By Andi Straus
Some years ago I was afflicted with a benign ear condition which caused severe vertigo. I had rolled onto my side after savasana in a beloved yoga class, as I had done many times before, but this time a terrifying spinning world ensued. It lasted only a few minutes (although it felt like an agonizing eternity) as I lay absolutely still on the floor thinking something really bad was happening. Gradually the world settled down again and I was able to drive home. The episode was later easily diagnosed, and the cause treated in the office of my ENT doctor. But the sensations and image of my world spinning out of control, and of absolute disorientation, have remained vividly alive for me.
This image has come to mind many times in relation to my cancer journey. The shock of diagnosis, learning a whole new vocabulary of medical jargon specific to my cancer, a radical alteration to my identity and my future plans, and most recently the welcome change in my health trajectory as a result of participating in a drug trial, have all upended my world repeatedly and given me that familiar feeling of vertigo. Only last summer I was sick and grieving all the things I’d never be able to do again. I made a list of them: live on my own, breathe without oxygen, sing, visit my grandchildren in Colorado, vacation with my family, drive, experience the Adirondack mountains, have another birthday. Then the medication in my drug trial took hold, and over the past few months I have miraculously been able to do all of these things. But surprisingly to me, the world shifting beneath my feet once again was not only a wonder and an immense joy, but was also both disorienting and unsettling.
I met with my oncologist recently for a routine visit as part of my study protocol, and he’s very pleased with how I’m doing, saying to me that I’m in the top 10% of positive responses to this drug, and that it is possible I will live for several years while receiving this treatment. He cautioned me, as he always does, that there are no guarantees. But this is a big change from last summer when we were discussing hospice. More vertigo.
On the one hand I feel so profoundly grateful, relieved, and happy that I get unexpected time, “bonus time” as my spiritual teacher has called it, where I’m feeling relatively well, enjoying my life and have the prospect of good days ahead of me. But at the same time, the newness of it all, the shock of the upended earlier plans and predictions, the future unrelentingly uncertain, all of this sometimes overwhelms me.
I am still in that liminal space, one with both so much promise and so much likely heartache. I am hurtling toward the future, and have decided, after all, to move out of my safe but suffocating space in the independent living facility, and into a rental apartment of my own. I took a two year lease because the payment was advantageous. We’ll see how that works out for me; I don’t generally think in two year intervals these days. But I finally realized that if I am fortunate enough to live for another two years, I will feel infinite regret if I stay in a facility rather than live life fully, in my way, during that time.
My reprieve has opened opportunities for me and given me a sense of the precariousness and preciousness of life. I am now and forever, however long that time may be, balancing common sense and reasonableness with a yearning to strike out and explore and experience the fullness of the life available to me.