Zibby Mag

By Darcey Gohring

The moment when life came to a screeching halt was an opportunity to examine all the beauty that surrounds us.

I remember the doctor calling to confirm the tumor was malignant. At that point, in April of last year, all they could tell me was that I had breast cancer but not how aggressive it was, or if it had spread. What I recall about that day is not the shock of the diagnosis itself, but sitting in an Adirondack chair in my backyard, staring up at the tall oak and cherry trees, and watching the leaves as they rustled in the breeze.

They were extraordinarily beautiful — the way they danced with the wind, the sound they made as they skittered against one another. It brought me back to years before, laying on a picnic blanket with my twins, who looked up and pointed to those very trees. Their little faces beaming in the sunlight as they watched the branches sway. How long had it been since I noticed them? All that time, season after season, they had been just outside my door, and yet it had taken an invasive clump of cells to make me truly see them again.

Over the last few years, my life had become a series of to-do lists. I vented about how there was never enough time, lying awake until the wee hours worrying how it was all going to get done. I was running from work to my daughter’s and son’s activities without thought. Nothing ever seemed to be enough. If the kids did well in local sports, there was a travel team they should join. If I volunteered for one club, there was another that needed help. Family dinners morphed into rushed occasions that started to feel more like staff meetings than quality time to share. I had taken on the role of office manager and spent most of my time firing out instructions. Then that little tumor showed up and brought it all to a screeching halt.

What I recall about that day is not the shock of the diagnosis itself, but sitting in an Adirondack chair in my backyard, staring up at the tall oak and cherry trees, and watching the leaves as they rustled in the breeze.

The weeks that followed seemed to move like clouds through the sky — at times sailing quickly or else slogging by. The experience of cancer itself boiled down to nothing more than doctor appointments, tests, waiting for results, surgery, and treatments — most of it boring and cumbersome, emotionally draining and physically demanding. Covid-19 complicated it even further. All of it was challenging from multiple perspectives and I was lucky that, in the end, my prognosis was good.

I thought about the tumor a lot. At the time of diagnosis, I was 46, no genetic history, and otherwise extremely healthy. I ran; I ate well. So how had it found its way into me? What had I done that made it grow? The doctors assured me repeatedly that they would get it all out. And even as they clinically described all the processes that enabled them to, I knew something bigger was welling up inside me. Figuratively buried beneath that 1.8-centimeter lump were all the things I had taken for granted, vestiges of the person I once was. Each day, as I recovered, I could feel her emerging more and more.

I had suddenly found the time to really listen to my children, to hear them laugh and recognize how incredibly far they had come. I saw their eyes full of encouragement as they drove me to treatments each day. I laid beside my husband — who stayed up and held my hand as I fell asleep at night, knowing just how scared I was — and talked about all the things we still wanted to do. I knew with certainty “in sickness and in health” was more than just a passive promise spoken twenty-one years ago. He was in this with me no matter what. And perhaps the most enlightening outcome was that I began to find joy in simple things. I once again took the time to intentionally look at the beauty all around me — in nature, music, food, family, and friendships — in a way I had not done in years. I reconnected with old friends, began cooking for enjoyment, and went for walks each day no matter how terrible I felt.

Just after I finished radiation, we rented a lakeside cabin. There, nestled in the woods of Vermont, I spread a towel on the grass and sat with my daughter for hours contently watching the sun flit across the water in diamond patterns. We chatted about little things that seemed less important before. On a hike, I noticed the gnarled roots of an evergreen leading to the ruddy trunk and up to a canopy of feathered emerald greens. I felt the strength I had lost return to me as I climbed the trail eager to discover what else was ahead. At night we lit campfires — no talk of schedules or petty gossip. Instead, we spoke of silly things like the best way to toast a marshmallow and how the dog had spent half the afternoon stalking a red squirrel.

Amid this new reality of cancer and Covid, I could feel all of us becoming the family we were years ago. Before test scores, sports, and club meetings took over. I saw life return not just to me but to my husband and children, too. As my persistent nagging and worrying stopped, our conversations opened, and it lifted a weight that none of us knew we had been carrying. We found ourselves again.

What I want to say today is: Thank you, cancer. Thank you for making me see that all the things I thought were making us stronger, were really holding us back. And that sometimes, even when you don’t realize you are lost, an unexpected bend in the road can lead you back home again.

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Darcey Gohring is a freelance writer based just outside New York City. She served as the managing editor of a regional magazine for six years and specializes in human interest, home, and lifestyle content. A contributing author to the anthology book, Corona City: Voices From an Epicenter, she is currently completing her first novel.

Connect with Darcey on Instagram: instagram.com/darcey_gohring_writer/ or Twitter: twitter.com/darcey_gohring to learn more about her work.