If you're on Facebook, you might have experienced its "memories" feature. Sometimes it will send you a notification letting you know that, for example, five years ago on this day, you posted something. And then it will share the post with you, and give you the option of sharing it on your page and making it public.
I rarely post on Facebook these, days, though I visit it pretty much every day. A few days ago, it gave me a "memory":
I remember this picture very well. It was taken at a family reunion in West Virginia 16 years ago, and the person whose face is blocked out is a family member that I enjoy spending time with a lot. It's a very happy memory (and not just because there is so much less white in my beard than there is now).
If you've been reading the blog for even a few months, you might know that I was diagnosed with Follicular Lymphoma over 17 years ago. So this picture was taken about 18 months after my diagnosis.
When I got the memory from Facebook, I texted the person in the picture. "We look so young, " I said. "And I still have that shirt." She laughed and told me that she still had that blue hoodie.
I was still watching and waiting. It was about 6 month before I started treatment. I've kept that shirt for so long because it has the name Jon Lester on the back. Lester was very important to me (and still is). He was a pitcher for my favorite team (I grew up in Boston), a Lymphoma survivor, but more importantly, he played a key role in helping me explain my diagnosis to my kids. My oldest has always been a baseball fan, and even at 10 years old, he knew about Jon Lester's cancer history. So when I was diagnosed, I told him that it was the same kind of cancer that Jon Lester had, and it helped him see things more positively. (Lester had a different, more aggressive type of Lymphoma, but the details didn't matter at that point. What mattered was that my son knew Lester had cancer, got treatment, and came back to help the Red Sox win the World Series in 2007.
And if you want to now how important Jon Lester was to me, especially in the years right after diagnosis, then enter "Jon Lester" in the search box at the top of the blog. He shows up in 20 (now 21) different posts over the years.
I wore that shirt to all of my treatments, too. It was my uniform -- my red Jon Lester shirt, an orange long-sleeved "Life Is Good" shirt, an d a pair of dark blue Adidas sweat pants. Very comfortable. And I still have all three items of clothing. I remember going back to the oncologist's office for a follow-up visit soon after I was finished treatment, and having to use the bathroom in the treatment room. I had just come from work, so I was dressed a little better than my old shirts and baggy seat pants. I saw my treatment room nurse and she didn't recognize me. That tells you how sloppy I looked in my treatment uniform. But I was comfortable.
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Memories are a funny thing. And I don't just mean the Facebook kind. It's very easy to see a photo from 16 years ago and remember the great things. Long conversations with a favorite family member. White water rafting on the New River. Massive games of touch football and wiffle ball. Hanging out in a hot tub after the kids are in bed. Looking at that picture brings back all of those wonderful memories and more from our week in West Virginia.
But not all memories are happy ones, and goodness knows those of who have been diagnosed with cancer have some not-so-happy ones.
It's tempting to tell you to ignore the bad ones and focus on the good ones.
I certainly have been doing that here. I didn't mention the speeding ticket I got, or the sheer panic we felt when our raft tipped over and our 7 year old starting floating down the river on her own, or the fights between family members that week.
And as happy as my Jon Lester shirt makes me feel now, I didn't mention that I was wearing it when I had an allergic reaction to my first dose of Rituxan. Or when I would lie in bed after I got home from treatment, clutching my stomach from the horrible sharp pain I'd feel afterwards, until I feel asleep from exhaustion. Or the deep depression I felt, starting a few days after I invoked Jon Lester's name to my baseball-loving son, wondering what would happen to him if I wasn't around.
I don't think we should forget those things.
Not because they were in any way enjoyable. But because we're still here to remember them.
Our memories aren't just souvenirs of the past. They're reminders of all we've been through. And of all we are able to go through and still make it out to the other side.
Don't forget the past. But don't dwell on it either. Treat your memories like an old t-shirt. Tuck them away in a drawer. But don't lose them. Don't forget they are there.
Use them to remember just how strong you are.
