Refusing to jump onto the “everything happens for a reason” bandwagon, Stordahl tackles tough topics like cancer, loss, and the COVID-19 pandemic with unflinching honesty while dismantling the “back to normal” myth. She reminds us we needn’t pressure ourselves to emerge from these, or any life challenge, as new and improved versions of our former selves. EMERGING also touches on universal themes of aging, making tough decisions, resiliency, and self-acceptance. Advice offered is realistic, straight-forward, and helpful.
EMERGING is a refreshing, encouraging read for anyone who has struggled, or is struggling, with a life-altering challenge - ultimately, a hopeful read!
Refusing to jump onto the “everything happens for a reason” bandwagon, Stordahl tackles tough topics like cancer, loss, and the COVID-19 pandemic with unflinching honesty while dismantling the “back to normal” myth. She reminds us we needn’t pressure ourselves to emerge from these, or any life challenge, as new and improved versions of our former selves. EMERGING also touches on universal themes of aging, making tough decisions, resiliency, and self-acceptance. Advice offered is realistic, straight-forward, and helpful.
EMERGING is a refreshing, encouraging read for anyone who has struggled, or is struggling, with a life-altering challenge - ultimately, a hopeful read!
I’m an average sort of worrier. I gauge this based on my experience with other worriers I’ve known, like my mother and grandmother, both esteemed, experienced worriers, my grandmother especially so.
“By the time you get to a certain age, most of the stuff you’ve worried about happening, you’ve actually seen happen,” my grandma would say.
One thing that stays the same post–cancer diagnosis is that cancer’s cousin, Worry, sticks around. Worry is like that annoying relative you can’t seem to get rid of, or like that piece of gum lobbed onto the bottom of your shoe.
Over a decade has passed since my breast cancer diagnosis, so I’m supposed to be past all that cancer worry by now. But I’m not. Not completely anyway.
Still, I consider myself average in the cancer worry department too. For example, I don’t spend much time worrying about recurrence. What’s the point? I’ve done everything in my power to keep cancer at bay. Whether or not my cancer recurs down the road is pretty much a crapshoot.
I haven’t moved on though. Not like you might expect anyway. Whoa, woman, get a grip, you might be thinking. It’s time to let it go and get on with it. For those of you who haven’t had cancer rudely interrupt the smoothness of your life, that’s probably what you’re thinking, right? It’s okay if you are.
But, here’s the thing: just letting “it” go and getting on with your life isn’t quite that simple. The reality for many of us who’ve had the misfortune of hearing those three words, “you have cancer,”—or as in my case, “you have a cancer” (like that little a matters)—is a lot more complicated.
This is not to say I haven’t moved forward. I have. In fact, I happen to think I’ve done a pretty decent job, all things considered. But moving forward is very different than moving on. You can’t just stick cancer on a shelf like a book you’ve finished and never intend to open up again. If only…
I like using the wagon train analogy to explain this phenomenon of cancer never being over. Think about all those covered wagons filled with people taking their most-prized possessions out West or wherever they were going on the Oregon Trail. Those wagons moved forward ever so slowly, jostling the people and things they carried. That’s how I envision this moving forward from a cancer diagnosis. You move forward slowly while navigating rugged, unknown terrain with plenty of jostling going on.
I pack up all my most-prized and significant (good and bad) life experiences and carry them with me through the rest of my life. It’s still hard at times, but I keep moving forward, and I do it at my own pace. Moving on feels like my wagon had a breakdown, and I had to move on without my stuff.
Moving forward, putting one foot in front of the other and navigating that thing others like to call my new normal (dumb phrase)—that I can do. Or at least try to.
Is cancer done with me? I hope so. Only time will tell. Am I done with cancer? I am not. Some understand this differentiation. Some do not.
Cancer is a sneaky, lurking-around monster that leaves scars of various sorts and depths. Some are of the physical variety. Even more are not. All I have to do is look down or in the mirror when I shower or get dressed every day, and I’m immediately reminded, oh yeah, that happened.
Of course, I can’t blame all that’s gone downhill with this body on cancer. Time and gravity do their thing too. But cancer does a number on the body and the psyche like nothing else. Among other things, that darn mirror never lets me forget I’ve had a bilateral mastectomy—reconstruction or not.
Mastectomies should really be called amputations. Amputation seems like a better-fitting word than mastectomy, which sounds like you’re talking about an exotic flower or something.
And why are tumors referred to as masses anyway? A mass sounds, well, massive. Yikes. And the word lumpectomy conjures up, in my mind anyway, the image of a boil or pimple. A little lump. A little inconvenience. Nasty, yes. But not a big deal.
