My cancer diagnosis in 2013 was a rude awakening to my own physical vulnerability, and to personal mortality. It also was another kind of awakening, one that prompted me to appreciate people and opportunities that may have previously gone unnoticed or been put off for a more convenient place or time.
After 15 months of treatment — the full monty of surgery, chemo, radiation and targeted therapy — I came out the other side. I am stronger in who I am. I find more joy in blessings, and I find moments of contentment in adversity.
As part of the process of reclaiming my life and body, I started biking daily this past summer, and I continue to ride on the weekends now that I have returned to work as a teacher at Leonard Middle School in Old Town. I love to breathe the outdoor air, observe life around me, and feel the wind blowing over me.
During one of these rides, I realized that bike rides are a nearly perfect representation of my course of cancer treatment.
In the middle of a ride, sometimes it is difficult to tell whether I am going uphill or downhill. The ground immediately beneath seems flat, and looking ahead provides no further perspective. Only that occasional look backward can show me where I’ve been — the hills I’ve conquered, the speedy rides downhill when I could finally catch my breath.
When I realize I’m on an uphill climb, sometimes I just have to push through — and that’s good enough. In the middle of a long climb, I glance only quickly to see if there is an end in sight, and then quickly focus on exactly where I am. I say to myself, “Just grind through it.” Although I am tired and somewhat out of breath, I can always push myself just the current short distance. Finally, after much hard work, I’ve climbed that hill that used to seem impossible.
Distances become a matter of perspective. When starting any ride, 10 miles seems impossibly long — let alone 20, 30 or more. Looking back after finishing, however, it doesn’t seem so long after all.
I remember when I met with my surgeon after my lumpectomy and the detailed diagnosis that comes with it — tumor analysis, lymph node involvement and staging. After explaining my specific breast cancer, she told me I’d likely undergo about 20 weeks of chemotherapy followed by radiation, then round out 15 months of treatment with targeted therapy infused every three weeks. It seemed like treatment would last forever — over a year of my life. Yet, looking back, it didn’t seem so long. Difficult times go by, and faster than I could imagine in my hours of fear.
When pushing through a difficult ride, I learned not to be distracted by things that don’t matter: a bit of grease smudged on my leg from the chain or thoughts of what could have been. In cancer treatment, every day can be an assault of distracting and sometimes disheartening details: a house that could use cleaning, work performance that isn’t up to my usual standards, the lack of energy to read or do something productive rather than lie on the couch and watch bad television. I learned it’s sometimes acceptable to let all those details slide by and just breathe.
On the other hand, I learned to focus on all the experiences that do matter. Be present to all that lightens the spirit and awakens the senses. Be aware of all surroundings — the sights, sounds, smells, textures. Tune into and appreciate every moment with the people who share my life. Especially notice myself, how I feel emotionally and physically.
While biking, I am aware of my body and my breathing, the feel of the wind, my moving muscles as they wake up and eventually tire. I feel my toes go numb from one of my chemotherapies, a neurotoxin, so I wiggle them. I see trees, streams, the Penobscot River, the houses I pass and their animal and human inhabitants. I hear the noises in the woods. I am aware of dangers — cracks in the road, an approaching car. I experience the whole ride.
In cancer treatment, that same awareness is crucial. I had to pay attention to my own body and what it told me. Frustratingly, I often grew tired from small tasks or events and had to give in to a rest or early bed. Low blood counts, allergic reactions, organs affected by treatment. It’s important to observe, process and report accurately to the doctors who are trying to help.
It’s just as important to be present for every small joy. When I paid attention, I found there were many: a good laugh, food that tasted good, a small walk outside, sunset over the river, a beautiful snowfall. I found that any difficult time in life has its joys, if I just stayed present and looked for them. It’s those small joys that helped me push through.
As I started biking, I found many people who wanted to help — some bikers, some not. They offered advice, encouragement and company. They wanted me to journey safely and reach my goals. On many rides, I passed other bikers along the way, who nodded their encouragement. Occasionally, we’d stop and have a conversation. I often chose to bike by myself, but I never felt like I was in it alone.
The same was true with fighting cancer. Medical professionals and staff greeted me by name with a welcoming smile. They treated me, sympathized with me and laughed with me. Fellow cancer fighters inspired me. We all had our own stories, but with universal similarities. These people cherished every day, no matter where they were on their path.
Friends and acquaintances, some of whom I hadn’t seen in years, offered support and assistance. Colleagues and students rallied around me. Family buoyed me during difficult times and celebrated every small bit of good news. I put my usual pride and independence in a back corner and accepted all the support that was offered.
Although only two years and a few months have passed since my cancer diagnosis, I feel like I have gained decades in wisdom and fortitude, gratitude and happiness. These are lessons that have become a part of me and how I approach life. It took several long, challenging bike rides and pushing through cancer treatment to help me realize and understand those life lessons.
Gert Nesin is an eighth-grade teacher at Leonard Middle School in Old Town.