Christine Shields Corrigan - Again: Surviving Cancer Twice with Love and Lists

Again:

Surviving Cancer Twice with Love and Lists

A Memoir

By Christine Shields Corrigan

Copyright 2020 Christine Shields Corrigan

ISBN 978-1-64663-195-7

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020915350

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meanselectronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any otherexcept for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.

Published by

3705 Shore Drive

Virginia Beach, VA 23455

8004354811

www.koehlerbooks.com

For,

Tim, Kate, Tom, and James

My heart and my home, all roads lead to you.

In gratitude,

Mohammad R. Abbasi, M.D., Frank Forte, M.D. and Athena Lee

For lighting my path and leading me home.

An individual doesnt get cancer, a family does.

Terry Tempest Williams

Authors Note

OUR LIVES ARE MADE of stories, and our stories matter. This is a story about what happened to me, as best as I can remember it, and I have searched through journals, photographs, medical records, and conversations with those who were there to support it. I do not claim that this story is the truth. Our lives, including the very act of remembering, color our memories. Others who may have witnessed some of the events will have different recollections, or even no memory of them at all.

To protect privacy, some names and other information have been altered; some events have been compressed or merged for clarity. There are no composite characters.

On the journey to this books creation, some of the material has appeared in short essaysunder various titles and in different combinations or formsin Dreamers Creative Writing ; Racked.com /Vox Media; The Potato Soup Journal ; and Wildfire Magazine .

The quote from To Know by Experience by Dan and Diane Meyer is reprinted with permission from The North Carolina Outward Bound School (Art Craft Press, 1973).

Preface

WHEN FRIENDS AND FAMILY ask, Why on earth did you write a book about having cancer, of all things? I often reply, Well, how much time do you have? Because the answer is complicated, and the answer is simple.

When I first heard the words that sent the car I was driving on my lifes highway careening off the road and into a dark forest, I wanted a trail map. I wanted to know how I would face this disease again, not as a teen with parents, family, and friends who cared for me, but as wife, mom, volunteer, and professional who had to care for others. I needed to make sure lunches were made, schedules kept, and deadlines met, all while dealing with chemotherapy, its side effects, surgeries, and their recoveries. I searched in bookstores, big and small, online, and in my local library for a book that would answer my burning question: how would I make it through?

I found plenty of books written by medical professionals about cancer, its diagnosis, and treatment. I didnt want medical information. I had, and continue to have, a fabulous team of medical professionals who know their stuff and whom I trust. I found celebrity cancer narratives. Im not a celebrity and couldnt relate to their stories. I found beautiful memoirs about the meaning of life written by individuals who diedfrom cancer. While Ive read many of them now, I could not contemplate reading them when I was newly diagnosed, terrified, and anxious. I found plenty of pink, inspirational guidebooks and journals. I didnt want to be inspired at the time. I wanted to rage and scream at the damn unfairness of a cancer diagnosis. I wanted the grit and truth of anothers experience. I couldnt find that book.

I wanted to fix my experience like a compass needle to give a starting point and direction, as Louise DeSalvo suggests in Writing to Heal , so when the words no one ever wants to hear derails anothers world, she will know shes not alone. Thats why I wrote this book.

But thats not the only reason. I also wrote this book because I knew I would never recover unless I did. When I was a teen, I tried to give a voice to my cancer experiences, and my voice was silenced. I dont say that to ascribe blame, but in my family and school at that time, we didnt speak our feelings. We didnt acknowledge our fears. We dealt with what was and then moved on. My pathological ability to compartmentalize, organize, and avoid worked well for thirty-five years. Then it didnt. My systems crashed, burned, and shattered many of those whom I hold most precious, most dear.

This book gave me the grace to heal, to let go of old hurts and fears, and to forgive. This book also allowed me to grieve the life I once had and to move forward. Through this book, I mourned the loss of many taken too soon by this disease, including my cousins Nan Marie Astone and Peter Musacchio, and my father-in-law, Robert Corrigan. May their memories forever live and be a blessing.

This book made me pause and give thanks for the countless graces I received, not only while in treatment, but in the years that followed, and it opened my eyes to the vast inequity that exists in healthcare. I live near major medical centers and had access to the best medical care. Many dont. My family had the financial resources and insurance for my staggeringly expensive treatment and surgeries. Many dont. My outcome is indelibly tied to my socio-economic status and race. Thats unconscionable and must change.

Finally, this book gave me the courage to step out of my planned and ordered life and to begin a practice thats led me to peaceful coexistence with lifes awe and agony. None of us can escape loss, disease, aging, or our mortality. But perhaps, this book will help to light a path forward, as so many did for me.

Part One

STAND OR FALL

Chapter 1

On the Road Again

To Do (3/2)

Gym!

Groceries for Toms birthday sleepover

Avoid kale

Order chocolate cake

Get cancer

Again

MY HAND HOVERED OVER the ringing wireless phone like it was the first time Id ever answered it. I inhaled to push down the coldness creeping from my stomach to my chest. I answered the call as I walked from my desk into the darkened dining room adjacent to the kitchen so that I was out of earshot of my ten-year-old son, James, sitting at the counter doing his homework.

I slid down onto the oriental carpet and leaned back against one of the dining room chairs, my dark brown hair falling over my forehead. I pushed it back and bit my lip. I held the phone between my ear and shoulder and clenched my hands against my stomach while I prayed, Please, please, please.