Chicago or bust

I just shoved three days worth of clothes and toiletries into Esther-Faith's super tiny, pink, hello kitty suitcase and zipped it shut. I checked in for my flight not quite 24 hours in advance via the app that has been on my phone for just under 24 hours. I've selected all of Esther-Faith's outfits for the week and matched ties with suits and shirts for Tim. The cat has food for three days. I've set reminders on my phone to remind Tim to let the dog back into the house. I've meal planned for the week. My work laptop is charged and I have a book to read on the plane. 

I'm about ready to travel for the first time with cancer as my only companion. 

I'm a nervous traveler. Well, nervous seems like a mild description. I love to travel with my family, and I love to plan travel. But alone? Not so much. Even without the added layer of traveling with a pharmacy in my purse. I have all of my prescriptions in their original bottles in case the ATF (or is it TSA) folks decide to dump my purse out and find out why there are medicines for managing any combination of cancer side effects. 

I was supposed to be four weeks out from chemo when I took this trip--not two. Two weeks out means I'm still dealing with painful diarrhea, extreme nausea, and debilitating fatigue. 

And tomorrow, I'm getting on an airplane. To Chicago. Away from my family and my home and my people and my doctors and the cancer center and everything familiar. My hotel is 1.5 miles from the conference. I have to navigate an unfamiliar city. Find food. Use UBER for the first time. And work. Attend sessions and meetings and learn and whatever. 

People do this, right? People with cancer work and travel and manage? I mean, I know they do. But can I? Can I do this? Really, I won't know the answer until tomorrow. Until I get on a plane and fly to Chicago for a conference I'm excited to attend. Excited to learn. Excited to think about the future of my job and my career and what we can do for students at Ohio State. And see Yo Yo Ma perform. And Gwen Stefani. And meet folks from other universities trying to do what we're trying to do. 

But cancer. 

I'm a nervous traveler, and now I have an added layer. Cancer. Sometimes I'm still in denial that I'm Stage 3 breast cancer with a grade 3 tumor. Friday I went to see my counselor, and Friday night I googled all of it again--desperate to understand what it all means for me. And for my family. I fell asleep with "grade 3 tumor, stage 3 cancer" in my search bar, but I never hit enter. 

I don't know if I really want to know what it all means. I want to go to Chicago and learn as much as I can about implementing Marketing Cloud at Ohio State and I don't want to think about cancer. I don't want to think about what is coming the rest of this summer. I want to think about finding a restaurant that serves shrimp and grits so I can memorize the flavors and recreate it at home. I want to think about missing Tim so much that whatever is going on between us melts away before I get home. I want to think about finding just the right souvenir for Esther-Faith. 

But cancer. 

When I get home from Chicago, the next big thing on my calendar is vacation followed not 100 hours later by surgery that will change me. Change who I am. Change my body and how I feel about myself. Forever. 

I don't think I'm required to like this situation, and despite all of the pleas from the people I love to "be positive" and "fight like hell" and "kick the shit out of cancer," I think what I'm doing is what I'm supposed to be doing. I'm doing everything my doctors and nutritionists and physical therapists and psychologists and pharmacists tell me to do. But to me, fighting is actually just surviving this. I'm scared I won't. So, I work on my cookbook at ridiculous hours while cinnamon rolls rise, and I read all the books I love alternately with books by cancer survivors (I call them all that--even if they died). 

A couple of weeks ago I got to see Keely play soccer. She scored three times and she won the sportswomanship of the game award. She got a free snack from the concession stand. Gavin begged her to share. 

After the match Michele walked me to my car. We talked. Mostly, I talked. She listened. Then I cried. Then she held me. There are things I can't tell Tim, and Michele holds that space for me. She lets me share with her the things I'm feeling and the confusion and anger and the books I'm reading. And she reads them, too. No matter how painful or uncomfortable, she reads the books so that she can relate to where I am mentally and emotionally. It's a gift really. To have someone like that in my life. There is really no way I think I will be able to repay her for that gift. 

When I land in Chicago, I imagine I'll text Tim that I arrived safe. Then I will figure this out. I will navigate travel and work and cancer all at the same time. I will obsessively text to make sure Esther-Faith and the pets are all fed and in the house at the right time. I'll ask for photos to make sure outfits are all arranged the right way. I'll text Tim twice to remind him to shave his face and to give Esther-Faith a vegetable for dinner. Esther-Faith has asked to cook while I'm gone. I'm both happy and nervous about that. At 13, I was cooking full meals. I have no doubt that she will be able to do it, but I won't know until after I land in Chicago and Esther-Faith and Tim manage without me. 

I guess I'm hoping they'll be just fine. Maybe I shouldn't text reminders. Because really, I don't know if I'm going to survive this cancer thing, and I need them to be able to manage without me. Maybe I'll send Michele a list of all the things that I'm not going to text to Tim and Esther-Faith. Maybe I'll just relax and worry about finding the best shrimp and grits in Chicago. Maybe I'll just work and conference and cancer and survive. I'll fly to Chicago for three days and I'll fly home. The rest is coming no matter what. I just need to figure out how to travel with cancer. I need to endure the next couple of days. I need to trust and love and survive and trust again. 

Could you all check on them for me? Make sure Tim's tie matches his suit and shirt? Make sure Esther-Faith has lunch and she sets the timer for her procedure? Make sure it isn't steak and potatoes every night? Make sure there are veggies? Make sure Tim doesn't forget that we have pets? And remind him that he likes the pets? Make sure they're okay while I'm gone? I'm planning and hoping to be here for years to come, but just in case, will you check on them for me? 

I'm going to Chicago by myself--with cancer as my only companion--for a couple of days. And I can't figure out if it is a test run or a metaphor or just a conference and all will be fine. Because cancer has changed me and changed how I think and how I relate and how I love. It has changed me. I am changed.

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