Rouie's QUIKies: Monterey Bay Visit Surf

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Life in Japan: #019 - Shinjuku Kabukicho

See It Skate It: Kanegafuchi Bank

I'm a Survivor

I'm a survivor

I'm not gon' give up

I'm not gon' stop

I'm gon' work harder

I'm a survivor

I'm gonna make it

I will survive

Keep on survivin'

- "Survivor" -  Destiny's Child

December 5th, 2015: I laid awake in a dark bedroom, physically and mentally numb. Deep, pulsating pain from the fresh surgery wound fading away from the narcotic pain reliever pills. The deafening, heavy silence of the small hours closing in. My worn out eyes illuminated by my smartphone as I thumb-tapped words into a note taking app in an attempt to make sense of my new reality: I had cancer. In the coming days, weeks and months--and now, years--that reality twisted and morphed into the life I live today: I am a cancer survivor.

For those who hadn't followed, who met me after this phase, or don't know me and stumbled to my website because of my GoPro stuff, I was diagnosed with Type 1 testicular cancer in early December 2015. Luckily, because I found it early and got all the necessary procedures fast, my recurrence rate was very low from the beginning (there's a tendency for testicular cancer to spread quickly to lymph nodes in the abdomen and lungs). Once I knew that I didn't have to worry so much about my health I made a major life decision to move to Japan to begin a new chapter. I had a feeling it would happen, but the real battle with cancer--or how to deal with the title 'cancer survivor', to be more accurate--began as I settled into my parents' homeland.

It's really difficult to put to words what goes through my head when I have those moments but whatever it is it can be debilitating. I touched on this in previous writings but I feel comfortable enough to open up a bit more. I sunk very low a few times since moving to Japan, especially after hearing about people losing their battles with cancer, including those within my immediate social network. Survivor's guilt, it's a damn strange thing. Thoughts of 'why am I ok and not others?'; 'was my experience not serious enough to make a big deal out of it?'; 'why do I get to choose a post-treatment life while others' lives were stripped away so mercilessly?' would take my mind down a dark, downward spiral. Like that night after my surgery, I would stay awake many nights scribbling thoughts into my notebook in the dark. Looking back, it seemed like this mindset impacted other parts of my life, and coupled with the struggles of finding my footing with my new life in Japan, I spent long periods of time in a serious funk. I would be lying if I said I no longer am affected by those thoughts. I am, albeit much more diminished in intensity and frequency.

I felt inclined to open up a little bit about my low points at this timing because that part of my journey feels like it's somewhat behind me. This week, I'm happy to say that I passed my two year cancerversary with zero issues. Blood work, check; X-ray, check; CT scan, check. During year one, I was seen once every three months; year two, every four months; and now, as I enter year three, I will be seen by my doctor once every six months. I have to continue my check ups for five years since treatment but the two year mark is a milestone. Progress.

As much as the title 'cancer survivor' still makes me feel vulnerable, I am working toward making it a source of empowerment. Because it should be. I take these steps carefully, mindfully and honestly, and I'm starting to feel that progress. I am pretty stoked on that.

If you're curious about this journey I've been on, I catalogued the writings I posted on my Facebook for my friends and family during the first year here with some added photos. It can be verbose and some posts technical, but feel free to take a look. I am humbled if there's anything that can be gained by reading about my #RouieTCjourney.

In closing, I wanted to share a poem/artwork that was displayed at an oncology waiting room from very early in this journey. I remember taking this photo hoping for the day that this poem resonated with me.

Beyond the Eclipse

Pastel by a Person Diagnosed with Cancer

New York

Still I get scared, sometimes.

Not like before, when I ate, slept, and

worked with cancer invading all.

I remember that very well.

Cancer eclipsed my life then. It was like

being swallowed up in a darkness.

Today only its shadow remains.

I can step out of it and get back to living.

The air has new life.

Loved ones are more precious--

those who were there all along.

I have more than I knew.

Time to try what has been passed over.

Taking the effort, I reach for those possibilities.

What really matters is beyond the eclipse.

Thank you for reading and I wish everyone peace of mind and happiness during this holiday season.

Warmly,
Louie