Oscar Mike

"To be prepared for war is one of the most effectual means of preserving peace." — George Washington

I have been preparing for battle. Laser focused on the enemy. Developing plans. Readying my troops. Stocking supplies. All while an uprising is stirring from within the city walls.

I had my port placed — my first piece of armor — last week and it knocked me on my butt. Even recently, while I’ve been so fatigued, I’ve been able to maintain a good pace, to continue to get things done. This reminded me that things are not normal and that I will be forced to slow down.

And to be honest, I’m pretty pissed about it. I love being busy. I love taking my kids to various activities and playdates and watching their personalities emerge and develop, feeling full of joy in their joy. I love pouring my heart into my work and the buzz of the payoff and response to those efforts. I love going to concerts, plays and shows with my husband, sharing experiences we love together in a completely different way than we engage at home where we have fun, demonstrate love, share laughs and relax, but where we are also co-managers of chaos clinging to the same piece of wood adrift in an ocean (because yes, Rose, there 100% was room for Jack).

So yeah, I’m pissed.

But what I’m most mad about is that cancer has taken the remote for my life and pushed pause. I’ll be physically here — in a cycle of appointments, treatments, recovery — for a year, but stuck in one spot while the world continues to turn. My kids will grow taller and wiser, my colleagues will carry the mission forward (honestly, thank God for that!), friends will gather, holidays will happen, we’ll all get another year older, folks will vacation and all around people will continue to add brick by brick to the architecture of their lives.

The fatigue and physical slow down aren’t solely to blame — my brain is also overworked and short-circuiting and I’m making simple mistakes. I am capable of great things — of running a marathon, of simultaneously carrying two kids across a parking lot, of presenting complex plans persuasively to executives, of tackling every challenge that has been set before me — but this time it’s going to take more. I’m used to digging deep, pushing harder, working through the tired, the sore, the discomfort. This time the discomfort will be in the stillness. Being OK with the world moving around me, feeling like I’m taking steps backward and that success is simply returning to the place I was before. But this time, hopefully, cancer free.

Tomorrow is my first day of chemo and I am equal parts excited and terrified. I’m excited to invite poison into my veins and launch the assault on the enemy — some frazzled, overworked cells that’ve gone rouge. I’m excited to take these first steps on a long walk toward confirming plans rather than “that will depend” or “wait and see.” To get back to not being too tired to play with my kids. To get back to running. To living.

I’m terrified of feeling awful all the time. Of missing moments with my children and not being there when they need me. I’m terrified of not showing up at work. Of not being a present partner.

But more than all those feelings, I’m excited to fight against the fear of not being here anymore. To take on every step of this plan with everything that I have and to come out wiser, stronger, better.

I’ve read a lot about how much cancer can change you, has changed people. I refuse to let cancer take any part of me — certainly not my light — but I won’t leave this experience without learning from it. I’ll think about this chapter every day for the rest of my life, I feel certain of that.

I will look back and think about how strong I was, about everything I gave up and everyone who showed up. People I’ve just met. Folks I haven’t talked to in years. Dear friends. Distant family. And everyone in between.

I will think about all of this and remember the love, the generosity, the compassion. And I’ll never take a moment I’m gifted for granted.