Unremarkable.

I had my first surveillance CT scan this past week. I went into it confident, knowing I haven't been perfect (far from it) but that I have been doing the work to heal, and live my life with health and vibrancy. This confidence comes from the intimacy with my blood, working with my naturopath to closely monitor a comprehensive list of panels and tests that have gone from the chaos of a middle school band, to the precision of a world class orchestra. Well maybe not quite that far, but you get the idea.

It was a blur of a day getting the CT, work was packed with meetings and Bjorn had taken Bastian to the ER due to a possible hypoglycemic episode (a topic for another day). Once I knew Bastian was ok, I drove to my CT with work continuing through an earbud as I checked in and drank the cocktail to make my insides glow. Maybe I needed that earbud more than work needed me. The CT itself is quick and uneventful, an ivy in my arm to interact with the glow potion, a couple of breath holds and I was done.

I was curious when I would get the results but not worried. As I sat to eat leftovers with Bode and start on math homework, I was getting text notifications for Bastians bloodwork. Amidst these MyChart notifications, I saw one for me—for anyone who has had tests or scans done, you know the legally required bizarre (and jarring) nature of scan/test results that are delivered to you without any filtration or context. They drop into your inbox with a jolt knowing that behind “you have a new test result” lies (potentially) life-changing information. I opened MyChart and scanned the results: unremarkable, unremarkable, unremarkable—an undesirable word to describe a person, but in this context, it's exactly what you want to be, unremarkable.

While I had very little concern about being remarkable, I realize that this information gave me relief, and also a desire to celebrate with others. While these scans might not be my big indicator of success, it is how the medical community, and so many others orientate someone as "cancer-free". I wanted to give this moment to others, a bright star in the blur of a busy week, comfort in my continued health. So I started texting family and friends. The responses of joy made me smile, made me proud, made me forget about all the hard things that day held. And then another MyChart notification came in. I opened it and read a second CT report “Stable 2 mm solid pulmonary nodule in the left lower lobe” I looked back at prior chest CT scans, no mention of this crayon tip size nodule.

My heart sank as texts of celebration continued to trickle in. Since we've already used a middle school analogy, we'll go with the lights abruptly turning on at a school dance when you're ill-prepared to face the fluorescents. I quickly Googled while I texted back "actually....." messages taking all I had texted on this roller coaster with me while protecting Bode who I just excitedly told "mommy had a good scan, no cancer" and Bjorn who was en route home after a long day at the ER with Bastian. My mind swirled with thoughts, maybe it's nothing, I think it's nothing, but if it's something, what will they do, can others handle this, can I handle this? The nervous texts started trickling in, ones of comfort but concern, I texted back my Dr. Google analysis, more worried about easing the angst of others than myself. I sent a note to my oncologist, helped put the boys to bed, and I surprisingly fell into a deep sleep.

I heard back from my oncologist amidst a long stretch of back-to-back calls "you had this before, they didn't note it on past CTs as it was so small - It's almost certainly not cancer, it has not changed in size.” Relief in a different form, and I fired off more texts to put the breaks on the rollercoaster that others had joined me on. But behind the texts I could feel the concern, that while I was cheerleading my update of “no really, I’m unremarkable” what had happened was remarkable, not just for me, but for those in my life. While these scans offer me confirmation of health, I realized they were providing proof of health for others – it was a way for my community to orientate me as someone who doesn’t have cancer. My little roller coaster momentarily put me back in the cancer category, but then we were all able to hop off, but not without some lingering effects from those prior loops.

Today marks two years since my diagnosis, when I had to tell my community that I was sick and my body was facing a long and difficult road to healing. And here I am today, cancer free and working on my vibrancy – I guess I'm remarkable afterall.