don't think about my cancer everyday any more. It's on my mind the weeks before and after my check-ups, but after 11 years of being a survivor I just don't think about it every day. Denial? Acceptance? Who knows the reason.

The weeks after a check-up are often ones of reflection for me. I find myself throwing a private pity party for myself when I get a moment alone. I think about all the tests, appointments, and procedures I've done over the past 11 years. I go over my health records and read my story as written by different physicians. I think of the possibile health scenarios of the future and try to prepare for curveballs.

In this crazy cancer roller coaster, my story or my truth is the only thing I have control over so I do my best at all times to have both feet in reality. That's what brings me comfort, even if it's the fact that I'm not cured. With so many shades of grey, though, it’s hard to find my footing sometimes. But I know I will.