If you ask any woman who’s had a lumpectomy how she feels about it, she will likely not consider it a minor deal. Pimple-like it is not. It’s more like having a piece of your femininity chiseled away at. Literally. Your breast gets chiseled out a bit when you have a lumpectomy—an inadequate, minimizing word.
When you have a mastectomy, it is not unlike an amputation. Important body parts are lopped off. Gone. Taken. And they are not so easily replaced. Prostheses are supposed to be limb replacements, not breast replacements, or “boobs in a box” as some women refer to them.
Lots of women these days choose breast reconstruction (we’ll discuss this more later) following their breast amputations, so they don’t have an interest in or need for boobs in a box. Reconstruction or no reconstruction, most still don’t just get over this amputation. No one expects other amputees to just get over losing an arm or a leg, do they?
Some of us are intense worriers by nature, although I am not, and adding cancer to the mix is really not helpful. I would dare to say that every person, including me, regardless of worry level who’s been diagnosed with cancer has likely had plenty of those “what if” moments.
For instance, those pesky miscellaneous aches, pains, and headaches we all get—well, what if they’re cancer? Or, what if it’s spread? Sure, usually such things are insignificant. Annoyances. Things not worthy of worry. But what if they are?
Yeah, cancer is all about worry, even for average worriers like me. Cancer creates a domino effect of worry. From day one, one worry leads to another.
When you first find your lump—or whatever clue gives your sneaky cancer away, or if you’re diagnosed stage 4 right out of the gate—your cancer-worry domino effect is set in motion.
You worry if you should tell anyone, if you should make that doctor appointment, or schedule that diagnostic mammogram. But finally, you do what you have to do. When you realize you need a biopsy, you worry some more. You enter a new, more intense worry zone. Then, a few days later, your worst worry is confirmed. You hear the words, you have cancer, and wham, bang, the floodgates of worry open up. Shit, now you need an oncologist. How did this happen? You worry about how to pick one. Then, you worry about what the best treatment path is for you to take. And once you do pick a path, you worry whether or not you chose the right one.
You worry about surgery and what kind (if any) to have. You worry about recovery, pain, chemo, radiation, drain-tube paraphernalia, having one breast, having no breasts, choosing reconstruction or not choosing reconstruction, losing your hair, throwing up, not sleeping, looking sick, feeling sick, neuropathy, lymphedema, gaining weight, losing weight, being tired, what you will eat, what your partner might think (or if you’re single and don’t want to be, if you’ll ever have a partner at all), what will happen to your sex life (or if you’ll even have one again). And so on.
You might worry and wonder why you do not feel brave, courageous, strong, or warrior-like, even when people tell you that you are. You might worry that you are a cancer failure, in more ways than one.
And, if your cancer has a genetic link like mine does, you worry about your siblings, cousins, nieces and nephews, and other family members getting cancer too. And you worry about passing on the damn cancer to your own kids.
On top of all these cancer worries, you also have the ordinary worries, the normal worries of life. You worry about your job and if you’ll be able to keep it. You worry about your kids, your parents and friends, and how much to tell them. You worry about paying the bills, cleaning the house, doing the laundry, cooking dinner, buying groceries, and walking the dog. You worry about everything you must do, as well as about all the things you know fully well you cannot. And let’s not forget, you worry about dying.
Eventually, if you’re lucky enough to have an end point to active treatment, you worry about the darn little white pill you’re supposed to take (and all the nasty side effects that might come with it). You worry about how to pick up the pieces of your life (or if you even can), how to put one foot in front of the other, and how in the world you’re supposed to muddle through this thing called survivorship. You worry and wonder if you’ll ever find the old you again, or even remnants of who you once were.
You worry you will not be so good at this thing called survivorship either. You worry and wonder how long you’ll be NED (no evidence of disease). You worry and wonder if and when the other shoe will drop. Again, you worry if you will be able to handle it if it does.
If you’re metastatic, well, the worries are of a whole different kind. It wouldn’t even be appropriate for me to imply I know what my friends with metastatic breast cancer worry about. But I know there is much to worry about. And why do worries seem, well, more worrisome in the middle of the night?
Worry. Worry. Worry. Yep. Cancer is all about worry alright. (Good thing I’m merely an average worrier.)
Moving forward requires you to figure out your own particular worry balancing act. There is a balance that must be found between what you need to worry about and what you likely do not. You have to figure out when to call your oncologist about those aforementioned aches and pains and when doing so might make her think that you’re paranoid, at worst, or annoying, at least. Basically, you worry about worrying.
So, people that love us have to cut us some slack. Okay, they have to cut us even more slack, because they’ve likely cut us plenty already. And we are oh-so grateful. Regardless of stage or type, you’re never turned loose from cancer’s grip, not completely. Once you’ve heard those three words, it’s possible you’ll hear similar ones again. Cancer Havers get this on a deep level. Others, even those who love us, just do not. Which is a good thing, by the way.
