I Will

Feel like I could MAYBE sleep now… except that I cried so much while IN bed that I’m now a bit too nauseated to lie back down.

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Chatting with Auntie K. on FB. Not as good as sitting on the couch at home watching Doctor Who with her and the dogs and the cats… but better than nothing.

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Found out I have an appointment with the radiation Doc. on the 23rd. News to me. I know Dr. Kehoe wanted me to try and talk to him this week because I’m super anxious about doing radiation … not that I’m not nervous about the chemo… but I’m more stressed about the radiation. (I’ve heard it hurts). Didn’t realize an appointment had actually been set up.

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So now, I have Dr. Albequerque on the 23rd, Dr Kehoe’s NP on the 24th, and then Dr. Kehoe again on the 31st. I also have to call the NP on Monday to check on the injection prescription. :sigh: At least I’ll be done with the Antibiotic tomorrow. so many fucking pills. Haven’t taken the anxiety meds for the last couple of days and have been spacing out the pain meds more— seems to have (present moment excluded) reduced my constant nausea quite a bit.

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Home health comes MWF again… she didn’t measure the wound on Friday because she said it would be more impressive to wait and do it on Monday. I really like the nurse that’s coming now. She is so careful and so deliberate. 2X she’s managed to change everything with almost NO pain. Who would have thought… with my history of SI and everything else— that I’d end up being so very afraid of being in pain?

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I’m learning things about myself in all of this. And a lot of it, I’ll be honest, I don’t really like. I feel like I have to learn to love my body all over again too. Which is stressful. I’d finally gotten to a point where I was really GOOD with my body and now it’s so so different and there’s so much that I absolutely cannot control and it’s hard to wrap my head around it. I have new scars, bumps, dips, marks… my stomach is practically a different shape- to say nothing of the hole filled with the wound-vac workings just above my belly button.

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In a lot of ways I’m stronger than I thought I was… and in a lot of ways I’m weaker. I do ok most of the time, emotionally but times like tonight I just get so overwhelmed. By the thought of it all, by homesickness, by anxiety, by fear, by anger. Sometimes in some moments it’s hard to keep my head above water. It’s funny…. they took out my uterus, my ovaries, everything— but I still have these super hormonal reactions to things that I don’t really understand. I mean, I’m not an idiot, I know not ALL of the hormones are controlled/released/created there… but I’m still surprised. At how well… hormonal I feel sometimes.

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When I was younger… a lot younger… I used to wonder what would happen if I had Cancer. If people would… come out of the woodwork to support me… if I’d be one of those strong, silent, stoic types who never complain. If people would think I was brave. And the truth is, they do. I hear it a lot these days, from friends, from family. And I want to laugh sometimes. Because I’m not brave. There just isn’t any other choice. In one of the Hunger Games books Finnick says, “It takes 10 times longer to put yourself back together than it does to fall apart” (or something like that). So whenever someone tells me how brave I am… I just… say thank you. Because they don’t see me at 1:30am, tears on my cheeks, nauseated, praying that it will all go away. Because they don’t understand that there isn’t any other choice but to cry after everyone else is asleep.

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I have Cancer, but if affects EVERYONE around me. My family, Kris, my friends. If I break down, if I lose it, if I stop pushing forward— what happens to them? Cancer isn’t just MY life event. And maybe that’s just the old me deep inside wanting to take care of everyone else still. But I don’t think so. Because I can hear it in Kris’ voice how much she misses me, how hard this is for her (it’s been a rough year for her anyway). I can see it when my grandmother walks by and ruffles my hair. I see it the way mom watches me when I get up and down with the wound vac machine.

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It’s my disease, but if affects everyone. Do you know how hard it is to hear your dad… your super-analytical, electrical engineer, never emotional dad try not to break down on the phone when you have to call and tell him you have Cancer? And then hear it all over again when you call to say surgery didn’t get it all, that there’s chemo, and radiation, and even though the prognosis is good there’s a long road to haul and maybe it WOULD be nice if he could come and visit soon? I’ve only ever seen my dad cry at my brother’s funeral… but the sound of him holding back tears the last few weeks is just… too much.

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I don’t really know what the point of this was anymore. I’m still nauseated which means lying down is kind of out for the moment. I’m so tired. And frustrated, and trying so hard to not just fall apart. Because I need my energy for other things… I can’t spare time and energy trying to put myself back together right now.

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See what I mean? There is no option but to move forward. To be “brave.” To be “strong.” It’s all you CAN do. So I’ll keep my meltdowns to the dark of night, when the rest of the house is quiet and asleep. And in the mornings I’ll smile and joke and sit in my chair and pretend that it doesn’t eat away at me. And I’ll try to convince everyone that it’s ok, that I’m ok, that I’m getting through it. And maybe when it’s all over I can lose it just a little and say, “oh my god I had Cancer.”

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But for now, I wait. I listen to the click and whir of the wound vac. I wait to start chemo. I wait to make an appointment to shave my head. I watch my body change. And I try to keep moving forward. Because what other choice do I have? For the first time in 30 years… I don’t WANT to just lay down and die. I want to come back from this.

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So I will.