It’s true, I went to see Dr. On-call-ogist last week and he blessed me and sent me forth to sin again.
I didn’t mention it here yet because I have been trying to figure my emotional reaction to the whole thing.
Because it’s all kind of weird.
See, I am happy, happy, happy that my test results are good.
Trust me, I am not unappreciative of all that.
But it’s getting hard to talk about life in the the shadow of cancer treatment.
I don’t miss chemo and all its accompanying disgusting icky crappy bits, not one bit.
But I feel like I am wandering in fairly uncharted territory in the post-chemo battleground, and it’s hard because most people just assume I am better.
Hell, I certainly look better than I did a year ago.
And I do feel better than I did a year ago.
But I am still pretty wrecked.
I find myself weeping for no apparent reason.
And that’s a little hard to explain, especially when everyone figures you are all cured up and happy to rejoice in the wonder of every single fabulous day.
Sometimes I feel more alone now, in the whole making-sense-of-whatever-the-hell-that-was than I did when I did the chemo.
People basically expect me to be back in the saddle and ready to ride, like nothing had ever happened. And in as many ways as I can, I try to oblige.
But I am kind of less than perfect these days.
I know that may come as a shock.
It’s all kind of bizarre.
I didn’t mention my test results because I feel like this is becoming more and more of a solitary thing I am doing.
It’s hard to talk about the gravity of the situation and the long term prospects without sounding… melodramatic or something.
So I am talking less and less about the thrilling world of cancer and life with cancer and life after chemo and all that carcinogenic jazz.
I don’t want to whine about it.
It’s just how it is.
So, yeah, my test results were good.
And I am happy about that.
And I am worried, in a low, rumbling kind of way, about what my future holds.
And it seems like everyone has resumed their old lives and I am trying to make sense of all this.
I gotta say, those OVCA bloggers make all the difference in the world.
It’s very odd to draw such comfort from a group of women who I have pretty much never met, with the exception of the exceptional Louise.
So, that’s my sad story, amigos.
I try not to get too maudlin here, but I am going to post this because I think there isn’t enough info on how bizarre life after chemo can be.
First, congrats on your tests. It really is great news. There is nothing like someone telling you everything is normal to make you anything but normal, as odd as that sounds. Even though I’m BRCA not OVCA, I relate so much with the OVCA bloggers myself (that’s how I found your blog). In fact, something you said really resonated with me, “Sometimes I feel more alone now…” It is so true. When you have been pushed to the edge of hell and clawed your way back it may feel great to be back initially, but you then realize you have seen and experienced something most around you have not. As much as we like to swear it doesn’t change us, how can it not? The further I get from treatment, the less solitary I feel and slowly I am beginning to feel normal again (whatever that means). I weep less, smile more and I’m starting to be comfortable with the post cancer me. Time heals and love heals and it certainly seems like you have pplenty of both.
Will this work? Every time I’ve tried to comment over the last few days, it’s been thrown out (okay, two times).
We talked about all these things. And I don’t really know how to sort them out myself. Though physically I feel almost 100% again, I am definitely not there emotionally, and I don’t know if or when I will ever be. But like Jeannette said, it does get easier — or maybe it isn’t that it gets easier, but that you learn to adapt to the new state of emotionality, and you feel more at ease with yourself in that place. I don’t know.
But all that aside, congratulations on another pass from the doctor. Just don’t sin too much.
… No idea if this will make sense or not.. but.
I’m in a Daddy/boy relationship and my boy is presently in the hospital, dying. He has been since June 1. In the time between then and now, almost every week has involved a conversation at the hospital about “any time now”. And each day those of us going to see him first spend a part of the day assessing where he’s at.
Never knowing for sure, the only proof is whether or not he’s around the next day.
Every day some one asks, how’s things? Every day I’m faced with an increasingly uncomfortable feeling. How do I answer that? I mean… each day he’s alive and that’s about all I can tell you. He’s weaker than he was a week ago, but not much different from yesterday. He ate. He did what a body does with food. He slept. He woke up.
It’s draining and devestating on a daily basis to deal with it. But it becomes a thing about which I find myself thinking the same thoughts you just described. I should have things, other things to talk about. Who wants to hear, every day, what it’s like to be here? And when he finally dies… how quickly are people going to heave a sigh and fiiiinally be able to move on to something less melodramatic and tedious.
I don’t know how to approach this, or what words to say that help. Because I don’t know for myself what those things are. But… I do understand. Maybe that is something, yeah? Courage. Others will understand.
Thanks, gals.
It’s a weird time and it must be true that misery loves company because it feels like a great relief to know I am not the only one who is all wonky now that I am clawing my way back to real life.
I mean, it still totally sucks but I feel less like having myself committed now that I know it’s not just me.