There is an episode of Friends in which Pheobe describes walking in shoes that she might hypothetically buy with money that isn’t hers. “You know what I would hear with every step? Not. Mine. Not. Mine. Not Mine.”
Yesterday, completely frustrated and depressed and stir crazy I decided to extend my daily walk by a mile. So after work, I bundled up like the abominable snowman, hauled up my boots and headed out on my normal running route.
And with every step I heard, “Fuck. Cancer.”
I tried to get into some yoga mantras but for the first mile, I couldn’t. I just wanted to swear and stomp. Fortunately I live downtown and passerby are kinda used to that.
I share this because I think there is some danger in sharing this battle publicly. I am making jokes because that is how I cope. I am not sharing everything, because … well, because its medical and this is the internet. But, I also remember a conversation with a cousin describing an acquaintance who only posted happy things on Facebook so her ex would see them. We all tend to present the happy side. This thing is kinda short on happy sides.
Writing and figuring out how to laugh about it is cathartic for me. It is not my intention to minimize anyone else’s experience or to suggest that this is “the way” to deal with this. It’s just my way to deal with it.
At this stage of the game, most of my days are not bad at all. I’m wrapping up my first chemo cycle. My docs got the anti-nausea cocktail pretty spot on, so while I’m tired, I spent very little time being sick. Turns out that they use anti-psychotics to treat nausea, so I’ve got that going for me, too.
I shaved my head and got to live my Empire Records fantasy. Turns out my dome is big, but not horribly misshapen. As my boyfriend said as he finished the last pass with the clippers: “Your 22 year old self is super jealous right now.” I bought a fake leather motorcycle jacket. I don’t know why, except for that it’s awesome and it’s possible that my only context for bald woman fashion is Me’shell Ndegeocello (who has done many lovely things in her career but my generation will forever associate her with Wild Night. Remember CD singles? I do.)
And even by the end of my walk yesterday, I was hearing lots of other things with each step. It was cold but sunny. I happened on a random teal building. I spoke with my sister and shared some of my frustrations and laughed. No one sneezed on me on the street, so I didn’t have to kill anyone. (And my compromised white cells didn’t have to work too hard.) But in general, it was not a good day. Some days are terrible, and if I’m being honest, there are likely more terrible days ahead.
Fortunately, a lifetime in my family taught me and a brief foray into stand-up comedy confirmed: sometimes the terrible stuff is the funniest.
My port incisions are still healing, as is the irritation from the tape we used to try and keep them dry. But I can touch the port now. It’s actually under my skin – based on all the analogies and terminology what you picture is more like a hole, but it is a raised bump, about an inch across.
It feels like I had surgery and the doctor left a Mento under my skin. There it is, right under my left clavicle, somebody’s Freshmaker. Not. Mine.
#tovictory
I’m glad that the writing is helping you. It’s appropriate that your filter what you put out in public, but I suspect it’s also useful to other people in the struggle who see it. (As you say, not as _the_ way, but as _a_ way.)
It also gives those of us who support you a chance to say so, and honestly, that’s a gift to us too.
Keep on climbing.