One Year
- Jon Douthit
- Sep 21, 2018
- 3 min read
September 21 marks the end of a season. Cooler air and a stronger wind are beginning to descend on us in Boston as summer draws to a close.
A new season is upon us, and fall - especially in New England - is quite possibly my favorite season of all.
We've entered a new season of life, too. Since the fantastic news that my cancer is in remission, we've had a celebratory summer, road tripped to visit family, gone on many camping adventures, and are now settled back into the daily school routine. Going back even further, I've been at work full time since mid-February. We are grateful that the kids are in a much healthier place than when I was in treatment (though there are still scars that remain). In just about every way, life is back to normal.
Back to normal. Back. Too normal.
The end of summer brings many reconnections as friends, acquaintances, neighbors, and co-workers return after varying vacation schedules. So naturally, I've been asked a lot recently how I'm doing. The answer I've given lately has been that I feel great. No lingering symptoms, full of energy (well, for a parent of three under 6), and glad to be back into a routine. But, I quickly add, it still feels a bit surreal. After all, it hasn't even been a year since all of this started. It's hard to believe that in under a year, I found out I had a tumor, despaired as we awaited a diagnosis, endured 4 challenging months of treatment, waited months for any news, and are back living life, settled into a normal routine.
Did that really just happen?
All of that will begin to change on this day. September 21. The first day. September 21 is my dad's birthday, gone now a whole decade. (Is that really possible?) It's already a day full of memory. But one year ago, on September 21, I followed up with my doctor about minor lingering symptoms I'd been having. September 21 I did some blood tests, an x-ray and H. Pylori test, just to rule a few things out. September 21, I left the doctor's office and within 5 minutes received an ominous phone call: we found something in your chest. It's large. We don't know what it is - either liquid (an infection) or solid (a tumor) - but you need to have a CT scan tomorrow. September 21, I came home and waited until the kids were in bed to tell Kristen, and our journey began. September 21, the kid's "writing book" prompt was, "Do you believe in luck?" and holding them tight, my knowing response, echoing Lou Gerhig, was "I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth."
September 21 marks the first of many one-year remembrances. With each, I'm sure will come a flood of memories - memories and gratitude for where we are today. But reliving those memories, I think, will help us move into this new season, as we erect monuments in our hearts commemorating the anniversary of all those memories.
Life feels like it's back to normal. But now and then, things still feel a bit surreal. Sometimes at work when I talk about something during that season it feels like a distant memory. At other times, it feels all too recent. I don't think it's possible to live every moment with the frailty of life in mind. As an overarching principal, "live like you were dying" is a sobering perspective that we need to constantly remind ourselves of as we strive to live life to the fullest. At the same time, day in and day out, it's OK to be present in the moment, with all it's joys and worries, and not second guess whether I'm living EACH and every moment to the fullest potential. It's a strange balance - living in the here and now, but with an eye toward finality and eternity.
In six days, on September 27, I'll have my first remission follow-up appointment. Even though I feel great, and we won't have a scan until December, I'm sure we'll hold our breath at least a little. Life is back to normal - sometimes a little too normal - but I don't think it will ever be all the way normal. And that's OK.
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