“Can you sit down for a minute?” he said over the phone, after neutralizing my emotions with, “I have some good news and some bad news.”
I sat on my bed, ready to hear the news that I myself had been sure of for several weeks. Just like in love, when you know, you know – right?
My endocrinologist, in all his lacking empathy, informed me that my tumor sitting atop that organ I hadn’t heard of before last month was indeed, deadly. Dramatic, I know. But that’s how I heard it – that this alien in my neck was destroying my new friend, Thyroid, and we were entering the battle zone to keep the enemy from advancing.
Those few months were an incredible blur. January 10, 2014, was my surgeon Dr. Sperry Nelson’s first advance, taking the 2.5-cm by 3.5-cm intruder under the blade and removing it’s body along with half of the infected organ. February 25, 2014, was the Siege of Yorktown, in which Dr. Nelson dove back into my neck like Miss Frizzle on a bus and seized the remainder of the papillary carcinoma and all surrounding lymph nodes.
“Mooommm…” I whined, seemingly 15 minutes after the last time these fluids being pumped through my veins forced me awake and on another assisted trip to the bathroom. Being connected to an IV and having just undergone surgery, I was unable to get myself up and to the toilet a mere 6 feet away from my bed. My mom, who stayed with me all night, took her motherly duties to the max and combined her love for me with her ability to radically exist as a robot-superhuman, waking up at every interval, crying with me when the machines turned on to vigorously pump pain medication through my tiny, fragile veins.
Like I said, that time from initial discovery to radiation treatment was quite indistinct to me in recollection. It’s hard to remember my emotions… I guess because it was traumatic as hell. There are bits and pieces of those days that I remember, some good, some bad – but all, now as memories, reminders that I survived.
But now, as I’ve reached the 5-year anniversary of all of this, I am officially considered to be in complete remission. Five years means I’m cured. Clean. Five years means I can donate my B+ blood again. Five years means you are not a threat to me, past.
I’ve learned a lot about acknowledgement and control over these past few years. I tried not to let my sickness define me then, though it was tough at times to keep it together when someone would complain about something I felt was incomparable to my experience. (But it’s all relative, you know.) I came from that place and was able to learn how to see it all as a stepping stone toward a better Allie. There were days that I sat in my questions, the ones every person with cancer at 22 has. There were hours spent with men and women in other countries who seemed to understand it better than I did, and radiated peace at the idea of the opportunity to trust God with such a thing. As for control, I made the decision right away to lose it and visit Italy with my grandma’s ashes. It was a sort of “hurrah” trip in which I celebrated her life and mine – one in the nod to death, passing on to a new eternity, and one in the defeat of it.
I learned how to let go of the need to be understood, to just know that we all exist together and are simply too diverse to be fully known by anyone but God. Being on the World Race I was told to live under the control of their authority, but didn’t. That mentality got me in the middle of a Cambodian street in a pool of blood seeping from my face. Taking another approach to independence, I learned to abandon control for respect’s sake, and made my own mistakes (while staying away from motorbikes) and accomplished my conquests from another perspective. The bounds I once viewed as restraints I now saw as hurdles and upside-down hourglasses. Even in having something that you think controls you, I’m here to tell you that your incubus is as insignificant as the skin separating my tumor from my surgeon’s scalpel. The choice to be sharp illuminated my world.
I will always have to check yes in the “Cancer” box when filling out my kids’ family medical history information. I will always have to take this tiny pill at 6:30 each morning an hour before I eat. I will always have ultrasounds on the void in my neck to keep me in the clear. But I’ll certainly always have the story of the journey. I’ll always remember those nights in the hospital when confronted with pain and know that I am a conqueror at my weakest. I’ll forever be thankful for full lungs and beating hearts, both in my own and in the love-filled humans around me.
Thank you to everyone who walked with me in 2014, thank you to those who didn’t know me then but pushed me forward through the aftermath, thank you to my doctors, and thank you God for the adventure of a victorious 5-year battle.
A
Serbia taught me how to listen and love people in their messes.
Romania taught me to share when sharing isn’t easy, and to be joyful amidst chaos.
Bulgaria taught me how to bake and not be upset when the brown sugar fails to do its job; and when things turn out wrong, how to laugh.
Macedonia taught me how to hear the voice of the Lord and obey, despite my flesh disagreeing.
Zambia taught me to not dwell on the little things – like flies. It taught me that my body is not the limit of my performance – only God gives us what we truly need.
Botswana taught me that he is the only one who can provide solace in a lonely place. I learned how to make my own fun, and how to invite others into it.
Namibia taught me to be in awe, to marvel at the glory of God and to embrace the beauty of earth. To allow his voice to make me dream like never before, like I could hardly imagine before.
Malaysia taught me to be passionate when no one else is about the same things. To find my worth and beauty in the Lord’s eyes, in HIS identity, and not in my hair color. To acknowledge and understand that the kingdom is so much more important. To accept trial as opportunity.
Thailand taught me to love with all of me and then when ‘me’ runs out, to love with all of Jesus, without reserve.
Cambodia taught me to have joy in the sickness and pain, to embrace the heat, to seek the Lord in all circumstances.
Vietnam taught me to be myself. I learned to be content no matter the circumstances, even when ministry seems non-existent – to make my own ministry and if it’s not working, get full-up on the spirit of God and LET HIM LOVE ME. I’m learning the limits I need in order to live the most life – which can only be attained in the arms of my savior.
The Peregrine Traveler 