The Loves Of My Life: Survivorship

As I was enjoying my most recent copy of Brighter (a magazine for women affected by cancer) I stumbled across an article by Lauren Candies Tarpley, a breast cancer survivor. Her piece, The Mental Game of Survivorship celebrates her hard-fought road to remission. She is now 5 years out from her diagnosis-day and reflects on what life feels like to go from Lauren, to Cancer Lauren, and then - slowly - trying to find her way back to just.....Lauren.

And there it was. Me. Right there on the page. I, too, was once Cyndi. Then I became Cancer Cyndi. The difference is - unlike Lauren - my cancer won't ever fully let me unbecome Cancer Cyndi. So instead of focusing on survivorship as a finish line, I've had to reshape that idea into something longer, messier, and more real: surviving while living with cancer.

This is a story of how I went from being me....

to polycythemia vera....

and now also, myelofibrosis (MF -1)

Turns out, just like ultrarunning, cancer is not primarily a physical game. Not surprisingly, it's a mental one too.

I've known this about ultra running for a long time. Your mind will absolutely lie to you. It will say, "You're done. You can't go another step." And your job is to say, "Cute option" - and keep going until you fall down, throw up or get heat stroke. Sounds fair, right? The body gets the final say only when you stop listening to the drama coming from your brain.

Then cancer entered the chat.

Suddenly the question became: who's in charge now?

My body or my mind?

Cyndi....or Cancer Cyndi.

The lines blur real fast, my friends.

Before all this, Cyndi used to think she'll live forever - like most human beings think. We causally ignore the looming reality of death because honestly, it really improves the vibe. It makes life feel infinite, and that's a wonderful way to live - even though the only guaranteed thing about being born is that we will, in fact, die.

And then an oncologist ruins your day.

I remember my diagnosis-day as it's forever etched in my memory, filed under "Shocking News". So here's my unsolicited advice to anyone newly diagnosed.

Sit with it for about 30 days. Process it. Stay as calm as possible, because clarity does not visit chaos. Share your story only with people who can hold it gently - who will protect it, not poke at it. When you're ready, tell the ones who've earned the right to know. Not everyone gets access to your most sacred, fragile truth.

I learned the hard way that when we hand our tender stories to people who do not know how to hold them, they drop them. Or stare awkwardly. Or are not our people for our story. Not everyone is.

Anyway. Cyndi transitioned to Cancer Cyndi - and that in itself brings difficult and beautiful life lessons with it.

Brutiful (Brutal and Beautiful) life lessons

From the beginning, I knew 2 things:

1. Cancer would not define me.

2. Pity would not be invited into my story.

And yet, pity shows up anyway. You can see it bloom in people's eyes the moment you tell them you have an incurable cancer. I get it. It's instinctual. You've just become a walking reminding of everyone's worse fear. Suddenly, you've been relocated - by others - into a strange corner of the universe : the place where people actually die.

I used to say things like, yeah but it's treatable for a period of time or I'm told I have some time. But now, I realize I don't know anything more than anybody else does about the ultimate prognosis. And my oncologists are noncommittal at the most. Nobody truly knows.

That's how you go from Cyndi to Cancer Cyndi - when you tell others and let the cat out of the bag. It's part of the gig. But here's the good news. When you tell the right people - the ones who love you, hug you, check on you, and laugh with you - you're still just Cyndi. I'm Cancer Cyndi when I speak of my labs, treatment and/or updates to them. Otherwise. Just Cyndi. Always.

Cancer has taught me that people have an extraordinary capacity for grace. We don't always know what to say. I don't always know what to say. We don't always get it right. But most people are doing the best they can with the tools they have. And this - this understanding - might be my greatest takeaway.

We are all carrying something.

If I can sit with someone in their pain without hijacking their story....if I can shine a little light when theirs is dim....that's when I quietly thank cancer for the lesson. Cancer Cyndi shows up in those moments - not to lead, but sit beside. Sometimes cancer brings gifts wrapped in terrible packaging.

Living with blood cancer means redefining "normal". For me, it's been baby steps. What is my 'now' normal? Yes, the treatment is not kind to a body. Accepting that my fingernails may not survive. Managing the urge to hide my hands. Fighting imposter syndrome. It's a mental game of reminding myself that this journey is not linear. It's messy, bone-aching - and sometimes I don't even recognize myself in it. And still - my mind protects me in ways I can't see. When things don't make sense, it's my mental game that carries me through. The mental muscle I work on every single day. That's when I stay rooted in Cyndi....and let Cancer Cyndi ride in the backseat. She's allowed to come along - she just doesn't drive.

