I have an old phone. It doesn't have a huge amount of storage on it, so it fills up fast, to the point where I can't do any updates because there isn't any space.
I know the reason. I run my dog's Instagram page (oh yes -- that guy named Lympho Bob is not my only online persona). I take several pictures of the dog every day. "For online content," I say to my wife and kids who roll their eyes at me when I tell them to keep still so the dog will stay in whatever cute position she is in. I end up with way more photos and videos on my phone than I actually need. And then I forget to go back and erase them and they pile up.
So over the last few weeks, I've been going through the photos on my phone, erasing anything that I don't really need, like duplicate photos of the dog or old memes that I though were funny and may r may not think the same now. Last week, my wife and youngest kid and I took a train ride into New York City to go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It's an amazing place. I spent the 2 hour train ride going through all of my photos for 2023. I had a ridiculous number of photos of my dog sleeping while she's lying on her back. Maybe two of them ended up on Instagram. It was very therapeutic to erase so many of them and create some space.
As you might imagine, going through thousands of photos brings back some memories. And some of those memories are directly related to being a cancer patient.
I found several photos that I had saved over several months, all variations of the same meme: "My Lymph Nodes are Assholes." I liked that one a lot, enough to save it whenever it came up. I don't think I ever re-posted it anywhere, including in this blog. But I enjoyed the fact that it kept coming back to me, and I kept enjoying it. And it's true -- if my Lymph Nodes were people, I probably wouldn't want to spend much time with them. They're much too negative. I'm getting to an age where I'm more selective about who I spend time with. I'd rather not have what they are offering.
I found another meme, a list written by a cervical cancer patient: "You Know You Have Cancer If...." and then there were 10 items like "You can pronounce difficult drug names correctly" and "You speak very freely about your own body." They were all very true. But my favorite was "You have a favorite vein." Because I do have a favorite vein -- left arm, along the inside of the elbow. It's a beautiful one -- I have been told so by many phlebotomists. In fact, when I get blood taken and the phlebotomist doesn't comment on how nice it is, I get a little insulted. "Pretty privilege," I think it's called. Those of us with beautiful veins can get a little bit obnoxious about it.
I found a bunch of vacation photos of people I have met who are cancer survivors. My wife and I are doing our best to travel now, when we can, when we are healthy enough to enjoy it. We don't want to look back 10 years from now, wishing we had taken the trips we used to dream about. We're living the dreams now, as much as we can.
There were some photos of a group we had met on a river cruise, and one of the women in the group was a two-time breast cancer survivor. One night, when the wine was flowing at dinner, we started talking about how ridiculous it was to be diagnosed with cancer at a relatively young age -- me at 40, she in her late 30s. We were laughing in a way that cancer patients do sometime. But it wasn't a happy conversation for her husband. He said to me, stone-faced, "But it wasn't funny when it happened, was it?" No, it wasn't. I told him about watching moving with my young kids and turning out the lights in the room so they wouldn't see me crying.
It's funny how shared sadness can make someone feel happier.
A few years before that, we traveled to Italy, something we'd talked about for 30 years. While we were there, we met someone who was in active treatment for lung cancer. She and her husband were great travel companions, and we spent a wonderful afternoon with them in Venice -- one of our favorite travel memories in many years of traveling. Of course, it came out that both of us were in different stages of our dealing with cancer. She was a cancer blogger and writing teacher, like me. We had lots to talk about.
I kept up with her blog for a long time. As I said, she was in active treatment when we met. She is a long-distance bike rider, and enjoyed good days when she could get out and ride. She hasn't written anything on her blog since April. It was good news at that point -- she was able to see her oncologist three times a year instead of four. So I'm going to assume she's doing well and spending her time riding instead of writing. Writing about cancer is hard to keep up sometimes, I know. We all need a break.
We had corresponded by email for a while, and that made me think of all of the emails I have received over the years from readers. I think about you all a lot. It's true. I'll read or something that will make one of you pop into my head. The filmmaker from the Netherlands. The doctor who retired and moved to Portugal. The marathoner from Ireland. The second amendment advocate who was finding out information for her brother. The guy who just wanted to stop thinking about cancer and get back to riding his motorcycle with his wife. I am honored that you reached out to me and trusted me with your stories. I save all of those emails, and every now and then I think about writing to you to ask how you are doing. But I don't, because maybe you're in a place where you don't want to think about all of this anymore. And I respect that.
But I'd also love to hear from you if you're still reading. I'd love to now that you're doing OK.
Cancer is such a long, strange trip if we're lucky. I hope all of you are able to make happy memories and have some time to reflect on them. And maybe smile a little.
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