Okay, so all I heard coming out of chemo was...it will all be over soon. So I waited to have it be over. October happened, then a surgery to fix my lame wannabe breasts. Boom, December radiation on my liver. but alas, by February I was running, a little, and growing some major fuzzy hair on one itchy scalp. Pow! April! One year survivorship and a official stamp of N.E.D. (No Evidence of Disease.) I rocked that with my pixie style hairdo and pretended I looked hotter then that mother alien lizard-woman-queen on the sitcom V.
And then there was the let down. 12 months, no15 months, of worrying, fighting, pep talks, and feeling pretty gross suddenly became history. MY history. Here was one young woman who beat the odds and was released to the wind for years of watchful waiting. Summer came, I ran further, I lost ten pounds, I spent a lot of time with my kids, and I figured out how to manage my feelings of a life full of interruptions every three weeks to get my Herceptin treatments. And let me tell you, that wasn't an easy task. No one except my mom and my nurses really was part of those trying days. But, I did it. I figured out how to come to terms that would have chemo-mini-cations for the rest of my life.
October, six months of remission, there is something wrong with my appendix. I thought I had colon cancer. No, just some weird mucus crud growing my appendix. Seriously, it never occurred to me that I was going to the rest room like every hour all of a sudden because my appendix was eight times to size it should be and totally stabbing right into my other organs. I avoided a "Jelly Belly."
Okay, not cancer, but another month of laying of the workout routines, another five pounds gained, and some major inconvenience in the household routines due to no heavy lifting. An independent woman yet again controlled by the uncontrollable. But, again, I recovered and settled into a busy life feeling pretty good. A life only interrupted a couple of days every three weeks.
December, I thought I was living a pretty normal life. Oh, my vision is aging just like everyone else in the world. Time for glasses. I hadn't been to an eye doctor in nearly ten years. Oh, did I mention I was a breast cancer survivor? Really, you want to look in my retinas? Okay, an MRI? Like today? This afternoon? You say my left eye is no longer moving? This sounds serious.
In two weeks, I am blazed through on the fast train. MRIs, CTs, blood draws, mask fittings, Herceptin infusion, radiation to my brain tumors, and three new doctors added to my Rolodex. Seriously, this surviving thing (excuse me) is getting really fucked up.
So I do it again, I speak with God and my Papa and figure out how to do it...again. I almost died, again, but survived. Yes, I will live today, tomorrow and on through this month. That is as long as I am not in some car accident or something. But, I had to come to terms that knowing I am alive today is good enough. It is good enough because it will be a miracle if I get to be the wiser age of my mother.
Now, this is not supposed to be a sober story, just a reality. I go for a run. My toes are painfully throbbing in my shoes. But "f "that; I am running. I am here and my breasts don't move. In fact, it is so cold outside that they are as hard as rocks and press into my rib cage making it hard to inhale. I am in yoga. I am in the front row to the left of center so I can see using both eyes. I am in mountain pose with my arms reaching for the heavens. My left pit is sunken, missing something, and the muscle that they pulled up and over to support the implant is stretched taunt. But I am in yoga. I do eagle pose and wrap my body in a full twist beyond any I accomplished when I was 19. My balance falters on my right foot.
My thoughts are ramped and odd. Maybe they aren't odd if you know you are going to die soon. No, not this year. I think about how I haven't taken my kids to the beach enough. I haven't shown them the beauty of the places I have seen as a youth. I haven't been to the East in the autumn to see the trees nor have I been to Paris nor Venice. I haven't taken my kids hiking enough and now it maybe too late. Yet, the things they know is outstanding. They are pretty smart, well-rounded kids and, apparently, are the center of my Earth.
There is a feeling of fleeting impatience to do all that I ever thought I might. Yet, there is a pull to stay regular and normal. It is confusing. I have been here before. When one comes off the drama of surviving, it is exciting...normalcy. Yet, there is the let down. All this working and now what? Now what do I do and think about? The cards stopped coming months ago. Well, not the ones from my sister (thank you.) And I just don't know what to tell you when you ask: How are you doing? I am fine. My life is not much different from yours. Well, I hope that is what you think. There is still a lot of pain. But, this is as good as it gets. I want more. Just like you. I want more then I have right now. I want to get out. I want out of the control of cancer. I want to soar free, do what I have always dreamed, and show my kids some really cool things. But then again, I need a nap. Yes, I will close my eyes for a few minutes if my son is willing to take a nap too. Then, again, maybe I just need some studio time. You now what, I am an artist first, right? Dear cancer, can I take a break from you so I can get a few pieces done for my next show in 18 days?
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