The Body Keeps Score: Navigating the Anniversary Effect
It's hard to believe it’s been 1 year already...
I’m having a bit of a day. To be fair, this feeling started seeping in over the weekend—a slow tide I couldn’t quite name.
I don’t share this for sympathy. I share it because I’m learning something, and I suspect others navigating cancer, surgery, or grief might find a bit of comfort in my "why."
It all makes sense now. I’m experiencing the *Anniversary Effect*.
I’ve felt this before in the lead-up to losing my parents, or the date of my miscarriage. The body remembers even when the brain is scattered. My body aches, I’m irritable, I’m at loose ends, and I’m filled with an inexplicable urge to cry. Then, I look at the calendar, and I understand.
A year ago tomorrow, I had a double mastectomy with DIEP/TRAM flap reconstruction.
I remember the "before" so clearly: the long drive to my oldest step-daughter’s house to drop off the pets; the hotel near the hospital; the nurse telling us to go out and have a "good dinner" before the 5:00 AM alarm. I remember pre-op at the hospital and being hooked up to all the bells and whistles, ...the sedative hitting my bloodstream to quiet my nerves.
The surgery took 13 hours. Eight hours in, just as the surgeons thought they were finished, one of my "flaps"—the new breasts created from my own tissue—failed. The blood supply stopped. I had been warned this could happen, and in a strange way, I’m thankful it happened while I was still on the table, blissfully unaware.
My memories of recovery are foggy and disjointed. I remember the hallways blurring past as I was wheeled to recovery and then to my room where nurses appeared from the shadows every hour on the hour. But mostly, I remember my right hand. Without my glasses, I was hyper-focused on the sensation in my fingers, or the lack thereof. They felt like flat pieces of paper rubbing together—a strange, bloodless "pins and needles" before the needles actually arrived. I wanted to feel the sting; I just wanted to know the hand was mine.
That feeling didn't fully return until this past summer. Between the IVs, the bloodwork, and the sheer trauma of the surgery, my nerves had simply retreated.
My body had been through it! I was a map of tubes: a catheter, IVs, and four drains—two from my chest, two from my abdomen. On day one, the nurses wanted me up. I couldn't wrap my head around how a body so tethered could move, but it took a village. With two nurses on either side, I made it to a chair. I made it to the bathroom, too, though I nearly passed out in the process.
Then came the "bonus" pain. As my body began to wake up, the post-surgical gas pain set in. It's no joke. I was yelling and crying out in pain, spiraling into a panic attack, convinced I was dying. In hindsight, I can laugh at the absurdity of it, but in that moment, I needed every ounce of anti-nausea meds and sedation they could give me. It was something else! Thankfully for all involved, my cocktail of carefully administered/timed meds knocked me out.
By the second day, I was earning "gold stars." I was managing the walk to the bathroom; I was eating some of my meals 😬. By day three, I did a lap of the ward with my grown-up kids who came to visit because they needed to see that I was going to be okay... and it was so lovely to see them. By day four, the catheter and IVs were gone, leaving only the drains.
When my husband finally drove me home and helped me into my own bed, I cried. I cried out of sheer gratitude. I get to be here.
I spent the next six months in a cycle of many post-op appointments followed by physiotherapy. I cheered when the last drain was pulled in April. By May, I felt like "me" again. But doing "remarkably well" doesn't erase the fact that the experience was traumatic.
Now, a year later, my body is reliving it.
Last night, I woke up with my right hand completely numb. That "paper" feeling was back. I started to panic until I realised I was just sleeping on my arm. I took a deep breath. I was home. I was safe.
I didn't fully admit to my "why" until this morning when I found myself frantically tearing apart my bookcase and closet and bedroom to purge and reorganize. My room is a disaster area. But after a good cry, a long hug from my husband and a hot bath, I feel the weight lifting... I'll be more gentle with myself. More aware, or at least honest with myself.
The Anniversary Effect is real. If you’ve been through something traumatic—grief, abuse, a life-altering diagnosis—be gentle with yourself, too.
Remember: It’s okay to not be okay. You’re doing your best.
Deep breaths. Baby steps.
You’re doing great. ❤️
Image dialogue:
“I’m not okay.” said Bear.
“And that’s okay.” said Rabbit.
©Tara Shannon, 2021
✨️
Below: Me. The morning after the day/night before. Swollen and puffy from all of the fluid pumped through ne during surgery.
Below: Late afternoon, March 7th, 2025… I would get to go home the next day.
Below: Me. Now. ❤️
Anniversary of any event whether happy or sad leave lasting impressions on our heart& mind.They get easier as time goes by but you never forget them,important to deal with them,if happy ,treasure them ,if sad or scary prayer& support helps heal them .May God bless you dear one.
Your words and quotes are always so inspiring. Thank you for sharing your feelings! I cannot begin to express how much your posts have given me a sense of calm and hope, when something good was needed.