I think I’ve been hiding. Well not really hiding but maybe licking my wounds so to speak. Reflecting. And not aloud. Trying to get my head around last year. As in, what the fuck was that? Building strength and in particular replenishing those inner reserves so I can keep on keeping on. I realised in January there were just none left. In fact I never even realised it. B did. And my friends. Who wanted to know where I had gone. And not only physically. But my presence had gone quiet. And they were worried about me. Its well documented how consciously fighting, dealing with your reality, treating it, makes you feel like you are doing something positive. Something conscious. Something noble to help yourself heal. And unconscious too, by being present in the everyday and just willing your best self to show up at each and every shitty little moment. And sharing with you all, made sure the best person was there, with the presence of you. Truth be told, I wasn’t worried about me, in fact I was that caught up in my inner being, I never even realised how far in I had gone. I think its called regrouping. So, its been a year and a month since my life as I knew it turned out to be a big fat lie. Well part of it. And I hate lies. Despite my thinking otherwise I’m only now truly accepting of it all. Not of the lie, but of the big beautiful truth. The truth of how blessed we all are. How blessed I am. How life is about suffering and illness and beauty and ugliness and lies and truth and fucked up ness and exquisiteness and what makes us unique is not how fabulous our lives are but how we don’t let the fabulousness or lack thereof define us but rather teach us, and help us find a new way of being. That isn’t rooted in ignorance, because as much as we think it is, ignorance ain’t bliss. We are all scared to know because then we can’t hide. I knew I couldn’t be guaranteed of being cancer free, but I chose to believe I was, to hold onto the words I wanted to hold onto, whilst deep down I knew this would always be my story. And whilst I said it, I never accepted it. So, now I really do know, and I’m living my life knowingly. Accepting that life and it’s difficulties are not battles to be won or lost because how then do we excuse ourselves if we lose no matter how hard we fought? Did we not fight hard enough? Were we not worthy of surviving? Bull crap. We are all worthy, we all just have a different story. And mine is no worse or better than yours, its just mine. And I’m going to live it the best way I can, because only I can. Fuck cancer, fuck everything that is shit in the world, and the best way to do it is to reframe it into our own unique stories that make us grow up and be grateful for every little moment. I hate the always positive shite as you know, I think I’m too much of a realist, although sometimes I don’t want to hear sad stories, because it breaks me inside a little more each time. And no, its not called denial its called acceptance. Stuff exists I can’t fix. Stuff exists I abhor. Platitudes piss me off. But truth and love and being present. Being honest. Being there. Just showing up and sharing the suckiness that life is sometimes, is what matters. It really just is what it is.
So, what is my current reality? I remain NED. I see my oncologist and my cancer surgeon every three months interchangeably. I’m still not mad about her but hey she’s good. I continue on my meds for the foreseeable future. I have surgery ahead of me to remove my right breast in totality. I need to schedule that because as with anything we are the ones who decide. No one else. And I will do it. I’m just liking being me for a bit. Stuff will be dealt with. And that’s so not hiding.
That’s what Kate said I was yesterday. And the funny or not so funny thing is, I was. And I am. In fact I am completely unplayable. I also always have been. A bit. It’s what makes you love or hate me. I have always ignited quickly. And often irrationally. And I can be a real bitch. But I had learnt to breathe a bit. But all this fucking around with my hormones has just sent me off the charts. It was already happening before this last recurrence due to Femara, my previous aromatase inhibitor, and my ‘mood stabilising’ meds no longer being effective. But now with all the new crap we have serious lift off. I react to everything with absolute venom and anger. There is no momentary recognition, ok this is annoying but really nothing to react to, there is just simply ape shit fucking hell hath no fury like a woman on Aromasin angry. The thing that really pisses me off though is not that I’m not given some slack for not being me. Or for being the worst version of me. Nor even that I have to humiliate myself by constantly saying, seriously guys cut me some slack here, I mean cancer. Even I’m bored by that. And the eye rolls indicate so are they. As we all are. The thing that actually pisses me off is that we are even having to be in this space. I have to be on this medication. It makes me impossible. Okay, more impossible. And I know I’m being impossible. But knowing doesn’t change a damn thing, psychobitch cares less. Then I think maybe you can stop doing what you’re doing that makes me become psychobitch even if it doesn’t seem fair. Because fuck it, none of this seems fair. But why should you. And who knows whats going to set me off. So I feel squarely fucked. I have to be on these meds. I knew the side effects were going to be beyond challenging. I never really thought they would create a chasm between me and those nearest to me. They are prescribed to give me more time before the next recurrrence and to reduce the risk of new cancer. And I like time. But if we all end up hating each other, is the time worth it. And then there’s all the other shit rattling around in my brain. Psychobitch feeds off that shit. Anyhow before you all wonder if you need to call for help, I’ve recognised I need to. I need to dump all my anger, grief, disappointment, stress, insecurity, unworthiness, uncertainty on someone. Someone who doesn’t love me and really couldn’t give a fuck what I say or do or think or believe. It won’t help me not be psychobitch, I need more meds for that. But it might make her a tad more tolerable. In the meantime, you have been warned. Psychobitch coming through.
