Similar to life, the eb and flow of cancer treatment is something that takes some getting used to. Just when I seemingly embrace my current situation and learn what “to expect” shit changes.
There’s no comfort in CHemo. Just cold, brass tax slap your ass, cell killing action. Ain’t nothing warm and fuzzy about it. One day pasta is your friend the next your tongue is revolting against your mouth.
I woke up this morning with a panicky, chest grabbing, air escaping, wind blown mind. WHYYY? Oh maybe it’s because my hands are forever vibrating, or because the cool fall air makes my body quiver, or that the cankers on my cheeks are enough to rival dentistry tactics ala the civil war. Maybe it’s because every time I enter a room Tommy in an overly exasperated voice asks, “Is your chemo done yet??” And when I tell him “No, not yet bud”, he looks to the ground, takes a big sigh and says “Oh mama I feel so bad for you.”
I didn’t want to contemplate the part of my journey when people treat me differently because I “look sick.” I don’t care what PeOPLe ThiNK oF MEEEEE. Or do I? No, I don’t, but the lingering looks stick in the psyche. And when the air changes to a chill instead of a kiss, or when Tommy notices the countdown to my chemo finale, the “looks” resurface and rear their ugly judgmental heads.
Most days I count my blessings. I feel gratitude that I’m able to discuss my diagnosis openly and honestly with my children. I appreciate that the roles of caretaker and patient have been reversed and that Steve and I have the opportunity to value the strife that we each under take. I hate that my parents are forced to witness to their only child grapple with a life threatening illness but I’m grateful to show them that I can and will grapple til the end.
Most days I appreciate. But some days I take it one “are you fucking kidding me??” at a time. And that’s ok too.
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