It’s National Tattoo Day. I’m not sure why that’s a thing. Once upon a time, I swore I’d never have a tattoo. To confess, I used to side eye tattoos. Then, I got cancer, understood the fragility and brevity of life, lived with pity stares, developed a new attitude, and decided to live for myself. Now,I have 5 tattoos, much to my mother’s chagrin (sorry, mom, I love you, but I’m still getting more tattoos).
I began getting inked after my one year cancerversary. I chose a phoenix on my ankle for my first tattoo, not because of my Harry Potter obsession, but because phoenix rise from the ashes, and let’s face it, cancer is a fire. Residing on my right wrist is my second tattoo, a healing symbol with a compass embedded into it as a reminder that healing takes time and when it’s hard, look north. My third and fourth tattoos are 3D areola tattoos done by Marie Sena, an incredibly kind, compassionate, and talented tattoo artist, one of the markedly few tattoos artists in the US who specializes in these kind of unique tattoos. My fifth tattoo, also done by Marie Sena, is a sternum piece, an homage to Adam and our kids -a bouquet of flowers, a rose for Aidan, an aster for Samantha, and a daffodil for Adam -their birth month flowers. In September, Marie will do my sixth tattoo to celebrate what gets me through the dark times in my life besides family -my love of reading and Harry Potter. It’s a custom piece of books and owls, of Felix Felicis and Hogwarts.
I’ve been asked that age-old question, “What about when you get old…don’t you think you’ll regret them?”
No. I don’t. It’s one of the ways I cope with cancer, and let’s face it, if I live to be “old,” I want to have these reminders of what life threw at me.
Went to take a quick nap at 6:30 pm yesterday evening…woke up at 6:40 am this morning.
I used to feel really guilty and really bad about doing that, falling asleep and leaving A on his own with the kids, but the truth is this: If I don’t take time for myself and recharge, I’m useless. Cancer treatment, and the medication I take every single day to hopefully keep the cancer from coming back, on top of dealing with the after effects of one of the worst depressive episodes I’ve ever had , is a lot to deal with on any given day. Some days, my body, my mind, and my heart just need to rest. Last night was one of those nights. I have no shame in admitting cancer did a number to my body, my heart -literally, since one of the medications I had to be on causes heart damage and my course of radiation also had a pretty high likelihood of causing heart damage-, my mind, and my soul.
It has been a difficult number of months for me personally. My father’s health and physical abilities continue to decline putting more and more stress on my mother and sister. I am the shoulder to cry on and ear to vent to in my group of friends, and there has been a lot of crying and venting, for them and for me. I am a fixer. I want to solve problems and fix issues. There are situations right now I cannot fix nor can I solve. It is incredibly draining and scary.
Last night, when I went to take that nap, the thought going through my head was “I am responsible for me and those two little kids playing in their rooms. I am not responsible for everything else.”
I have to tell myself that over and over because on the personal side of my life, I feel responsible for EVERYTHING going wrong right and for EVERYTHING that’s out of place. I have to believe, as Henslowe assured Fennyman in Shakespeare in Love that sometimes we can’t do anything except trust because things mysteriously turn out well. I’m putting my trust in a number of people, and that’s really hard for me. I do not, nor have I ever, trusted people easily. That’s why I have a small group of friends. That’s why I don’t open up easily to others. I know what it’s like to be stabbed in the back by friends who were secret Brutuses. I know what it’s like to have your trust betrayed. So, it’s very hard for me to trust outside my family and group of friends, and to be honest, I don’t even trust everyone in my family. I just don’t give my trust easily. I’m hoping, and I’m not someone who hopes easily either, Henslowe is right. Things will work out mysteriously well. Things will be all right because right now, they’re not. They’re so not.
The school year is coming to a close. It’s been a good year for me professionally. I was named ELAR Teacher of the Year for my campus, a shared honor as two of us were named. I branched out to take some other responsibilities. Beginning next school year, I will also work for an educational company as a consultant in addition to my teaching responsibilities. I’ve been hired by College Board to score AP exams this summer. These may seem like little things, but for me, they’re huge. I continue to grow as a teacher, as far as I’m concerned, we should never stop learning, and to that end, I’m attending two professional conferences this summer, one week long and one long weekend.
