A Day in the Life (of a Cancer Survivor)

By Samantha Siegel, MD

I wake up disoriented after having vivid dreams of a new neck lump, signifying a possible relapse. In the liminal space between sleep and wakefulness, it seems like a year passes based on the level of fear I have in this moment. Once lucid in the morning light, I remember my remission and it soothes the pain of these awful dreams.??I struggle to get my body to obey my mind’s instructions to leave the bed. This body feels decades older than its chronological age for the first 30 minutes that I’m awake and until I’ve consumed at least 8 ounces of coffee. But I’m still here and I know that’s lucky.?

I quietly acknowledge that I’ve just had a nightmare. As a doctor, I know this is a sign that I still have some cancer related PTSD. I reassure myself that it’s OK to feel this way. Healing is ongoing and unending. I still need lots of reassurance, but I am now my own main source of comfort and I find myself looking less to others for confidence regarding my vitality. That’s growth.?

My first steps out of bed feel clumsy and I have a new soreness in my feet that prompts me to check between my toes where I discover a small pressure ulcer. The sensation in my extremities is all wrong after chemotherapy. I make a mental note to check my feet more often and to go through all of my footwear to get rid of the shoes without proper toe space, since I am now a person who gets wounds on her feet. I wonder if this means goodbye forever to dress up shoes and I chuckle that I finally have a reason to justify wearing pink high top sneakers with all of my fancy outfits. My kids will think I’m awesome. This realization feels like a small win today, so I’ll take it.

With the morning in full swing, kids looking for stray shoes and backpacks, dog barking, I feel physical discomfort with the level of rushing that is required to live a punctual life. I don’t know how I did this before. It’s so hard!

I go to work, mostly virtual still. I remember how much I love interacting with people. I’m a genuinely positive human and I can sense when my pleasantries have brightened someone’s day. I love that feeling! I experience a gust of sadness when I remember how cancer (especially during Covid) contracted my world and impacted my ability to connect with others in this way. My wistfulness blows through quickly and I’m able to be present with people for the rest of my shift.

At night, I take a handful of herbs trying to restore balance to my elements. I know I’m feeling better than before, but I’m frustrated that no test exists to say that I’m “X” percent better. I dance in the kitchen while making a salad. My kids look so much older than when I was diagnosed a few years ago. My youngest will never remember the pre-cancer version of me and I’m not sure how I feel about that. She kisses me and tells me I’m a great dancer, “like a princess” and suddenly I’ve forgotten all about the “C word.” That sweet amnesia lasts a few precious hours.

At bedtime, I do my yoga and breath work while wondering why I had to almost die to learn how to enjoy my life and to cultivate a real sense of well-being. I’m struggling to understand how I can feel so broken down, healed, lucky, guilty, hopeful and alive all at once. I make a quiet promise to live out the remainder of my life's beautifully messy moments in gratitude of those who lift me up and in honor of the ones who didn't get this chance to go on. I'm. Still. Here.?

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