The first day of the rest of my life.

Two years ago today my life changed forever. September 30th 2020 was the day I heard the words, “it’s cancer. Lymphoma.” It was a Wednesday.

It had been months of appointments and diagnoses that didn’t make sense. Months of wanting to believe doctors but knowing something was still wrong. If it’s pneumonia, why is no one else around me sick?

The final straw came on a Monday, sitting in a pulmonologist’s office, simultaneously crying and cracking jokes to release and avoid the 10/10 chest pain.

“Have you eaten lentils recently?” he asked, squirming in his chair.

I stared at him, deeply confused as to how a legume could be so destructive.

“I had a patient recently that had a lentil stuck in their lung. Maybe that’s it?”

Visibly more uncomfortable with my emotions than I was, he was reaching for anything to make sense of my symptoms.

“Interesting, I don’t think so but sure, that’s something to consider.”

“You seem pretty aware that medicine is all about ruling things out and it isn’t perfect.”

“Yeah, I understand why everyone calls it a practice. I’m curious when the big game is. This feels like it should be it.”

Realizing I had gotten to the end of both my politeness and outpatient options to find a solution, I finally went to the hospital. My biggest fear at the time was going to the ER and getting COVID. As soon as my CT scan came back, I was admitted. It was an infection, they just needed more time to get it under control. Flooded with antibiotics, I observed the small army of doctors more flustered than my pulmonologist trying to figure out the appropriate diagnostics. All of a sudden COVID was the least of my concerns.

The next 36 hours were a blur. There was the question of TB that I was happy to deflect and keep my own room. There was a surreal 3am transfer from Beth Israel in East Village to Mt Sinai Main in Upper East. The intrusive visual of my hospital gurney bursting out the back of the ambulance through an empty Times Square is still hard to kick. There was a particularly compassionate nurse who was generous with her words of affirmation and her IV painkillers. There were needed visits from my mom and sister breaking every hospital rule in order to be with me. There was an infectious disease doctor who was confident it was an infection but wanted to rule out a tumor, just to be safe. There was a flurry of miscommunication amongst the army of doctors on how to rule it out. There were more painkillers. There were naps that were cut short to make sure I was still breathing. Finally, there was a visit from my thoracic surgeon, Dr. Kaufman.

My mom and sister had just left for the day when he came in. He recommended I pull them back up on FaceTime as he felt my neck, checked out the mystery rash on my chest, and listened to my lungs despite the impossibility of taking a deep breath without shooting pain.

“You know, I see hundreds of CT scans per year. I have to say, yours is the most interesting I’ve seen in a long time. I know we’ve been preparing for an infection. I think we need to start thinking about this being a tumor. We would hope it’s benign but based on how it’s presenting, we’re going to get you in for a biopsy first thing tomorrow morning to find out.”

I don’t know what I did that night. I think I listened to a lot of John Mayer and cried. I think I googled necrotic tumor and was convinced I had the same stage 4 lung cancer my aunt was diagnosed with and died from three months later. I think I kept asking for more painkillers. My brain doesn’t remember, even though the depths of that fear lives somewhere in my body.

Then it was Wednesday morning. My mom made it to my hospital room with just enough time for an emotional hug before I was wheeled down to surgery. There are a lot of little ways the universe showed up for me that week. The timing of her arrival and that hug was one of them.

“Whatever this is, you can handle it,” I whispered to myself over and over as I looked around at everyone I passed. Hospitals are wild. Healthcare workers are just getting through another day while people’s entire lives and existences are drastically changing around them.

When I got down to surgery, the plan was different from what we had discussed the night before. I wasn’t supposed to be getting anesthesia but I was getting prepped by an anesthesiologist. Something didn’t add up.

Seeing my confusion, King Kaufman came over.

“We were able to do some initial blood tests and it looks like we’re working with lymphoma. It’s a very treatable form of cancer. I want to put you under anesthesia so we can do a full biopsy to be sure. We won’t close you up until we know what’s happening in your body and how we’re going to address it.”

Within minutes, I was taking a few deep breaths, reassuring the anesthesiologist I was deeply accustomed to the couple of cocktails feeling that was coming. I recently celebrated my 29th birthday with seven martinis, this was nothing.

If going under anesthesia feels like seven martinis, the post anesthesia haze feels like three. You know where you are but just barely. You’re talking about things that aren’t at all relevant to the conversation around you. You’re buzzing, you’re warm. You’re so confused and simultaneously so confident.

My post anesthesia haze was the most powerful two hours of my life. Maybe it was the anesthesia, maybe it was the opioids, maybe it was the solitude, maybe it was the trauma response, maybe it was the universe. Maybe it was being locked in a room for four hours with nothing but the slap in the face of my mortality.

Marie De Hennezel put it much more eloquently in her foreword to Intimate Death. “At the moment of utter solitude, when the body breaks down on the edge of infinite, a separate time begins to run that cannot be measured in any normal way. In the course of several days, something happens, with the help of another presence that allows despair and pain to declare themselves, and the dying seize hold of their lives, take possession of them, and unlock their truth. They discover the freedom of being true to themselves.”

Bell Hooks also puts it much more eloquently, in All About Love, “This deathbed recognition of love’s power is a moment of ecstasy. We would be lucky if we felt its power all of our days and not just when those days are ending.”

Maybe it was exactly what I knew all along but it took a tumor breaking my sternum and my life flashing before my eyes for me to do something about it.

Whatever it was, locked in that room with nothing but myself and my body, I felt my feelings, my pain, my purpose, my life and my demons. I looked my limiting beliefs in the face and called bullshit on them. I want a podcast. I want to speak up. I want to grow up. I want to write. I want to create. I want to love. I promised myself once I beat cancer I would be relentless in my commitment to living a life that’s fueled by love and authenticity, not fear or anxiety. Once I felt that deathbed ecstasy of love’s power, I knew nothing would ever be the same.

Two years later. Two years of love. Two years of getting to know myself. Two years of healing and growing. Two years of creating. Two years of putting myself out there. Two years of using my voice. Two years of compassion and grace. Two years of boundaries. Two years of breathing. Two years of feeling.

Two years of a life that’s actually really hard, which is why I took the easy way out for the first 29 years. Two years of trying and failing. Two years of pain and isolation. Two years of uncomfy conversations. Two years of hard decisions. Two years of deep grief. Two years of transitions. Two years of loss. Two years of sometimes numbing instead of feeling. Two years of being human. Two years of being alive.

The first day of the rest of my life was on a Wednesday. I didn’t ask for it but I’m grateful for it. I’m grateful for my sense of humor for keeping me laughing. I’m grateful for therapy and breathwork for helping me unpack the things I laugh about. I’m grateful for every single person who sent me love and prayers and continues to to this day. I’m grateful for this life, even if it’s hard.

It shouldn’t take cancer for you to listen to yourself. For you to commit to the life you know you deserve, the person you know you are. The person you’ve always been but is buried under who you think you should be.

Whether it’s a Wednesday or a Friday or a Tuesday, any day can be the first day of the rest of your life. Any day can be the day you start to choose you.