My six-month checkup is beginning to loom large on the horizon. It’s at the end of June…June 29th to be exact. Right now, I don’t feel anything about it. My heart doesn’t catch, yet, when I think about it, but the closer it gets, the more my heart will catch and cancer will fuel my dreams.
Life has not been easy over the last three years. There have been months long stretches of heavy, hard things, not just cancer. Hard life lessons. I’m caught in one of those stretches right now of hard life lessons.
I told a friend last week as I cried on her shoulder -virtually, through text messages, as I literally cried, sitting in my closet where no one could hear me- I feel like Fate, God, whatever hates me. She replied she doesn’t believe in a god, but even if she did, she didn’t believe anything hates me. She said sometimes life is hard, things are hard. Last night, the hard caught up with me. I couldn’t take anymore -no one else’s worries, no one else’s concerns, no one else’s burdens. I had to shoulder my own, and last night, my body, my heart, my soul, and my mind craved sleep. So, I slept. As the cliché says, you can’t pour from an empty cup. Yesterday, my cup was empty. I had to take care of me. Today, my cup is fuller because I took care of me last night.
Taking care of yourself is not selfish. It is self-care. You cannot take care of others if you pour yourself totally empty. You exist as a shell. I’ve done that over the last few months, poured myself completely empty. I’ve existed as a shell. I told myself no more. So, I slept. I turned off my phone. I slept.
I’m posting this at A’s urging. He claims it’s one of my finer pieces of writing and that it deserves to see the light of day. It’s a hard, raw piece of my life the last few months.
I stopped wearing makeup. That was the first clue, the sign everyone missed because I explained it away so easily. Some lies tip off my tongue without pause.
I wanted to sleep an extra 20-30 minutes in the morning. That was the second clue, the sign everyone missed because it was easy to believe. I’m never one to skip a chance to sleep in if I can.
I like to sleep. That was the third clue, the third sign everyone missed because teachers are perpetually exhausted. I escaped through sleep.
But, the sleep came with sad dreams, my imagination at play without the constraints I put on it during my waking hours. I refused to let what was going on for me personally affect my professional life. Once at home, though, the demons played. At night, my worst thoughts and deepest fears flew free. When morning came, I woke up, more exhausted than the night before, and I didn’t want to wake up, put on makeup, think about clothes. I wanted to pull the covers over my head, cry myself back to sleep, and hope I’d find rest and solace.
Rest and solace eluded me. They never came. Instead, sudden, intense pain in my lower back came. Unbidden. Unwanted. My scumbag brain fed my fears.
After an emotional Sunday afternoon, my husband, stressed out and nearing his breaking point, demanded I call Dr. O the next morning.
I did. I expected to be told to take a muscle relaxer and call back in two weeks if the pain had not subsided.
Instead, I got blood work, an exam, and two MRIs at a cost of over $1000 because for the first time in two years, I had yet to meet my out of pocket maximum by the end of February.
Two breathless days later, I got a call. Spinal arthritis, likely brought on by my daily AI. “Start yoga,” the nurse said. “Let’s try that before adding more medication.”
“OK,” was my reply.
Then, the nurse, gently, “Dr. O wants you to see someone for your depression and anxiety. It’s in the notes she talked to you about it and gave you a name. Have you made an appointment?”
A long pause. “No. I’m ashamed.”
“You have nothing to be ashamed of. Make the appointment.”
A long pause. “OK.”
Later that week, I made the appointment. I saw someone. They prescribed an anti-depressant.
It’s been a month now. The world looks different. I look different. I’m climbing out of this deep, dark, awful hole I’ve lived in for the last three months. I’m beginning to get up earlier. I give myself time to decide if I want to play with make up or use that time to drink a cup of coffee while reading a chapter of a book. Most days, I drink a cup of coffee and read a book. I got a haircut today. It’s the first haircut I’ve gotten since December. My pixie isn’t a pixie anymore. I can’t decide what I want to do -grow it out or cut it back -but today I care about my appearance. I haven’t cared about it in months.
January and February are nebulous to me. They exist in a fog. My memory of them is hazy. They are sadness, worthlessness, fear, anxiety.
So much has happened in my family over the last three months. So many bad and negative things. Those and the cancer scare triggered a depressive episode the likes of which I’d never known.
I wish I’d never known.
This ladder is tall. I’m climbing it. I’ve stumbled on a couple of rungs. But, I know what the bottom looks like, and it’s not a place I want to revisit. So, I climb.
Slowly. Carefully. Delicately.
