The 14-hour marathon plane journey from Hong Kong to New York gave me a lot of time to think.
In between dining on airline cuisine and watching old sitcoms, I let my mind wander. In my imaginary rearview mirror I saw my aunt, the breast surgeon, the packed waiting room, and inevitably the long queue of women awaiting diagnosis or treatment. I felt the butterflies in my stomach that one only gets when life is on the line. I became almost nostalgic about the minibus ride to Queen Mary hospital, and those post-treatment meals with my aunt and friends. But would I rather return to normalcy or Cancerland? Of course, I would choose normalcy.
In the months following the rounds of radiation, I’ve returned to the pool, first in the slow lane and then the fast lane. I unconsciously wanted to send my fellow swimmers the message that nothing had changed, when in fact everything has. I’ve lost seconds from my time and I occasionally have to stop, but at the back of my mind there is that voice, “Hey at least I am in the pool,” as if that wasn’t even supposed to happen.
Sitting on the long flight, which I used to whine about - I used to jokingly call it the “forever flight” - I bite my tongue. “I am lucky that I am on this flight,” I say to myself. I am grateful that I’m healthy enough to get on the airplane and fly. I held my farewell party in Hong Kong with good friends and toasted everyone to good health and happiness over a birthday cake rather than one that read “Bon Voyage”.
“Every day is a birthday and a new beginning,” I tell a friend, who chuckles, perhaps not understanding the underlying message.
Before I left Hong Kong I sent farewell emails and texts to the ladies that I met on this journey, including the woman who started chemo the day I finished radiation. I wonder what happened to those that I didn’t hear back from. I hope that they resurface in even better health than before. I hope that they survive and thrive.