Time has a way of softening sharp edges. I don't let the hard days win - though some days they definitely try. And I'll say this: I've lived a beautiful life. A full one. And however many days or years I have left, I'll take them with grace - and just enough chaos to keep things interesting.

I want to dance in the barn. Channel bad bitch energy. Chase my feral little dogs. And buy more chickens. And guess what? I can.

I may never shed the label of Cancer Cyndi - but I'm okay being both. She reminds me that life isn't infinite....and that I should absolutely buy those chickens.

And keep my mental edge sharp.

Side Note: Cancer Disneyland 🎢

Cancer Cyndi heads back to MD Anderson in March. Texas Oncology has been dropping phrases like "your numbers look good" and "your treatment is keeping you stable". Who knows....I may stay in Myelofibrosis-1/MF-1 (bone marrow failure) for a undetermined period of time (MF-2 is stem cell transplant go-time). And right now? This is my sweet spot. I'm in it. I know I'm in it. And it feels really, really good.

Pixie Pie 🐾

Someone else is living their sweet-spot era - Pixie.

Snuggle bugs
And like me, her wounds are still healing

While Pix had her left eye removed recently (her right eye exited the chat earlier) she and Cricket stayed at the main house tucked away safe and sound so her stitches could heal properly without a WWE-smackdown dog style. And now BOOM - they are back home in my little cabin and I'm beyond happy! I missed them so much, and so did Theo (well, Olive calls him Peo but that's a different story).

Pixie is no longer in a permanent wink 😉 Granted, she could not see out of that left eye anyway, but once it started going sideways, it was time. She's now rocking a permanent eye close look 😌

~~Peo~~ Theo and Pixie have developed a special relationship which involves self care. Isn't it sweet?

Well, until it gets rough - and it does. Their love is but a prickly pear......sweet - and thorny tough.

But really, I think she feels better with her eyes removed. Less pain, less issues with eyes she can't protect. Plus, she's come out of her shell and runs around here (and into things) like she has not a care in the world. Her eyes were so terrible - and I'm glad she's rid of them. My lil Pixie Pie sleeps with us.....right next to Theo, of course.

Blue, and also Blue, and Blue, and Blue

I've taken in my next foster crew: four Rottie-mix puppies

Me: But can I do this

Yes, 4 rottweiler-mix puppies who were recently weaned from their mama. My assignment? Keep them safe, happy, alive, and fed while they grow of age to be spayed/neutered so that they then may be adopted. Foster folks such as myself give these animals a chance to get out of the shelter (while they need more time to age into 'altering' age) and receive attention and socialization that will hopefully benefit them when it comes time to putting their best paw forward for an adoption.

Fur-nado Factor over here

One of them were named Blue, as he has one blue eye and one brown eye. Turns out, 2 of the puppies do! One has their blue eye in the right eye, and the other in their left eye.

Blue

And Blue

When Brooks was here, he decided to name them all blue - and I get that. They are like little ants running around here and it's hard to tell who's who. So now.....they are all Blue. Honestly? Fair.

Residence in the shed

Their own little AirBnB with a tiny yard, a doggie door,
and two heaters and heat lamps for comfort

I've had them for a couple of weeks (2? 3?) Time has lost all meaning. All I know is it's time for them to return on Tuesday, and I don't even know if I can get out of my property with all this snow and ice. So we'll see if they go back or not? They are all scheduled for surgery that day 🙀 Weather-permitting.

Me: Driving them to Fort Worth
in a tractor if I have to

These pups are officially twice as big as they started and ready to go find their furever families. But can I get them there? First up, corralling them be like herding cats. And add in this weather......pray for me.

Yep, Me

So this weather....

Why? Just....why?

My chickens hate it. My donkeys are unimpressed. The goats are surviving on grit and side-eye.

Everyone has heated water, shelter and plenty of food - but unless you're in a heated barn, this is just rude. We'll get through it. All of us. Humans and animals alike.

But also - can it please stop now?

I'm done talking about it. Someone make it go away.