The top may be far above me, but at least I’m no longer a stone’s throw away from the bottom anymore. I’m still delicate. I’m wary. I’m distrusting. But, I’m climbing. I’m trying. The antidepressant is working. Life is still throwing curveballs, but now, I’m trying to catch them and throw them back. I wasn’t before. I took them to the face over and over and didn’t care. There are still days where I don’t care, but those days are fewer.
I’ve walked a long, dark, and sad road the last several months. I hid it with excuses but dropped clues like a bird drops feathers, and like a bird’s feathers, few picked up my clues, and even fewer put the clues together.
As the days go by, I’m regaining myself and my personality, my come-at-me-bro personality, my I-walked-the-fire-and-came-out-a-Phoenix personality, my “She wore her scars as her best attire. A stunning dress made of hellfire” personality.
My self esteem took a nosedive on Friday for no other reason than I looked in a mirror as I changed clothes.
Scars everywhere on my torso. Port. Mastectomy. DIEP reconstruction. Oophorectomy. 7 scars. Seven vivid reminders of cancer.
Sometimes, it’s just too much, and Friday, the second anniversary of my mastectomy, the second anniversary of finding cancer in the sentinel nodes, the second anniversary of finding ER+ cancer in the breast tissue, the scars overwhelmed.
My life has changed so much over the last two years. Sometimes it catches up to me.
My mind is consumed right now with worries and concerns that aren’t truly mine to bear, yet I feel if I don’t shoulder them in some way, no one will. Some are above my role, so to speak. Some are on my shoulders because others put them there for they don’t know how to carry them, or worse, don’t want to do so.
My mind spins.
I want to scream at the world, but the wind would just blow it back to me.
This is my safe space, my place to process, the place cancer created, but not a single worry and concern on my shoulders right now relates to cancer. I was no evidence of disease at my check up and blood work on Monday. For that news alone, I am grateful. I am humbled. I am relieved.
Yet, I am Sisyphus. The rock I push rolled back down the mountain on Friday, not from cancer. Thankfully, not from cancer. As I look at the rock, I question my ability to shove it, inch by painstaking inch, back up the mountain, for this time, is the burden truly mine to bear? My heart says yes, my gut says yes, and I’ve made it a point over the last three years to listen to my heart and gut instead of my brain. So, I square up in front of the rock, this boulder, this weight upon my shoulders. And, I take a step. The rock doesn’t budge, but I stand here with all my weight pressed into it, willing it to move up the mountain, just a bit because if I move and let go, I don’t know that anyone will move in to take my place, to hold the rock steady, to push the rock, to assume the burden.
This has been my role for as long as I can remember, shouldering burdens that are not mine to bear, taking blame for problems I did not create but feel responsibility.
The integrated medicine specialist I saw yesterday who told me I’m pretty much doing everything wrong and compromising my chances of living without a occurrence also told me that they were impressed with how calmly and unemotionally I can recite my history from the past three years. I was also told the fact I can be so unemotional about it is not a good thing, and in fact, it comes off as
Here’s the reason people like me wear a mask every day: We’re tired of being hurt. We’re tired of wondering when the next shoe is going to drop. We’re tired of not knowing what to expect. We’re tired of thinking we’re doing the right thing, but as usual, it’s the wrong thing, or it’s the right thing, but it’s not right enough.
Do you honestly think I don’t feel horrible that my diet sucks so much? Do you honestly think I don’t feel like I’ve damned myself? Do you honestly think I don’t feel like I’m ruining my family’s lives because my body betrayed me at thirty seven years old? Do you honestly think I enjoy thinking EVERY SINGLE DAY that EVERY SINGLE ACHE or PAIN or FUNNY FEELING is the cancer? Do you HONESTLY think that?
And, do you honestly think I’m the one in the wrong for wearing a mask to protect myself? For guarding my heart? Do you honestly think A is wrong for it? Honestly? With everything we’ve been through the last several years, life reads like a damned Shakespearean tragedy.
December 2, 2013: Mom diagnosed with colon cancer.
December 26, 2013: Mom hospitalized for a life threatening obstruction and infection resulting in emergency surgery and a two week hospital stay.
January 2014-May 2014: Mom unable to work for months because of complications to colon cancer treatment and surgeries.
June 2014-August 2014: Mom recovers and continues chemo.
