Six months ago I was running in the early morning hours—just like I do most every day—when I fainted. I hit the sidewalk, had to have my head glued shut above my ear, and was told that I needed to have a blood test—the ER doctor thought I was probably anemic. I half nodded in response, totally pissed about the chunk of hair they had to cut off, and reluctantly agreed to see my primary care doctor. I’ll be honest, I had a nagging hunch that something was wrong long before I faceplanted in downtown Cibolo: I was struggling to maintain my weight, I required an IV drip of caffeine to get me through the day, my stomach was always giving me issues, and I seemed to bruise everywhere. Stress was my diagnosis. The doctor didn’t seem to agree.
I was told I needed exploratory surgery, a spinal tap, and a possible bone marrow biopsy. The doctor grabbed my hand, gave me a squeeze of encouragement, and said, “Amy you need to prepare yourself. We could be dealing with leukemia. Do you have someone at home who can help you during these tests?” I lied, and told him yes.
In fact, I lied to everyone. I told only two friends the entire
truth, and took neither with me through the bulk of the testing-- Rule #1 of being an Army Wife: Never show your weaknesses. Unfortunately it was Rule #2 that crippled me : Keep problems on the home front out of the war zone. For those that aren’t fluent in army-ese, this translates to ‘don’t tell your husband’. Yes, he knew I was seeing various specialists. Yes, he knew I was having test after test to get a diagnosis. But I downplayed everything. Phrases like, “It’s no big deal.” “Routine stuff” and “and I think the doctor just wants to give me anesthesia so he can check out my ass.” became the norm for me. Was I scared? Yes. But I was a hell of lot more angry than anything else. I was angry with my body. I was pissed off at Jim because he couldn’t be there for me. I was infuriated with the army for twelve months of hell. But most of all, I was angry that I was alone.
The thing about anger is that once you let into your soul, it
festers and grows and threatens to consume you long before any form of cancer ever could. Jim was stuck in the ultimate catch 22. I wanted to scream at him, “WHY AREN’T YOU HERE WHEN I NEED YOU?” but how could I when I was the one who chose to leave him in the dark. I took the tests, ran, waited, and tried to convince myself that only the strong could carry that burden alone. But that’s the thing about darkness, it’s misleading. It invites you in, surrounds you, and before you know it you are lost. Anger has the power to give you strength when every other emotion has left you exhausted, but it comes at a price.
As I waited for the test results, I made a promise to myself that whatever was revealed, I would find a way to accept the truth. Yes, cancer was the one battle that I hoped to never face, but losing myself—my faith in others, my ability to love, the power to forgive—seemed infinitely more frightening. Strength isn’t always about how far you can push yourself until you break—but rather confronting the darkest part of your soul and banishing it with illumination.
It took four weeks for the testing to be completed, and I am thankful beyond words to say that no, I do not have cancer. I was diagnosed with an auto-immune disease, and although it probably will never kill me, I am still learning daily how to accept, challenge, and push past limitations. In three weeks I hope to run my first full marathon. I know it will be grueling and miserable, and I promised my doc that I would run with a heart monitor-- but I also know that I will run with a burdened that is shared. My close friends know. My family knows. My husband knows. Step by step I am learning to re-write the rules for deployment, and the crazy thing is they apply to life as well. Revised Army Wife Rule #1— It takes more courage to reveal insecurities then to hide them. Share. Communicate. Support each other. And then meet your fear head on… and punch it in the face.
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