How Many Chances Would There Be Now For Joy?

The first thing I did when learning I had breast cancer—after sobbing on the hubby—was raise the drawbridge to protect myself from treatment opinions other than from a very select circle (more about that here).

While that worked quite well in many ways for a limited time—it had a very real side effect: in my isolation, I started to obsess about whether I’d ever experience joy again.

It wasn’t that I thought I would die soon (the cancer was caught so early) or even that I was afraid to die. I was afraid of surgery. Of chemo. Of radiation. Of drug therapy that would leave me miserable, wreck my bones and catapult me into old age.

Breast cancer treatment was described by various women in my cancer groups as “instantly aging 10 years” with “brain fog, extreme exhaustion and deep bone pain”. One even called it “life crushing”.

Talk about sobering. I could suddenly see myself as a frail, sick woman and I was determined to resist, becoming hyper-focused (when I wasn’t obsessing about treatment) on experiencing joy.

I wanted moments, I wanted photos, I wanted joy. What if I never had them again? What if this nightmare of biopsies and testing and pain and fear and treatment never ended?

Every little thing I could enjoy now became exceedingly precious. I had the hubs take new pictures of me with our rescue dog Jackson. We took a bunch of selfies when out and about. I savored choosing my own fruits and veggies at our local Farmers’ Market and chatting with the vendors. When traveling to LA for those never-ending appointments, I saw good friends, sourced an adorable French bistro near the hospital and found a couple of boutiques to browse.

Every single bit of joy boosted my belief that I wasn’t done. That I had a lot more to live and give.

What was really calling to me was getting on a plane and going somewhere beautiful to soak up the vibes and make new memories (and shut out this mess). I had picked out the perfect hotel in Rome for our October anniversary—could we/should we go now instead? Nope, we decided to hold out for having cancer in our rear view mirror before jetting off (but you can bet I’ve got visions of Italy holding space in my head).

Not gonna lie, I was a bit envious watching the rest of the world doing things and going places—while I was stuck waiting seven weeks for surgery plus another eight (currently at week 10 and still counting) for recovery. Would I be lucky enough to be done at that point or unlucky enough to be facing months more of treatment?

All of this is to say, I became exceedingly focused on joy. How to find it even in the midst of cancer, cancer, cancer. Because whatever happened, my life wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. I needed to find some joy now and look forward to creating more after this was all over.

For me, this seeking of joy was entwined with dropping the drawbridge and letting my chosen family and friends in. To find even more pleasure in the simplest of things with the people I love.

It’s not about a swanky trip to Italy (although we will make that happen), it’s about the moments. It’s about being in the body, even when it looks dramatically different and is still slowly healing. It’s about finding joy no matter what else is swirling around us.

Joy wasn’t waiting for me on the other side of cancer.

It was there in the Farmers’ Market, in Jackson’s face, in our selfies, in a French bistro. It was there because I decided it would be. Turns out that’s the only decision that mattered.