Looking Back, Looking Forward, Figuring out how I've changed

I have found myself recently reflecting on the wonder that is not being injected with poison every other day.  It's pretty amazing how quickly your body can recover when its not constantly barraged by hyper therapeutic doses of chemotherapy.  

I think I'm still trying to figure out what post-cancer Joe looks like, physically, I think I've figured it out, slightly larger than necessary, a lot more hair than cancer-Joe...  but intellectually, emotionally, spiritually?  I think the jury's still out.  

 As I've been pondering, I stumbled on a couple of pictures that I found incredibly interesting.  I realized that both the first time, and the second, documenting treatment for posterity wasn't real high up on anyones list of priorities.  Looking back, I wasn't entire confident that I was going to have a posterity the first time around, so taking pictures never really crossed anyone's radar. 

Even though I spent 96 days in the hospital fighting my first bout of lymphoma, I think this is the only picture I have of me from those days looking like a cancer patient (I do have pictures of the inside of my colon during those days, but this is a family blog, so I'll abstain from posting those).  

This is me shortly after completing the last round of Chemo from my first stint with NHL.  I weighed 165 lbs, couldn't feel my toes, and had a really hard time walking without stumbling.

The second round of lymphoma was similar to the first, especially in my propensity not to take many pictures.  Even though I had a camera (posing as a cell phone) with me almost all the time, the number of pictures taken during this recent bout was pretty minimal.  I've commented that the more recent cancer was way better than the first cancer, and looking back I was right.  Not only did the treatment seem to have fewer complications, my personal network had grown significantly.  I was amazed at the outpouring of love and support from a huge number of people from all aspects of my life.  Thinking on going through treatment without the help I received from friends and family still makes me shudder.  

This is a picture of me the day that I was set to receive my last inpatient dose of chemo therapy.  I could still feel my toes, I had lost 30 lbs, but I had at least that much to lose, and I avoided getting any horrible infections in spite of a significantly repressed immune system.  Other than the shiny head dome- I don't look that bad.

Fast forward a mere three months after the last round of chemo, and this is what I look like.  Again, I think I look a lot better because I have a ridiculously attractive family that makes me look better than I really am, but overall, I'm amazed at how fast I have recovered.

This picture was taken in June of 2013.  Looking at me, you'd never have guessed that I spent the better part of the winter a resident of the cancer ward. I think the fact that I have a beautiful family helps me look a bit more attractive than I really am. 

If you were to look at me now, you'd probably have no idea that at the beginning of the year I was sporting a cancer induced aerodynamic haircut. 

I recall being told that the best way to enjoy a watermelon, was right out of the field, with a shaker of salt.  Salt?  That's crazy.  Intuitively, that made no sense to me.  I couldn't figure out how two seemingly opposite tastes couldn't clash.  When I finally got around to it, I found that it is, in fact, very very good.  There's something in the contrast that sharpens the taste, and makes it all the more delicious.  

Cancer is one of life's salty pills.  If you are lucky to come out on the other side, your taste buds are altered so you notice life's sweetness with greater clarity.  

Looking forward, I hope to continue to have clarity to appreciate life's wonders.  I hope to continue to be grateful for the things I have, and to recognize the blessings I've been given.  I hope to live my life fully, to love more, to worry less, to be more caring to those around me.  I hope to remember that life is precious, fragile, and somewhat fleeting.  

If I'm able to overcome my own propensity to forget, and remember these lessons, I suppose that the trial that is cancer will be a small price to pay.