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.
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Be mad. Be furious. And we'll be here to listen. No thank yous or replies necessary.
ReplyDeleteAngry is good; sounds like it's where you need to be right now. There isn't much I can say, but I'm listening; vent as much as you need and don't worry about the rest of the world for a little while. Just worry about what you need.
ReplyDeleteBe mad, Hills. It's you, fighting.
ReplyDeleteNobody expects thank yous. We're here because we love you. xo
So much of the environment around us is toxic and has shown up in cancer in much of my family. The birth control pills, hair coloring, the food, our makeup, the plastics we put our food in...creates the toxicity that creates these diseases in us.
ReplyDeleteHave you heard of the Wellness Warrior blog? http://www.thewellnesswarrior.com.au/
The way she talks about how she eliminated her cancer is inspirational.
Keep up with the rage and don't forget to sob. And the why me? In my experience it's s all part of the dealing with cancer scenario. Nothing is routine.
ReplyDeleteSending all the love I have, Hills. xoxo
ReplyDeleteI'm pretty sure your rage is a very healthy part of coming to terms with cancer. And if writing about it in this space continues to help process or just feel like someone is listening, then do it. We read and write and call and reach out, because we care. And, as someone else already said, we expect nothing in return.
ReplyDeleteMotherfluffer is another one we use around here. Although the four year old is on a well-placed streak of "fuck."
ReplyDeleteYou are entirely entitled to your rage and anger. This is shit, and you're reacting to that. Whatever you're feeling, feel it. We'll be here to listen.
ReplyDeleteI think you're brave for saying it. Very brave. But that thing? With Grady? That's NOT FUCKING HAPPENING. It's just not. It can't. I love you.
ReplyDeleteBig big hugs. XO
ReplyDeleteI know that you have to think about these things. I would, too. But I am SO ANGRY that you are in a place where these thoughts are. Not angry at you.
ReplyDeleteEven though a 2 year old's memories disappear by the time they are adult, the things that happen to a baby matter. Grady's generosity and enthusiasm are things that he's learned from you. They are things that are a part of him, because you grew them there. You matter to who he is, and who he is will be part of who he becomes. You are in him.
And as he grows and changes, you will see yourself in him - some times to your delight, and some times to your frustration! Because one thing I know about you, little sister, is you are effing stubborn. A curse when I wanted to get my own way, but a blessing in stupid situations like this one.
Dylan Thomas indicated that rage was an appropriate emotion in these times.
ReplyDelete"Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
You are going to kick cancer's ass.