2 Year Cancerversary

January 27 - the day the cancer came. Specifically, Wednesday Jan 27, 2021 at 3:05 PM. The phone rang. The radiologist was calling. "It IS cancer."

January 27, 2023 - two years since that call. My entire life perspective and outlook changed on that day in 2021, and two years later, I still haven't managed to put breast cancer in the background. On a shelf. In a box. Far far away from my mind and my heart. Maybe next year, or the year after that...or maybe never. 

Two years into this journey I can honestly say I've learned - a lot. More about cancer biology and pharmacology than I ever wanted to know. More about myself as a patient, a physician, a mom, and a wife. While this day is not a celebration by any means, it is a marker of time passing, and a reminder that no one is guaranteed anything in this life. 

Two years ago today my life clock started ticking down a little faster - and yes, the threat of reduced life expectancy and early death has definitely changed the way I want to be on this Earth for whatever time is left. I no longer have tolerance for anything that is either wasting those minutes, or making them more difficult. I have a deeper appreciation for small moments, little gestures, and presence. I am ever conscious of spending my time wisely. 

I death-cleaned my house during these two years: decluttered the mess, packed up the family heirlooms, and trashed anything I didn't want my husband or daughter to have to deal with later. It was cathartic, I love my de-cluttered space, and I love knowing I can tie up loose ends before I'm desperately clutching the ropes. I wrote letters and cards to be given in the future, in case I'm not here to give them in person. I wrote my obituary, so my husband wouldn't have to. The rabbit/virgo is very pleased with this organization; the cancer patient, not so much. 

The cancer patient needed to make an even bigger leap, a bigger change, a harder transition. Today I am resigning my position as an associate professor at the University of Colorado School of Medicine. This was not an easy decision or choice, but cancer doesn't care about ease or choices. Two years after diagnosis, I can see that decades of night shift work were clearly carcinogenic (night shift is classified as a carcinogen in some countries), and bad for my health. Two years after COVID, practicing front-line medicine in the US has become a nightmare for many providers, and the patient in me finally said "Enough". 

This transition will be almost as painful as cancer - I've been an academic clinician for 15 years, and it's all I've ever known professionally. I am both terrified and excited: the rabbit and the cancer patient. I don't know what's coming next, and that makes me uncomfortable, but I know that this is the right decision for my health, both physical and mental. 

On my 2 year cancerversary, I am retiring from academic medicine. It has been an amazing career, one of which I am proud, but it's time for me to move on. From night shifts, from a broken health care system where there is little joy in practice. My daughter, my husband, my rescue pups - these are my joys, and the things I need to prioritize in my life. And my SELF. No one ever wrote they wished they'd worked harder or longer on their tombstone, and at the end of days, no one looks back on diplomas and resumes as their accomplishments. So maybe a little thank you to cancer for giving me the push I needed to make some big changes. But only a little. The rest of it has been shit, cancer, so feel free exit stage left and never come back.