I'm not a crier. I've never been. I hate crying. I cried about only a handful of times over the cancer thing (and not for more than a few minutes)...right after the biopsy, right before the procedure to have my port put in, the morning of the mastectomy, and when some friends were posting photos of a fun trip while I was stuck retching over a toilet. Don't misunderstand--I'm not saying there's anything wrong with crying.
I'd just rather do the back stroke in a vat of razor blades and then roll around in some salt and pepper. I've always been more of a "buck up and move on" type of chick. I don't like to talk about feelings. I don't want to admit to sadness or any of its creepy cousins--insecurity, doubt, powerlessness, etc.. Instead, roll me in razor blades and sprinkle me with salt and a pinch of pepper.
Cry? I’d rather do the back stroke in a vat of razor blades and then roll around in some salt and pepper.
I'm cancer free. That's a pretty big fucking deal. Not everyone gets this outcome; this could have ended with sympathy cards and eulogies, or many years of ongoing cancer treatments (though the change of recurrence is a new and sometimes unsettling awareness). Considering the late stage of my very aggressive cancer, and only a year of (albeit intense) treatment, I'm really quite fortunate.
I'm on THE OTHER SIDE, cancer cells eradicated, radiation burns now smooth skin, chemo done and left in the dust, scars from the surgeon's knife healed up--defrosting the life I had to put on ice.
Everything should be all roses and hearts and unicorns and rainbows and puppy breath. Right? RIGHT? Buck up and move on! But, in many ways the period after cancer can feel harder than when you had it.
I should be glad to be alive. I should feel fortunate. I should be joyful. I should be... I should be... I should be... I should be... I should be... I should be... I should be... I should be... I should be...