I have over 50 emails sitting in my drafts folder. I have started and abandoned more than 50 thank yous. I start off on the right track but my words quickly dissolve into cuss words. I don't want my thank yous to be vitriolic and laden with negativity.
I'm just ... I'm still mad. I think about how much time I have wasted and how much more I want to do - and how crappy I feel right now - and I'm mad. I think about my doctor, my endocrinologist, my surgeon, the lab techs and various doctors who performed my biopsies pre-surgery - who all said that the odds were in my favour - and I'm mad. I think about the people who put crappy, chemical-y food in their mouths and don't exercise - who don't have cancer - and I'm mad. I'm mad all the time. About everything.
When I try to dissect my anger, when I try to rationalize all this rage that is bubbling up in my chest, I can't breathe. I think about how Grady is going to be 22 months old next week. Too young to remember me. He can look at photographs and see that he has my eyes. People will tell him that he laughs like I laugh. Maybe in the future he will love to cook, or maybe he will have a laughably bad singing voice, or maybe odd numbers will make him uncomfortable and someone will say, "Oh! Your mom loved to cook / had a laughably bad singing voice / hated odd numbers too!" But he won't remember. I won't be the lady who started every morning with a dance party in the kitchen. I'll be the lady in the photograph with the pretty eyes and a crooked smile. And it makes me mad. I think that right now being mad is easier than being sad. If I let myself be sad I won't be able to get out of bed. I think my rage is my protective shell right now.
Your words of support - your comments and tweets and emails and text messages and cards - they're shiny little stones I'm collecting. They're reinforcing the tiny rage wall surrounding my broken heart and whenever I'm faced with something difficult - like, being told I have the good cancer, or being told that there are sicker people out there who have it worse than I do, or being asked what cancer means for my fertility (it means fuck you is what it means! I hadn't even thought of that layer of shite so thanks for bringing it to the forefront of my mind!) - I just pile up more of my shiny little stones and hope they hold. Because even though I'm a ball of fury, I have yet to explode. I came close today when I accidentally threw my car keys in the parkade garbage can and I had to dig through a weekend's worth of fast food wrappers and apple cores to find them, but fortunately I had my foul-mouthed little parrot with me so I just gritted my teeth and said a few "fudging fiddlesticks." There have been a lot of fudging fiddlesticks this week.