
A select number of people in my life know this part of my personal history. I don’t keep it a secret, but it’s not something I wear on a sandwich board everywhere I go.
In 1994, at the age of 10, I was diagnosed with AML — an aggressive form of leukemia. 22 years later, I am alive, breathing, and typing this article in remission. You can say it’s a miracle, a gift from God, a marvel of modern science, dumb luck, or a cruel twist of fate. I honestly have considered each to be true at some point in time.
Through the first half or more of these 22 years of post-treatment living, I developed an anxious relationship with my body. When I observe an “off” sensation (something outside the norm of my day-to-day realm of internal sensory experiences), my mind springs to the “I have cancer again” thought-space. To be clear, these are not imagined psychosomatic responses. They are, for the most part, what turn out to be unfamiliar sensations or benign ailments that are not life-threatening.
In the immediate years following my treatment, my parents made many trips to the emergency room with me because I would occasionally feel the same way I felt right before I was diagnosed. My energy levels felt “off.” My eyes would do this weird dizzy bouncing trick with my field of vision. I felt almost as though I was out of my body, observing a foreign invasion of sensations that were signs of doom.
It took a long time to recognize, but this anxiety stems from the belief that I don’t trust my body. I don’t feel safe in my body. My body only speaks through malignant sensation; nothing is benign. My body betrayed me once, it’s only a matter of time before it does again.
Over the last several years, I have learned about this pattern of anxious thought, tracing it from months of dormancy to a sudden emergence like a crippling pimple on an otherwise unblemished teenage face the night of senior prom. And the emotional response is quite similar, though one figurative and the other literal: “I’m going to die!” Then it recedes once more, to the recesses of my preoccupied mind.
It was ultimately impossible to discern what my body was telling me in this way. So, I made the intention to listen to it with less fear. It took time and patience to establish a sense of trust. I found that when my body would take me away from the familiar path, I could follow along while maintaining a calm sense of stability. I know where the main road is, yet I can venture away for a moment knowing that I can find my way back.
Sounds like I’m doing well, right? I have implemented coping skills, I have built trust within myself, and I live with less paralyzing fear. Mostly, this is all true.
Enter mystery sensation #3,968: Thursday, April 14, 2016, approximately 9:45am.
This one is in my neck, specifically the front right side of my throat under my jaw. It came about one morning after teaching an 8am yoga class. In 3 days time, it developed from jaw tension to tension in my throat/neck to a very acute spot along the right side of my throat under my jaw that is extremely tender to touch and feels slightly enlarged or swollen.
My ayurvedically trained mind considers what these sensations are telling me in the map of my body. I narrow it down to lymph accumulation, so I decide to implement a few extra practices to support the proper circulation of the lymph. This provides some relief for the pain and peace of mind that it’s responding to my acts of self-care.
Up to day 5, I have yet to feel even a twinge of fear or anxiety about the mystery of this sensation. I also, though, have purposely avoided typing into Google: “swollen lymph node.”
End of day 5, I give in during a car ride home (my boyfriend at the wheel) and decide to do a “quick little search.” Of course the first thing I read is that swollen lymph nodes can be a sign of leukemia or lymphoma. Sound the alarm! Ring the bells! Batten down the hatches! Away we go!
Of course, I knew this, but reading it made it real. This time, though, it wasn’t anxiety. It was an intense desire to sit with the information before me to contemplate its implications; and it was anger at my insurance company for no longer covering my doctor who specializes in long-term follow-up care for cancer treatment patients. It was like in every dramatic movie from the 90s when the camera zooms in while the background fills out.
As my boyfriend is trying to ask me about driving directions, I respond sharply at him to figure it out himself. After a moment of silence, I curtly share what I’ve read. He reaches across for my hand. Once we park, he speaks sweetly to me, holds me, and collects my tears on his shoulder.
Silently, unblinkingly, and together we hold our shared fear of this unknown in the space between us.
Now on Day 7, I’m living Schrödinger’s Cat scenario. I have yet to see the doctor for tests (I’m not avoiding, just navigating finding a new doctor in-network). So I sit here simultaneously healthy and dying of cancer.
I’m a walking cancer machine. Cancer will always be a part of me. It’s not something that’s magically completed because I’ve been out of treatment for 22 years. It’s simply a facet of myself with which I have deep intimacy, but no guarantee of safety.
We are all walking cancer machines. We could break down any minute with disease. It’s not a pleasant thought, but it’s the truth.
This story doesn’t end with some uplifting hopeful message you’d expect from a “cancer survivor” (more on my issues with that term later). And I’m not sorry about that.
I don’t have an answer. And neither do you, dear reader. None of us do.
OKAY, well maybe one slightly optimistic thought: This time, my body is not my enemy.