September 2014-May 2015: Mom has more surgeries from colon cancer and treatments. Mom has every side effect or complication possible, including resulting in a wound vac.
July 2015: I decided to follow my heart back into teaching. A accepted a new, very challenging position. Both of us excited at the possibilities.
August 2015: Breast cancer. Stage 2A. IDC. HER2+.
September 2015-January 2016: TCHP chemo regimen. Private family emergency occurs. I completely and earn my master’s degree while undergoing chemo.
February 2016: Mastectomy. SURPRISE! The cancer is in your lymph nodes AND it’s ER+. No HER2 cancer left behind.
February 2016: Started Tamoxifen. Continued Herceptin.
March 2016: Worst headache I’ve ever had triggers a brain CT. Began radiation. Still Herceptin’ ing. Brain CT normal -Thank all the things.
April 2016: Finished radiation. Still Herceptin’ ing.
May 2016-June 2016: Recovered from radiation while getting Herceptin every three weeks.
July 2016: DIEP flap reconstruction. Still Herceptin ‘ing.
August 2016: Returned to work less than three weeks after DIEP. Still Herceptin ‘ing.
September 2016: Last Herceptin. 1 year scans. NED.
October 2016: Complications from DIEP reconstruction.
November 2016: Dad starts complaining of headaches. Move into new house.
December 2016: Settle into new house.
January 2016-February 2017: Dad complains of headaches.
March 2017: Dad has a seizure. I have an oophorectomy on A’s birthday.
April 2017-June 2017 Dad’s health deteriorates. He has a brain tumor. Looks benign. Still has seizures.
July 2017: Roadtrip for me and the kids. A accepts a new position and changes jobs.
August 2017: Dad has brain surgery resulting in loss of function on left side and begins intensive rehab.
September 2017: 2 year scans. NED. Dad moved to skilled nursing.
October 2017: Dad moved home with in house therapy. Requires 24/7 care.
November 2017: Headaches for me scaring me to death. A develops bronchitis. No improvement in Dad.
In this same stretch of time, A’s uncle died, his mom had surgery, his dad lost his job and found a new one, his brother broke up with his fiancee, his sister graduated from college, his grandparents have had health scares, particularly his 90 year old grandfather who lives over a thousand miles away from us.
It does not remotely touch family stress, daily stress, or anything specific to jobs. This does not remotely touch the stress of living with someone who’s had cancer. Caretakers endure enormous stress. If you think for one minute my cancer and fears don’t touch A, you’re wrong. He’s like me -stoic. What else can we be? We have two young children. Cancer yanked our best laid plans for our lives out from under us. And, because he guards his heart as zealously as I guard mine, we’re wrong.
When I was little, around 10 years old, a family member, in anger, told me something I’ve never forgotten or forgiven myself for: I don’t know when to shut up and because I don’t, I make things so much worse for everyone around me. Imagine how it feels now because I’ve had cancer. Imagine the guilt I feel every…single…day.
I cry every single day. EVERY day. I cry because I’m scared these headaches mean brain mets. I cry because I blame myself anytime A has a bad day. I cry because I fear what will happen to my children if they watch me die from cancer. I cry because I had cancer.
It is what it is.
I don’t know how to be any different than who I am. I don’t ask A to be any different than he is. Cancer changed us. I’m sorry my cancer changed me and changed him. But, it did. I can’t fix it. I can’t fix cancer. I. Can’t. Fix. It.
I’ve spent the last four years constantly trying to put out fires that just get bigger, get worse, get scarier, and I’ve done it all with the facade of “This is fine. Everything is fine.”
Last night, a friend sent me this picture message:
My track record is 100%. Yesterday sucked. There’s no kinder, nicer, cleaner way of saying it. It just sucked. Today, honestly, isn’t that great either because I have a nagging heaviness in my head around my left temple, and it’s scaring me. I didn’t wake up with it, I’m not nauseous or dizzy or seeing spots. It’s not progressive. It’s none of the things I’ve Googled when I Google “what do breast cancer brain mets feel like?” Here’s the rub: I have to Google that because…I had a cancer. I had cancer. At thirty seven. I. Had. Cancer. And, as I was told yesterday, if I don’t start eating better and exercising and losing weight and ALL the things I’ve been told since I was diagnosed, I’m upping my risk of dying from breast cancer.
You wonder why I wear a mask? Why I guard my heart? Why A is stoic?
