Sarah Moroz

Perspectives on my pre-cancer self

On the first anniversary of my cancer diagnosis, I wrote a eulogy to my former self.

I was 34 years old, and it had been exactly one year since I was diagnosed with acute leukemia. I had finished a grueling course of chemotherapy, but even after a few months of recovery, resuming my “normal” life felt almost impossible. Too much had changed.

I catalogued my losses, beginning with the physical: my hair, my muscle strength, even the feeling in my feet after my nerves were damaged from chemo. But even more impactful, I realized eventually, were the parts of my identity that I lost. My trust in my body and my health. My sense of purpose and direction. The future I’d imagined for myself.

On that first anniversary, the loss felt sharp and painful. As I thought about the parts of me that I could never get back – that soft optimism, that youthful ignorance, that healthy able body – I felt so jealous and resentful that I could hardly bear it.

And so I buried her. Here lies the Sarah that never thought she would be strong enough, I wrote, mentally pushing her six feet under, hoping I could stop thinking about her. May she rest in peace.

It didn’t work. Over the next several months, the things I’d lost continued to haunt me. I thought about my pre-cancer self all the time, remembering the trails she’d hiked with ease, the energy she’d poured into her job. She refused to be buried.

My perspective was changed by a musical, of all things.

On a celebratory post-chemo trip to New York, I saw The Notebook on Broadway, a staged version of the novel by Nicholas Sparks. Like the movie adaptation that came before it, the production used different actors to represent the two main characters at different times in their lives. In the show, the female protagonist – Allie – suffers from dementia toward the end of her life and is unable to express herself through song. Instead, the two younger versions of the character sing for her. I am still in here, they both sing repeatedly and insistently. I am still in here.

In the darkness of the audience, tears poured down my face.

I realized as I contemplated the show that the pre-cancer version of me was never dead. I could never just bury her and make her go away. She was still in there. And like the younger versions of Allie in the show, she insisted on being heard.

I no longer imagine a graveyard when I think about my past self. Instead, I see a round table. At least a half-dozen versions of me sit there – the people I was at 17 or 25 or 31, touching elbows, reminiscing about their good old days and bickering over what to do next. My current self, now 35, is the chair of the group. Those former versions of me may no longer speak through my mouth or walk on my legs, but I can listen to their voices. I can honour the parts of them that I wish.

No metaphor is going to bring back the feeling in my feet or make me entirely able-bodied again, but I think about it differently now. When I remember that I used to be able to hike up cliffs, I try not to let my current self run the show, complaining resentfully about her perceived loss. Instead I hand the microphone to my 32-year-old self, amplifying her voice as she revels in the grueling joy of hauling herself up a mountain. I’m happy for her – I’m happy for me.

And when the time comes for compassion, for wisdom, for perspective – when I am comforting a friend or dealing with a crisis – I let my current self take the microphone back. I imagine my younger selves watching in awe as I manage the situation. They’re happy for me too.

I thought I had lost myself through cancer. Or some version of myself, at least. But I live by this truth now: I am still in here.