タリン・サザンさんのインスタグラム写真 - (タリン・サザンInstagram)「[1/2] The day they tell you “you have stage 3 cancer,” there is so much you don’t yet know.  You don’t yet know the rigor of what lies ahead: Chemo. Surgery. Radiation. IV antibodies. An estrogen blocker for 5-10 years….but...let’s not get ahead of ourselves.   You don’t yet know that you’ll name your cancer Bob, and for some reason, that makes you laugh.  You don’t yet know the long names of the drugs, the side effects, or the drugs used to treat the side effects of the drugs. The warning signs of cachexia. That you’ll need a series of shots to shut down your ovaries. The tidal-wave level night sweats, hot flashes, and steroid swelling. That you’ll have a device implanted in your chest to prevent your veins from collapsing during infusions (leaving some patients in excruciating pain for weeks 🙋‍♀️.) And then oh, the chemo. You don’t yet know the sensations. Bone pain. Stomach pain. Nerve pain. Muscle pain. Head pain. A medicine that will leave you sobbing nightly in a bathtub in inexplicable discomfort.  You don’t yet know the clever ways in which the cancer will infiltrate and destroy more than just your body. That you will begin this journey in one home, with your partner, and complete it in another, alone. That the future plans you held so tightly - an end-of-treatment expedition, a dream wedding - would suddenly require all of your fortitude to let go. You don’t yet know that panic tends to visit in the middle of the night, just to reassure you that your worst nightmare is real. That, in these moments of despair, all you can depend on is your breath. One breath in. One breath out.   You don’t yet know that your case will be labeled “PCR.” That remission is right around the corner….and shortly after, a global pandemic.   You don’t yet know that that you will soon grieve the loss of a friend who was diagnosed at the same time as you.   Soon you will know all these things. You will know that it’s possible to hold space for physical pain, terror, heartbreak, love, and gratitude at the same time. That equanimity and acceptance can be found amidst uncertainty. And that the heroic acts of support from friends and family will forever lift your heart.  [1/2 cont]」10月5日 4時34分 - tarynsouthern

タリン・サザンのインスタグラム(tarynsouthern) - 10月5日 04時34分


[1/2] The day they tell you “you have stage 3 cancer,” there is so much you don’t yet know.

You don’t yet know the rigor of what lies ahead: Chemo. Surgery. Radiation. IV antibodies. An estrogen blocker for 5-10 years….but...let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

You don’t yet know that you’ll name your cancer Bob, and for some reason, that makes you laugh.

You don’t yet know the long names of the drugs, the side effects, or the drugs used to treat the side effects of the drugs. The warning signs of cachexia. That you’ll need a series of shots to shut down your ovaries. The tidal-wave level night sweats, hot flashes, and steroid swelling. That you’ll have a device implanted in your chest to prevent your veins from collapsing during infusions (leaving some patients in excruciating pain for weeks 🙋‍♀️.) And then oh, the chemo. You don’t yet know the sensations. Bone pain. Stomach pain. Nerve pain. Muscle pain. Head pain. A medicine that will leave you sobbing nightly in a bathtub in inexplicable discomfort.

You don’t yet know the clever ways in which the cancer will infiltrate and destroy more than just your body. That you will begin this journey in one home, with your partner, and complete it in another, alone. That the future plans you held so tightly - an end-of-treatment expedition, a dream wedding - would suddenly require all of your fortitude to let go. You don’t yet know that panic tends to visit in the middle of the night, just to reassure you that your worst nightmare is real. That, in these moments of despair, all you can depend on is your breath. One breath in. One breath out.

You don’t yet know that your case will be labeled “PCR.” That remission is right around the corner….and shortly after, a global pandemic.

You don’t yet know that that you will soon grieve the loss of a friend who was diagnosed at the same time as you.

Soon you will know all these things. You will know that it’s possible to hold space for physical pain, terror, heartbreak, love, and gratitude at the same time. That equanimity and acceptance can be found amidst uncertainty. And that the heroic acts of support from friends and family will forever lift your heart.

[1/2 cont]


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