I thought I’d let things fall where they needed to this past month or so. Heeding the advice of many that whilst things feel like they’re falling apart they’re not. They’re just falling into something different. And ain’t that the truth. Bugger is I was quite happy with the before. But growth is something I welcome and change something I’ve learnt to. And we do grow and even transform when we have huge obstacles to overcome. Into something new. But I just can’t quite settle into the new me yet so I’m still letting things fall in to place. Or further apart. And then hopefully back together again. All I do know is, I am not who I was. But dammit, this new me needs to get her shit together soon. I’m feeling far more vulnerable now than when I was kicking cancer’s ass. I was focussed. I was determined. I was a warrior. I had a purpose. I had an army. I was positive. I was not needy. I was not uncertain. I am not fearful, nor am I negative. And I am so very grateful. But just a little hesistant. A little uncomfortable. A little do I just carry on like nothing happened. Like everything is not different. Forever. Do I live every day like its my last. Do I bother. Do I doubt it all. Do I celebrate it all. Do I just be. Do I love the different me that looks back at me. Obviously I know the answers and hopefully I’ll do exactly that once things all fall into place. And they will. And then they won’t. But universe, no more growing needed. I’m all grown up now.
I’m trying my damndest to say you go girl as I put mascara on my three eyelashes, two on one side and one on the other. It’s not working so I’m about to text my friends and say if either of you moans about not knowing what to wear I’m going to spew in your faces. Fuck fuck fuck. I have tried on five outfits. All my clothes are fairly classic and not frou frou at all, okay then borderline masculine, and yet in all of them I look like a fat bald chap wearing a dress. No offence meant but just not the look I was going for. Fuck fuck. And then I burst out laughing and never sent my text cos oh for fucks sake. Who really cares. It is what it is. I obviously get the big picture life blessing. But right now I’m having a little picture vanity moment. And to be honest its actually quite liberating because there’s not much I can do about it. I could have got false eyleashes I suppose but they’d struggle to stay pasted on with nothing to cling to, so for what. And I could continue to feel sorry for myself. But for what. Because I don’t feel like me. I don’t look like me. Fuck that. Who cares that my eyeliner smudges everywhere because there are no lashes to stop it from bleeding. Or spreading. Or whatever the right terminology is. Did you even know that was a thing? Me neither. But still, on goes that eyeliner. I’m quite liking this not giving a damn moment. But please don’t tell me I look great with that look in your eyes. You know the one. Just lean over and unsmudge me. It is what it is so help me be me. Because sometimes it’s a little hard. A little hard for all of us to be us in any given moment. So just lean in. Oh and you go girl.
Home. Dammit I love this place. Am still on some serious cortisol steroids and am a little out of character at times. Read unplayable. But no oompaloompas here anymore. It seems I had a particularly severe reaction to the chemo drugs. That severe that they will not risk giving me anymore. So that’s it for me and chemo. That’s not it for treatment however, there will be aromatase inhibitors going forward, probably a prophylactic right side mastectomy, an oophorectomy, which is a removal of my ovaries and heaps more in store. Who knew turning fifty was going to be this much fun. Anyhoo, let’s focus on the good right now. I probably will not lose the few lashes I have left and my brows have been hanging in, albeit thinning. And believe you me right now anything is cause for celebration. I have struggled a tad, I will not lie, with the inability to complete the chemotherapy regimen. Then again if you know me you would know that. But my doctors have been incredible in their choice of words. In their certainty. In helping me deal. I preach acceptance so now is my time to dig deep. I was so strong and able going in, and kicked some serious chemo ass, that I got done what needed to be done sooner than expected. And then my body said that’s it. No more needed. So that’s their story and I’m sticking to it. I have done what I must. And what I can. And to be honest, I can’t anymore right now. So next wednesday I meet with my oncologist again and no doubt will cry and question and laugh and fight and get some more answers and some more reassurance. And maybe even a gold star. And then on thursday, there will be no chemo.
B shaved my head this morning. Not much can beat that for a truly intimate, I see you moment. You see nothing in life is ever perfect. Your hair doesn’t fall out neatly all at once. Each chemo session ravages you a little more. Bit by bit. But it also allows you a semblance of control. Of ownership. I have huge bald spots. I would look like coco the clown on a really bad day if what still remains grew. Or something from a horror movie. Actually I’ve always hated clowns. Anyway. How strange our new normal is. Yet how beautiful. The girls wander past the bathroom. Not even pausing, just smiling. It is what it is. We do what we must. Another 21 days are nearly done, which means it’s chemo this week again. Damn time rolls around fucking fast. Feeling less vulnerable, but still prickly. Just trepidation I think at what this week holds. And sets off. And at my fragility. It slowly breaks you down. Bit by bit. Thank fuck I’m halfway. It really is all up from here. Time for some red lippy methinks.
I had a little tantrum yesterday. As in, I don’t wanna do this again. I can and I will and I am, but I really really don’t wanna. It’s those fucking bald spots that did it. And I know I am so much more than my hair, and I know I am blessed to not be terminal, and I’m doing this to ensure I am not terminal anytime soon, but allow me this rant. Rocking the no hair look, and I mean no hair, no eyebrows, no eyelashes, no pubes, yay me, should be a once in a lifetime achievement. Dammit. I know you can all see through the smile, it’s kind of hard to hide the vulnerabilty in my eyes or the tears that well up when I least expect it. And I am brave and I will do what I need to do, so please believe that what I say and what you see is true, but bloody hell, I don’t wanna. It’s cool to be unique, to be different and yes to be the one percent. Apparently that is what I am. A one percenter. The likelihood of cancer recurring after a mastectomy and chemo is one percent. Seriously. Serves me right for always wanting to stand out.
So. Think I’m feeling the trepidation of knowing what’s coming. Welcoming it in a weird way because it’s still my best shot. But this thursday I willingly poison myself again. Time to shave me thinks.