1. Everything is estrogen, and my cancer was strongly estrogen positive; therefore, I’m doing everything wrong if I’m trying to stop my cancer from returning.
2. I’m 39 years old and still haven’t learned to keep my damned mouth shut.
3. When I think I being helpful, I’m not. See #2.
4. Cortisol, the stress hormone, causes fat storage and if I were less stressed, I would lose weight, and I need to lose weight because fat causes estrogen, my cancer was estrogen positive. See #1.
5. I can’t sleep because I’m not listening to my body. When my body says it’s tired, I should go to bed. The fact that I do and lay there for hours means I didn’t listen well enough.
6. I’m a smart person, and I can solve all my issues by stopping negative thoughts.
7. Since I had my ovaries and tubes removed to stop estrogen production, I’ve thrown my body out of balance, but it was necessary because everything is estrogen. See #1.
8. From now on, every time I reach for a Dr. Pepper or fried food or fast food or TV dinner, I need to remember they are estrogen in disguise. See #1.
9. By choosing to mask my true feelings about my cancer diagnosis in order to protect others, I’m failing at being good to myself, which causes stress. See #4 and #1.
10. I fail at being supportive enough to others. See #1, #2, #3, #4, and #9.
If anyone wants me, I’ll be Dimmesdale’ing myself in my master closet, looking over my shoulder in defiance of God’s warning while hoping not to turn into a pillar of salt, pushing my rock up the mountain, and ignoring the sword hanging over my head.
School lunch lines get a bad rap sometimes, and it’s probably deserved sometimes. Thankfully, I’ve never had a negative experienced with school food. I’ve always enjoyed food from the hot lunch line in my school district. When I was little, Fridays were chili days for my elementary school. I remember my dad giving me two dollars every Friday so I could buy my lunch. Throughout middle school, I often bought my lunch. By high school, I bought it every day.
As a teacher, I still buy my lunch from the hot lunch line. It gets me in the cafeteria where I can talk with, joke with, and laugh with students. It gets me out of my classroom. It gives me the opportunity to thank our cafeteria workers.
In November, my school district serves a Thanksgiving lunch. It’s a small thing, but today was that day, Thanksgiving dinner in the hot lunch line.
(I don’t like gravy…I know. I’m weird.)
Two years ago, this time of the year, I’d just had my third chemo treatment and was in the throes of a horrible reaction to Perjeta. I was miserable. My sense of taste was screwed. It constantly felt like I had brushed my teeth then drank orange juice. It was just an awful, awful time. I was barely eating because everything tasted so bad…but, this Thanksgiving dinner at school actually tasted right. I remember sitting in my classroom crying because something finally tasted normal. I was normal for those few minutes of eating. I was bald. My thigh was covered in red, angry pustules. My skin hurt. My heels were agony. I was exhausted. That school cafeteria meal made all the difference for me that day. For those precious minutes it took me to eat, I didn’t feel as terrible. And, I ate. I ate every bite of it. It was the best thing I’d tasted since starting chemo.
Today I went through the hot lunch line, collected my thanksgiving meal, went back to my classroom, and I smiled at the memory. The meal brought me comfort two years ago at a time when very little brought me comfort.
Today is the first day in five days I have not woken up with a headache. It’s been a dull headache, not often in the same place. Yesterday, it was my left temple. Day before, it was around the top of my head. Day before that, it was at the base of my head and top of my neck. I bet anyone can guess what my first thought was -brain mets. I’ve taken Excedrin Migraine on and off all week.
I woke up this morning without the headache. A’s been very sick most of this week. He has bronchitis, and the cough he has is ridiculous. It kept me up most of last Sunday night and Monday night. I slept upstairs on the air mattress on Wednesday and Thursday nights. I didn’t sleep well there either. That mattress is too hard. Last night, A insisted I sleep in our room. So, before I went to bed, because I still had that dull headache living in my temple, I took 2 Aleve…and, for the first time in a very long time, I took my anxiety medicine. It’s not something I take regularly. I have it for an as needed basis. I’m not going to lie, I’ve been fighting a low level panic attack for awhile. Two women I follow on Twitter and Facebook with Stage 4 breast cancer died this week, both young women. Neither with the kind of breast cancer I had nor diagnosed at the same stage or grade I had. Still, every breast cancer death I hear of hits me hard.
It reminds me I’m always one blood test, one scan away from another cancer diagnosis.