Of course, the biggest reason why cancer is never over is that too many people we meet and come to know and care about keep dying from the blasted disease. Cancer and grief go hand in hand. They just do.
It’s an at times tricky sort of life, this post-cancer diagnosis life. But it sure beats the alternative. I’ll take it.
Some books are meant to be sipped and savored slowly, like fine wine. Nancy Stordahl’s EMERGING: Stories from the Other Side of a Cancer Diagnosis, Loss, and a Pandemic is one of them. Profound and powerful, Emerging takes readers on a deep dive into the lifelong process of healing and self-acceptance as learned by a self-described “average sort of worrier.” It's a terrific read!
Emerging is divided into three basic parts: Cancer, Loss, and the Pandemic. The parts are inter-related but separate, too. Each section touches on some aspect of adapting, relearning, refocusing and reinventing oneself, post-trauma, showing readers how to do so along the way. Part 4 ties everything together. It features stories about growing into self-acceptance and emerging from life’s challenges with resilience. Observations, insights, and lessons learned in the process are realistic, practical, and pull no punches.
A self-described “average sort of worrier,” the author helps readers understand worry, cancer’s cousin, and its effects on ”Cancer Havers” and their loved ones. She describes how she grapples with worry some ten years after a breast cancer diagnosis. Also how “just letting ‘it’ go and getting on with your life” after a cancer diagnosis isn’t that simple. Or easy. Noting how cancer and grief go hand-in-hand, the author explores effects of cancer that go far beyond the physical. These include emotional, relational, psychological and social effects. Also “Divisions in Breast Reconstruction Land” and guilt trips, both self-induced and other.
Part 2 is Loss. Subtitled I’m an Orphan Now, the section chronicles the author’s thoughts and feelings about the loss of her parents. Also what it’s like to live “the Jack Reacher way” when a loved one is in hospice care. (Who knew Circle Peanuts can be a grief trigger?) She lays bare her soul as it crumpled and tore when she lost her mother to cancer.
Anyone who’s ever lost a loved one will understand and relate to this part of the book. It’s both heart-breaking and hopeful, as eloquent as a new moon.
A standout chapter is A Life in Dog Chunks. The subtitle is Things Dogs Teach Us About Grief. It’ll jump right off the page and straight into your heart. This section will especially resonate with anyone who’s ever loved and lost a dog. The writing is polished to a sheen so sharp, it’ll cut paper as the author recalls her life via the dogs she’s had and how her life intertwined with theirs. This section shines. It’s poignant, pellucid, and powerful in a Where the Red Fern Grows sort of way. You may want to bring tissue. (Hi, Elsie and Sophie.)
In Part 3, Pandemic, the author chronicles how the pandemic impacted her life as a “Cancer Haver,” resulting in a delayed surgery. But she also digs deeper, noting that it’s okay to acknowledge and express frustration, anger, and fear at the disruptions and delays wrought by the pandemic. Also how life continued. It found a way.
The author fleshes out her background in Part 4, Emerging. Here she ties everything together and explains how she’s learning to embrace who she’s become through the adversities and challenges she’s encountered in her life journey.
Introspective and reflective, this book offers a compelling and heartfelt look at how one woman met life’s challenges and hardships head-on. Avoiding canned cliches and rusted-out bromides regarding adversity and loss, the style is raw and intense. Indeed, there’s no Pollyanna-ish “pie-in-the-sky, bye-and bye” here. For example, the author describes how emerging from loss doesn’t mean you stop grieving. It means you’re learning to blend grief and love into your life. It’s hard. It’s painful. It can be lonely. But it can be done. And it’s worth it. So is this book. It percolates with an intense sort of authenticity that’s both startling and incredibly refreshing. It’s also mature, forthright, and utterly absorbing.
The writing style is smart, witty, and warm. It’s conversational and eminently engaging. In fact, sitting down with this book is like sitting down at your kitchen table and sharing a hot cuppa with a close friend. Someone with whom you can feel safe and accepted. The advice offered is also practical, down-to-earth, and honest.
Eminently engaging right out of the gate, Emerging is roughly one hundred probing and piercing pages. It can easily be read in an afternoon. Don’t. Because this isn’t the kind of book you skip through merrily or skim at warp speed. Emerging is a thoughtful and penetrating read that’s meant to be sipped and savored slowly, like fine wine. I didn’t want it to end.
Adult readers looking for an authentic and evocative glimpse into one woman’s experience with cancer, loss, and the pandemic will appreciate this fine work. It's a towering achievement that no library should be without.
My rating: 4.5