As someone who fought cancer while growing a baby inside of me, there were about a million side effects that I struggled with. I had morning sickness and chemo sickness. I had pregnancy fatigue and chemo fatigue. I had gestational diabetes due to steroid therapy, along with a constant craving for sweets due to both the pregnancy and the steroids. I could spend all day listing the symptoms and side effects I endured, and the list would have barely been started.
However, there's one no one warned me about. One that no one could've ever predicted. One that may never leave me.
You see, I've been a musician my whole life. I've spent more money studying music than most sane people would be able to guess. I have a degree in music that I sank tens of thousands of dollars and countless hours of my life into. My mother says I started singing to her when she was pregnant with me, and that I never really stopped. Singing was my passion; it was my whole life for most of my life.
Then I got cancer. The mass started in my chest and worked its way up to my esophagus, simultaneously cutting off my air supply and limiting my vocal range. It's hard to sing when you can't breathe or even get your vocal chords to work efficiently.
I used to be a worship pastor. I've lead worship services. I've sang in concerts that lasted over an hour. I've participated in rehearsals that lasted for three hours or more. I had a singing range that was the envy of anyone who understood what a singing range was.
My husband and I were transitioning between churches when I got cancer. I hadn't been employed in the music industry for quite a while, but I still sang for fun every chance I got.
But then...I literally couldn't sing anymore. I didn't talk about it. It wasn't really a secret, I just couldn't emotionally handle it. I couldn't even admit it to myself. I went a year with little to no music in my life before I was able to croak out anything again.
I am now in remission and can sing again. I still don't really have much of a range, and my lung capacity is still a joke. I'll probably never be musically employed or participate in a choir again. I probably wouldn't be able to, even if I wanted to.
But this isn't all sad. I've found a new use for my love of music.
My daughter was born two months early due to the cancer and subsequent treatments. She had a month-long stay in the NICU. From the first time I got to hold her, I started singing to her, and haven't stopped since. I sing to her when she wakes up in the morning. I sing to her when I put her down for a nap. I sing to her when I put her to sleep at night. Her life is now filled with music.
Singing to her, even if I feel like it's ridiculously substandard compared to the quality I used to be able to produce, has brought me more joy than any performance I have ever given. I can fill the joy of my life with the joy of my life. I can saturate my daughter's life with music, teach her to love it as much as I do.
I may never again have the range, endurance, or power that I used to have when I sing. I've come to realize there are certain things cancer can take from you and never give back. But I fought for something cancer couldn't take and never will: the love of daughter who brings me more joy than anything else ever could.
