Special note: On March 13, 1997, I was diagnosed with leukemia. During that time, I wrote a book titled Dancing with the Diagnosis, Steps for Taking the Lead When Facing Cancer. It was published a few years after the completion of my treatment. In honor of the 25th anniversary of the diagnosis, I am highlighting parts of the book and the lessons I learned in this five-part series. I hope the posts will encourage and maybe even inspire. I welcome comments and conversations!
Other than a complete lack of white blood cells in my system, I had no other symptoms when the label of leukemia was thrust upon me. The diagnosis took me, my family, and even my doctors, by surprise.
I spent the rest of 1997 getting chemotherapy and getting better. By the end of the year, I was in remission. 🎉
I was so very grateful! I was grateful I survived, of course (there was one very worrisome touch-and-go ER trip and then all the fear that comes with cancer), but I was (and remain) even more grateful that I traversed the entire experience.
I've often said that there's nothing like a life-threatening illness staring you in the face to help you see things clearly.
I learned so much. Cancer took my hair but gave me wisdom.
Excerpted from the prologue of Dancing with the Diagnosis, here is the imagery that helped me remember my strength as I danced with my own diagnosis. I got the idea in that place between sleep and awake, as I received chemotherapy. I wrote it out the next day.
The Dance
“DANCE WITH ME," Cancer commanded.
"NO!" I shrieked in a fusion of fear and disbelief.
I wanted nothing to do with this would-be suitor and surely couldn't comprehend why it had chosen me in the first place. Before I could make sense of this insanity, I realized this dance was not optional.
Cancer's clutch was firm as it led me to the floor. Arm in arm we were clumsily stepping to the awkward beat of chaos.
The dance it had choreographed for me was riddled with mismatched moves: dangerously low dips coupled with wild swings and unexpected turns. The music was equally discordant. High crescendos crashed into silence, and the tempo wildly sped up again.
Like a lifeless rag doll pinned to my partner, I was spun in circles of sadness until I was left physically and emotionally exhausted.
Just when I was sure I could dance no more, another dramatic change in tempo took me by surprise. My partner and I came face to face. Our eyes locked in fury. We seemed much less like dance partners now but more like a matador and a bull, ready for the fight. (Looking back, I wonder, "Which one was I?")
The new beat brought with it the realization that no longer need I follow in this twisted dance. If cancer and I were to be partners, I would lead.
And lead I did!
My head cleared; my senses sharpened. Like water nourishing a wilted flower, control and determination rejuvenated every cell of my being. I kept my posture strong and stride swift.
My spirited steps were carefully planned, precise, and perfectly timed with the new unfolding song. Our dance was transformed from one of a very physical nature to one created by the positive powers of my mind.
The distance between cancer and me increased.
We were back-to-back, barely touching,
and it was not long until its shadowy figure was just a blur.
As the song faded into the past, I found myself dancing solo.
I stopped...caught my breath...and smiled.
I slowly exited the dance floor, a wiser and more beautiful person.
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| Original art from Dancing with the Diagnosis, 2003 |
