Cervivor School Cape Cod

Gratitude Awakening

Dogwood in bloom.

A sense of deep gratitude is something that I have carried with me since finishing treatment for cervical cancer. Especially during those first phases of recovery when you feel like you’re stepping out of the fog and back into the world. It was overwhelming to go outside and have my lungs fill with fresh air, feel sun on my skin, and to finally have an ounce of energy with which to enjoy it. I would walk my dog every day and take it all in with my (cautious) sense of victory over cancer. No phone to distract me, just the awe of what once felt so mundane.

Cervivor School Cape Cod 2018

Like so many of my Cervivor sisters, I had a complete shift in my mindset after going through cancer. There’s a level of gratitude attained after being isolated and having your mortality hanging over you like a dark cloud every single minute.

The sick feeling is so strong that it’s hard to imagine ever being able to feel better. I remember spending those hard days thinking about what I would do once it was all over. I mainly daydreamed about family gatherings with yummy meals, or spending time out in nature. The shift in mindset also pertained to relationships. I was alive, and ready to live my best life. That meant deciding what, and who, was worth my time and effort. It meant ditching behaviors that didn’t serve my purpose, and creating boundaries where needed to stay true to what was important to me.

In this uncertain time of the COVID-19 pandemic, the whole world is getting a taste of what it’s like to be threatened by their environment, stuck with their worries and no sense of control over any of it. I see friends beginning to talk about what they’ll do after this is over, and what I see is so similar to my own experience. People aren’t talking about going on a lavish vacation; they just want to get their nails done. Or hug a neighbor. See a movie in the theater. Catch up with friends in person. Not have to disinfect groceries. Normal, everyday activities that were previously taken for granted are now desperate aspirations. That is what it feels like all the time for those fighting cancer, but at an even more basic level. Personally, I dreamed to be able to walk four feet to the bathroom without breaking a sweat. Not having to be bathed by my partner while holding the wall for support. Feeling fresh air on my face and having real light shine down on me after recovering indoors for so long. Walking up a flight of steps all by myself. Holding down food. I learned that being mad about my situation didn’t make it go away. There was no workaround. The only way out was through. 

Pretty Azaleas blooming in my yard.

Having been faced with all that and making it through to the other side, I was going to start living my life unapologetically and with a renewed sense of appreciation for what matters at the core. When you can no longer do such simple functions, you learn what matters in life, and what really doesn’t— like the ten extra pounds gained from coping with a very scary time.

My hope is that when the pandemic is over and everyone can come out of their homes and go back to work, that a prevailing sense of gratitude will make the world a bit softer of a place to be, for the short time that we’re here to enjoy it. I hope people will see that the time to live your life is now. I hope when regular life resumes, and it will be that ever present “new normal” us cancer survivors so often speak of, that people don’t forget what it was like to have the rug yanked from under them by circumstances beyond their control. Hard times make us strong and perspective, makes us compassionate. I am grateful that we still have the wonder of the outdoors to soothe our souls, Zoom to see our friends, and for the people working so hard to keep us safe and healthy. 

Mary Baker is a three year survivor of stage 3B cervical cancer. She is an advocate for women’s health, a mom of two and proud Cervivor Ambassador and Cervivor School graduate. 

Finding My Cervivor Voice

It is day one of Cervivor School. I look around the room at 25 women who have all had the same diagnosis; cervical cancer. It feels like a family, but do I belong in this family? I mean, sure I was diagnosed with cervical cancer too; but mine was found early. I was easily treated with a hysterectomy. I didn’t endure chemotherapy or radiation. I haven’t gone into early menopause. I was lucky to have children before I had my fertility taken from me. This is a room of survivors. Women who have been through or are going through the real battle. Women who have lost their hair. Women who will never be able to have children. Women who are going into menopause in their 20’s. Do I belong in this room, with these women who I look at as warriors? I am no warrior. I was one of the lucky ones. This is not my place. I feel like a fraud.

Tamika, the founder of Cervivor, shows us women who have been in this room before us, some who were supposed to be here today; but cannot be because they are no longer with us. It brings me to tears. She tells us her story and it is heartbreaking. Tamika talks about our stories, and how every single one matters. We have all been through a cervical cancer diagnosis. We have all had different treatments. We have all made it to this room. She asks if anyone feels like they don’t belong here. I feel like I should raise my hand, but I don’t. I don’t want to call attention to the fact that I haven’t been through what all these women have been through. Maybe I can make it through the weekend without anyone figuring me out.

Now we take a break and reflect on what has just been said. We break into groups of four. I timidly walk around the room to find a group that doesn’t have four yet. I find a group with two women who are older than me and one much younger. I will let them do all the talking. Their stories matter, not mine. One of the older women starts to tell her story. It sounds familiar. Abnormal Pap, cervical cancer, hysterectomy, recovery. Wait, what? That is my story. The other woman begins to tell her story and again, it sounds familiar. Abnormal Pap, cervical cancer, hysterectomy, recovery. This can’t be right? These women’s stories are too similar to mine. And yet, as each of them tell their stories I feel connected. My heart breaks as they talk about being diagnosed. As they talk about all the time waiting between appointments, and all of the unknowns. These are all of the things that I went through. The pains and anxiety that I went through. The same surgeries that I went through, and the same guilt that I carry with me, as I feel unworthy of being called a survivor. Then there is the younger woman sitting across from me, I know her story is not like ours. I was with her the day before as she took off her wig and revealed her short hair that is growing back from her last rounds of chemotherapy. I do not know her story, but I know that it is not like mine. But here she is, sitting with the three of us. Listening to our stories and encouraging us to tell them. Asking questions about what we have been through and relating. She doesn’t tell us her story, and focuses on us. She is understanding and informative. She is passionate about what we have to say. I begin to feel like maybe I do belong here. Maybe this corner of the room with these 3 other women is exactly where I am supposed to be. Maybe this is precisely what I have been looking for over the last two years. Maybe my story is important, and powerful. Maybe my story can touch people’s hearts the same way these women’s stories just touched mine. And now our time is up. I walk back to my seat and a feeling of relief washes over me. I know that a shift has just been made. Something inside me has changed in these last 20 minutes with these 3 women.

Laura, the young woman who was just in our group walks to the front of the room to present her story to us. She is in her early 20’s. She is vibrant, and her smile lights up the room. Her story begins the same as many of ours. Cervical cancer, chemotherapy, radiation, no evidence of disease. But then her story changes. Recurrence, chemotherapy, terminal. My heart sinks. This woman is standing in front of us fighting a cancer that she knows is going to kill her. And I think, “What is her message to me?” That my fight is not as hard as hers? That I don’t belong here because I didn’t have to go through chemotherapy or radiation? No. Her message is that I need to tell my story. The world needs to hear my story. No one should have to die from this cancer, and the way to help make sure that happens is through my story. I do belong here in this room with these warriors, with these survivors. Not as an outsider, but as one of them. Chemotherapy and radiation are not what makes us a survivor. Cancer is what makes us a survivor. The fraud that was sitting in this same chair 20 minutes ago is gone. I am now sitting here as a Cervivor with a story to tell.

Keziah Corry is a 2-year Cervical Cancer Survivor. She lives in Seattle WA, with her incredibly handsome husband, two of the cutest kids the world has to offer and her sweet little pug. She spends most of her free time, with her feet in the sand and a glass of wine in her hand.  Read Keziah’s Cervivor story here.