Excerpts from Chaos in the Waiting Room

Once upon a time (sometime last spring) I asked my good friend, Megan Hildebrandt, to write a guest blog post about what it was like to be pregnant after cancer.Shortly after I asked her this tremendous favor, I found out I was moving to South Korea and shamefully forgot all about it. As Mother’s Day approached, I remembered the beautiful story Megan sent me, and had to share it with the rest of you.

Megan and I met about three years ago through Young & Strong Fight Club, a social and support group for young adult cancer fighters in Austin, Texas. We quickly clicked over a shared diagnosis (Hodgkin’s Lymphoma). We eventually became new moms within a year of each other. Now that I am living overseas and not as involved in the cancer community, I acutely miss her and the amazing group we helped form back in Texas. I am eternally grateful for today’s technology for allowing me to still feel a part of something and for the ability to keep in touch with my friends back home.

If you are interested in hearing more from Megan, she also appeared on the Stupid Cancer podcast “Parenting with Cancer” and has agreed to do a Q&A with me, which I will post later this week.

Megan is a visual artist, writer and professor, now living in Traverse City, Michigan. On her inspiration for the following post, she states “I am thinking about this thing called Lazarus Syndrome, or rising from the dead, and pregnancy as one’s own re-birth.”

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Megan with her daughter, June.

  1. (Re)birth

I am waiting. I am waiting in a waiting room.  I am waiting in a waiting room until the event

 

which I am waiting for happens and begins.

 

One year, I am looking at a drip.  A bag of Bleomycin hooked up to my port.  The time it takes

to enter my body is 5 hours.  The time it takes for my cancer to remit is seven months.

 

Another year, I am looking at a light. A blinking, red light. It scans my body to check for abnormalities, for growths. I feel stuck in the tube of the CT machine, myself a trapped pea in an unlikely pod. The time it takes to look inside of my chest is ten minutes.  The amount of visits I make to the machine seem infinite.

 

The next year, I am looking at a monitor.  A fetal heartbeat monitor. The time it takes for my body, an anxious vessel, to make something whole and perfect is 9 months and 7 days. The time it takes for my baby to be born  is 18 hours.

 

The moment my daughter was thrust toward me by the doctor, all slippery and wonderful and screaming, was the single most intense, emotional rush I have ever had.  Something had grown inside of me that was right. Utterly, exquisitely right. Her confused and perfect face looked at me and I was reborn with her- I was her birth witness, and she mine.  Everything that had happened outside of that moment faded away- the months of waiting and worrying, the pains of labor, my husband Peter’s exhausted and concerned face.  I am overrun with vitality; her alertness gives me an overwhelming sense of buoyancy and light.  Pure and righteous, we were both (re)delivered into the world.

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Megan, fishing shortly before she lost her hair to chemo.

We name her after my grandmother, June.  She was due in June and born in July.

 

  1. Body as Tomb

 

June’s birth was so unlike the last time something had grown inside of me, a cancer four years prior. Both experiences had involved a swelling of the body- one a disease, the latter a condition. Morals were assigned: one growth not normal, one growth very normal. Unnatural, Natural.

 

My body had done wrong before- betrayed itself, myself with cancer- I had turned against me.

The baby had kicked hard in those last months to be sure, but cancer had blasted my bones and flesh from the inside.  Or no, that was the medicine, chemo for 7 months.  Cancer was silent, mostly invisible.

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Megan, during chemo treatment. 

Both states involved a mental and physical countdown to the main events of remission and birth. Emotionally, the states could not have been more different.  During my treatment, I was a stone wall.  Nothing upset me.  I was doing what I had to.  If I wasn’t calm and composed, then who would be?  The tough, thick skin grew on me, forcing my hair to fall out.  Others treated me like a cracked porcelain cup, or an endangered animal.  I couldn’t stand the condolence cards, the “Thinking of You” sentiments bounced out of my mailbox and into the trash can.

 

Throughout pregnancy, however, I was fraught with worry, depression, and panic.  Now I really was a fragile object, an animal on the brink, protecting my unborn young. Others seemed so convinced that everything would be fine, that my baby would be born healthy.  Where others saw assured hope and happiness, I found myself walking on nine months worth of eggshells.

 

My pregnancy had been very medicalized.  I was treated as high risk because of my past with cancer and chemotherapy.  Nine months, ten growth checks via 3D ultrasounds in which my daughter appeared as a small clay doll, rolling and growing as Peter and I let out sighs of reliefs with each “Everything looks great.”

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Megan was kind enough to share some of the her artwork she created during treatment. 

I struggled with post-partum depression and anxiety after June’s birth.  It was both similar to and completely unlike the post traumatic stress disorder I was diagnosed with after chemotherapy ended.  After the baby was born last year- I transformed from a growing, pure body with two lives inside, glowing and expectant and anxious and hopeful.  I emerged from her birth a different, deflated tomb, mourning the loss of it’s treasure.  After chemotherapy ended and I was in remission, I missed my cancer.  With cancer, I was fighting something, had an enemy, was on a roadtrip with a clear destination. Without cancer, I was doing none of those things. I could not return to the self I had been before getting sick.  Being cut free from the identity of being a continual patient was so discombobulating- not unlike the ending of pregnancy and the entry into motherhood leaving me off-balance, in the dark.

 

III. Lost and Found Again

 

The purity in June’s face is the wrinkle forming in my brow. She gives me back youth and ages me. Looking at her is such happiness that I could die. I wonder if bringing forth a new life is a solution to one’s own assured death;  a continuation of the line as immortality.  There is so much comfort in knowing she will be here after I am gone.   If we begin dying from the moment we are born, did I stop dying the moment I gave birth? Have I risen from the dead, or been put back into a blissful sleep?  I will take both.

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Artwork from Megan After Child. 

There are two B.C.s in my self- Before Cancer and Before Child.  In each case, I was found before and lost after.  In each case, I was lost before and found after.  Both umbilical cords still exist in my heart and head.

 

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One thought on “Excerpts from Chaos in the Waiting Room

  1. Pingback: Q&A with Megan Hildebrandt on Pregnancy and Parenting After Cancer – the lymphoma letters

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