The headache I’ve had kept me in a low level of panic. What if it’s brain mets? That was my question every morning. And, yes, I Googled symptoms of brain mets. Nausea. Vomiting. Progressive headache. Weakness on one side. Loss of appetite. Vision disturbances. Distorted sense of taste or smell. Seizures. I don’t have any of those. The headache isn’t progressive. It’s been the same every day until today when I woke up with out it.
You know, before cancer, I would attribute a headache like this to Texas weather. Our weather in DFW this week has been stereotypical Texas weather. We’ve gone from a cold front with sleet to record setting highs to normal fall weather and back to summer weather. It’s so stupid. Before cancer, I would curse Texas weather messing with air pressure and all that. But, I had cancer, so every ache and pain gets side eyed. Is it a recurrence? Am I okay?
My head doesn’t ache today. It does feel full…a little pressure. But, it doesn’t hurt.
I’m still side eyeing it.
I fear normal aches and pains. I’m nearly 40. I know there are going to be aches and pains, but dammit, I had cancer. That makes everything suspicious, and I freaking HATE it.
Either Sunday evenings or Monday mornings, lately, it’s Monday mornings, I fill my pill holder with the pill I need to survive, the pill I need to help my allergies and stop bone pain, the two pills I need to counter my mostly uncontrollable hot flashes, and the pill I take to combat hair loss caused by the pill I need to survive.
Five pills. Every. Single. Day.
I’ve forgotten to take them exactly once. That happened when I switched to arimidex. I had a panic attack in the hospital after my DIEP reconstruction when my plastic surgeon told me I couldn’t take my tamoxifen because of a potential side effect with bleeding. I made my plastic surgeon tell me every single day I was in the hospital why I couldn’t take it. He ended up bringing me literature to read about it. I still called Dr. O, who assured me the few days I would be off tamoxifen were negligible because of its long half-life.
I’m positive if someone told me to stop taking these pills, I would panic. I know it can’t stop the cancer from returning if it’s determined to return, but it’s the best chance I have, along with zometa, which I still haven’t heard if my insurance has approved it, to keep my body an inhospitable place for ER+ cancer to reside.
That and losing fifty pounds. And drinking more water. And exercising.
I have the day off today. My house is quiet. AJ and S are out with A. I chose to stay home because I have a crazy busy week ahead of me. I see Dr. H tomorrow for my six month check up with her. It’s strange, but appointments with her don’t cause my anxiety to rise even though she’s the one who told us exactly what kind of cancer I faced and what my treatments would be. She’s the one who told me my cancer had spread to my lymph nodes.
She’s also the one who came to see me early the morning after preforming my mastectomy because she said she needed to see me. She said she knew I would be heading down the worst case scenario train in my mind and she wanted to talk me through everything she knew at the time. She’s the one who told me that the cancer in my lymph nodes and lymph channels was not necessarily a death sentence.
She’s also the one I call, most of the time, when something isn’t right. A new lump. A strange place on the skin. She sees me almost immediately. She’s the one who sent me for imaging last year when she wasn’t 100% sure a lump in my left foob was fat necrosis and asked the radiologist performing the ultrasound to tell me exactly what he saw because she would not send me home knowing nothing because I was terrified. It was fat necrosis.
She’s the one who Dr. B, my longtime OBGYN, sent me to see after I asked her who she would see. She said Dr. H’s name and said, “MY doctor.”
With Dr. H, I don’t feel like a patient, a statistic. I’m a person with a name and a need, and she knows it. Her whole office staff is that way. I’m sure tomorrow my anxiety will flare, and I’m sure walking into Methodist tomorrow afternoon will be hard because I pass by radiation oncology to get to breast oncology, and as wonderful as the radiology oncology department was to me, radiation is a level of hell I never knew existed.
I relive my diagnosis every single day. If it’s not the pills, it’s the doctor’s appointments. If it’s not the doctor’s appointments, it’s the news and social media. If it’s not the GOP destroying health care in America, it’s something.
Every single day reminds me of what I’ve lost and what I stand to lose, and the hell of it is, there is nothing, really, I can do except take the pills and go to the doctor’s appointments. I could do everything right and the cancer could come back. I could
do everything wrong and live to be 101.
I’m a pawn in the chess game of Fate. Forever in limbo, forever reminded of what cancer has done, can do, and might do. Forever wondering what the next move will be.