By: Andi Straus
I’ve moved so many times in my life. My dear friend Jill says maybe it’s my Karma to move often, and she might be right, because once again I have moved, this time to a rental apartment that fills me with joy and hope and a measure of disbelief that I can still have something so beautiful in my life when my diagnosis is so grim. I’ve wrestled with the harsh voice in my head that says, “Who do you think you are to undertake something like this? At any moment your cancer could become resistant to your study medication and you could have just months to live. What kind of hubris, chutzpah, is this to challenge fate so directly?”
But something in my heart kept calling to me, pushing me, a voice that would not be silenced: “You need to move, you don’t belong in an independent facility anymore, you can reach for more, you can take the chance, assume the risk, be courageous, go for it.” In the end, my heart won.
Not that I don’t have moments of fear every day; I do. I have felt relatively safe and cared for in the independent living facility, but it came to feel like a cocoon that had grown too tight; it was safe inside but suffocating, confining, stifling. I kept feeling, “I don’t belong here, not anymore.” In fact I never really did, but in the middle of my health crisis last summer when I couldn’t take care of myself without significant assistance, my family and I could think of no alternative to a facility that wouldn’t impose an unreasonable burden on my siblings, children and friends. But despite my feeling, nine months later, that I needed to move out, I was immobilized by fear and what ifs, as well as concern about whether I could manage all the aspects of a move by myself. It’s not as if I’m a well person, by any stretch of the imagination.
My fear gets fueled every time I have a scan. It never gets easier and each one is just like the first one, filled with overwhelming dread, anxiety, sadness, anger, some despair. So far, the news has been as good as can be hoped for. While I still have, and will always have, something called sarcomatosis, where my tumors have disseminated in diffuse seedings and nodules throughout my abdomen, my scans have shown consistent reduction in two areas where measurements are taken, and my oncologist is pleased. I am pleased when he is pleased. And also I am feeling well.
What moved me past the period of immobilizing fear and indecision was the encouragement of my grown children and my friends, and the infinite patience of my Ann’s Place counselor. My siblings were supportive, but initially I think were fearful for me, in much the same way I was fearful for myself. Starting the process of apartment hunting was helpful as I tried to envision myself living in each place I saw. An agent, who had shown me an apartment that was not of interest, mentioned that he had an apartment in another building I might be interested in. And when I saw it, I cried because I knew it was right and it was home. It is on the 17th floor of a building overlooking the Hudson River. I face west and south. To the west are the river and the Palisades; to the south I can see the Manhattan skyline in the distance and its twinkling lights at night, more Hudson River, parks and playgrounds and buildings and streets. I have big windows that allow in the light and sun, and a balcony to take it all in, both the west and the south views, and lots of space. New York City is at my feet. I can’t believe my good fortune.
I still look both ways: my cancer diagnosis is always present and I face the reality of my mortality every day; but I also look to the future. I signed a two-year lease. My stage four cancer will ultimately get me, but not today, not now.