Unfinished

By Imani Monica McCullough

My arm hurts. I stop briefly to think about whether I want to process this new pain. Turn it over in my mind, analyze the type of discomfort, then determine if it warrants any more attention. But I decide to take the path of least resistance, instead, telling myself that every 51-year-old woman has an occasional ache of unknown origin.

Maybe that’s all it is.

A year ago, I might not have even noticed the dull ache in my bicep. Or I would have quickly discounted it as being a by-product of lifting something heavy (my 65-pound dog, perhaps?), without ever giving it a second thought.

But that was before the diagnosis.

Part of me wonders if a pain will ever again be just a pain, or if I’ll forevermore be the overanalytical girl who tries not to worry, while silently wondering if I’m worried enough.

But I digress.

This story isn’t about who I am or about who I was before I was diagnosed with cancer. Before someone slapped a label on me in a telephone call that lasted less time than a tv commercial, but that left an imprint that I’ll undoubtedly remember forever.

“The biopsy confirmed our suspicion.” I think those were his words but honestly don’t remember. By the time I processed them, gasped to inhale some air from the suddenly suffocating room, and pushed my mind to ask a question about how serious it was (perhaps in hindsight a dumb question, because, after all, isn’t all cancer serious?), he was gone. I think he mumbled something about how he was just the stomach doctor and said that the oncologist would have to answer any questions. He also recommended that I not google the diagnosis, and instead wait for some mystery doctor to call me in the next week or two. Then he hung up.

I sat alone on the stairs in my foyer, waiting to wake up from what felt like a bad dream. Waiting to feel something – anything – then sat some more. Stared at the strange label that I’d hastily written down. Follicular NonHodgkin’s Lymphoma (NHL). Typed it in to Google (you knew I would, right?), then quickly closed the browser when the top searches about “lymphoma” (which is actually a huge category of diseases) appeared to be talking about life expectancy.

It did not look good.

If I think hard enough, I can probably remember the calls I made to loved ones. Silence. Shock. Sobs. I think I was the one sobbing, but I can’t be sure. Empty promises about everything being ok. Was that me talking? More silence, shock and sobs. Most certainly me again... I would have done anything to avoid those calls. Somehow inflicting pain on those I loved hurt worse than knowing I had been diagnosed with what I now call “the little c” (because it no longer gets to hold “big” power over me!).

Anyway, suffice it to say that when I got diagnosed, I thought a lot about dying. Even after the oncologist told me that follicular NHL is a slow growing blood cancer that I might have had for years without knowing and that I might go for years without needing treatment (one year in, that’s thankfully been the case!). Even after he told me that I’d likely die with the disease, but not likely die from the disease, I still worried because even with good odds I had to wrap my brain around the other what-ifs. I sat for days worrying what would happen if the cancer transformed into another type, how I’d handle treatment if and when I needed it, what I’d do if or when it returned after treatment, and whether the scans had picked up everything. Basically, wondering if my number was up and processing how that would make me feel.

I moved through the next several weeks in a haze. Told my loved ones I was ok, then fell into the arms of my bestie when she didn’t listen and came to town anyway. Went to get a second opinion at MD Anderson in Houston, spent time with my family, then enjoyed a cross-country drive back with one of my sisters... Traveled with my guy to two of my favorite beaches to exhale.

Committed to being vegan’ish. :) Decided I was too hot for hair and would rock what God gave me. Joined online support groups. And cried... a lot. It felt as if I was in the middle of a bad dream, and yet it also felt as if I’d woken up for the very first time.

After the second opinion confirmed my diagnosis, my next stop was a holistic doctor who, five minutes into the appointment, asked me when and how I wanted to die. I sucked my breath in, taken aback that this stranger was asking me the one question that I had been trying not to think about. When I looked confused, he explained that the first step to my healing had nothing to do with the prognosis or treatment – instead, the first step was me deciding whether I wanted to live.

I got what he was saying, but still cringed a bit at talking about my death until he looked right into my eyes and said, “My patients with kids and grandkids want to live to see them grow up. But, since you don’t have kids, you’re going to have to dig deeper to decide whether you’re prepared to fight to be here. That’s the only way you’re going to heal.”

Although still surprised by his brutal honesty, I appreciated his addressing the elephant in the room. And, after thinking hard about his questions, I finally had an answer: I was not ready to die.

In fact, I am not even close to being ready. I don’t know all of my purpose for being born into this world, but I have this unshakeable feeling that I was sent here to make a difference, and a belief that I have barely scratched the surface. No, I am not yet finished.

Once I wrapped my brain around the current reality of living with this dis-ease (which I still have to do reguary), I reaized that the “itte c” diagnosis gave me the gift of recognizing that tomorrow has never been promised and made me ready to LIVE like never before.

So, I’m ready to take the trip TODAY. Start the business TODAY. Write the book TODAY. Pursue my purpose TODAY.

Ready to wear my freakin’ bald head TODAY. Love the body God gave me TODAY. Stop caring what people think TODAY. Eat healthier and move more TODAY. Say “no I just can’t” TODAY. Say “yes” even on a school night TODAY.

Ready to protect my peace fiercely TODAY. Stop worrying about the small stuff TODAY. Realize that most stuff is small TODAY.

Ready to honor my truth TODAY. Speak things unsaid TODAY. Forgive myself and others TODAY. Release hurt and anger TODAY. Find things to be grateful for TODAY, and ready to remind everyone else in the world — whether living with dis-ease or not that it’s time to do the same.