After I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I can remember that maintaining normalcy, especially for my family, was one of my main concerns. I didn’t want to hide the fact that I had breast cancer, and I knew that things would be different for everyone. But, for the most part, I wanted things to feel normal for them. I wanted to help with homework, drive to gymnastics, play games, and do Girls on the Run. But I wanted things to be normal for me, too. Not to pretend that there was no cancer, but to give me some sense of control. I wanted to be stronger than the cancer, I wanted to be my normal self in spite of the breast cancer. That’s how this blog got its name– I was determined to keep things normal by going for a run and always putting on some lipstick, even if chemo was my next stop. It did take a lot of energy to be nothing more than normal, but it was energy that I wanted to expend.
But now I have a love/hate relationship with the word normal. Exactly six weeks after my mastectomy, I went out on my first run post-surgery. That night, I was standing in the kitchen, and I remember Clay congratulating me on my first run, and he asked, “So is everything back to normal now?” I bristled. Was I supposed to be the same as before? Was he just hoping that he was off dishwasher-unloading duty? Of course, I know his question had more to do with the relief that I was healthy and cancer free– free of treatments and their restrictions and side effects– than the dishwasher.
But back to normal? No. Of course, physically, I don’t have any more restrictions. I can reach what I want, lift what I want. I don’t take any medications. (More on that in a future post, if you’re curious.) But seatbelts still irritate me. My hair is growing out and driving. me. crazy. I have scars and tattoos. I have worries that no elementary school mom should have. So maybe a new normal, then? Lots of people love that phrase. I am not one of them, for the record. I guess technically I have a new set of things that are part of my “normal” everyday life. But to embrace the phrase new normal seems to acknowledge the fact that there’s no going back to the old normal, there’s no going back to that girl. The girl with long hair who blamed headaches on PMS. The girl who went for a run because she wanted to lose ten pounds and be healthier, not because she feels like she’s inviting a cancer recurrence with her couch potato ways. The girl who bemoaned having to wear her cute little balconette push-up bra. She’s gone, and sometimes it makes me sad.
Of course, there are a lot of good things about the word normal. In fact, when I enter the auspices of Virginia Hospital Center, I crave the word. My MRI? The PET scan? Normal. Blissfully normal. All my genes? Plain old vanilla normal. At support group? It is so reassuring to hear that what I’m feeling is completely normal. Normal is good. Normal is just, well, so normal.
And so I find myself walking a very fine line. Between loving and hating the word normal. But I continually strive spend more time considering the good, plain old vanilla type normal than mourning the old normal that is gone.