Friday, August 28, 2015
Wednesday, August 19, 2015
1st phase over...next!
So I'm officially finished with the four rounds of the "big guns" (dose-dense) chemo. Now I've got a two-week break, then the next chemo phase (weekly, different drugs) begins. 12 weeks, kiddies! Yaaaaaaay.
Tuesday, August 11, 2015
Cancer: it's something to do.
Ahhhh, catharsis–it's good for the psyche. I'd have said "soul," but I dunno that I actually have one, or believe in the concept, at this point.
This is a confession, of sorts. I've been procrastinating, hemming and hawing and avoiding getting down to business. Well, I think it's time to "bring it," as it were.
This cancer is all my own fault, my own doing. I wished it upon myself, and apparently, I got my wish.
For years, I'd fantasized about suicide, ensconced as I was in the depths of a suffocating and seemingly-permanent depression. I never quite planned exactly how I'd off myself; I figured it'd be something rather mild and insipid, like an overdose of some sort of pill. I never worked out quite which pill it'd be, of course, because this was all mostly an exercise in morose self-pity. How perfectly nauseating.
My life was going nowhere fast, and all of the (excruciating) breast biopsies kept coming back as suspicious. How convenient! You know that old saying, "Shit or get off the pot?" Well, that's kind of what I barked at my breasts, with all of their questionable, "high-risk" lumps, cysts, and calcifications. Give me something concrete to do, breasts! Give me some direction! The worry about the familial ovarian cancer risk had been on the front burner, as it were, for quite awhile, but had been somewhat pacified by the continual, "protective" use of birth control pills. Hmm...
I don't believe in God, fate, or anything else for that matter. But it's weird and more than a little eerie just how conveniently everything fell/has fallen into place. Dad sold the family house in early 2013, which essentially forced me to move to the shoreline. I selected a job whose flexibility would allow me to travel back and forth relatively easily to Yale, a well-known and well-respected entity in the cancer field, to meet with a highly-respected and highly-recommended oncology team to discuss strategies and options for my then-precancerous breast conditions. I selected Yale and this team mainly because of the fact that my dad had moved in with his girlfriend who happened to be based in Branford (a scant 20 minutes or so from New Haven); in his local travels, my dad had also happened to befriend a famous genius doc who's a pioneer in the cancer field and who just happened to have run Yale's oncology department for a decade (and who, interestingly enough, happens to be the father of the infamous "boy in the plastic bubble"). Mere coincidence?
It was inevitable, though, anyway. I'd been on the cancer radar from the age of 31, when I began having yearly mammograms because of the overwhelming familial breast cancer risk. I never assumed I'd be "lucky" and escape this ugly fate. When the best human being I've ever known–my dear, beloved Mom–succumbed to cancer, that sort of "sealed the deal" for me. I lost any and all faith in kindness or justice, and became even more sour, bitter, angry, and hopeless. I suppose I was just awaiting my turn.
Ironically (of course!), while I swirled in the midst of a miasma of rancor, bitterness, and self-loathing, I met a man with whom, I realized relatively early in our relationship, I actually could conceive wanting to spend the rest of my life. In sickness and in health–wow, who knew? Poor guy! We had a grand total of one "good" year together before my diagnosis. We'd talked about buying a little house someday, with just enough of a yard to have a functioning garden (vegetable/herb/flower) and maybe a chicken or two. Way to go, E! Thanks for screwing up this little fairytale!
So now, amazingly enough, I don't want to die. I don't want cancer. I don't want debilitating poison and ghastly disfigurement. Too bad, bitch! You asked for it, you got it, Toyota! If I brought this cancer on myself, does it mean that I can will it away, as well? Guess I'll only find out the hard way. I'm very, very afraid.
This is a confession, of sorts. I've been procrastinating, hemming and hawing and avoiding getting down to business. Well, I think it's time to "bring it," as it were.
This cancer is all my own fault, my own doing. I wished it upon myself, and apparently, I got my wish.
For years, I'd fantasized about suicide, ensconced as I was in the depths of a suffocating and seemingly-permanent depression. I never quite planned exactly how I'd off myself; I figured it'd be something rather mild and insipid, like an overdose of some sort of pill. I never worked out quite which pill it'd be, of course, because this was all mostly an exercise in morose self-pity. How perfectly nauseating.
My life was going nowhere fast, and all of the (excruciating) breast biopsies kept coming back as suspicious. How convenient! You know that old saying, "Shit or get off the pot?" Well, that's kind of what I barked at my breasts, with all of their questionable, "high-risk" lumps, cysts, and calcifications. Give me something concrete to do, breasts! Give me some direction! The worry about the familial ovarian cancer risk had been on the front burner, as it were, for quite awhile, but had been somewhat pacified by the continual, "protective" use of birth control pills. Hmm...
I don't believe in God, fate, or anything else for that matter. But it's weird and more than a little eerie just how conveniently everything fell/has fallen into place. Dad sold the family house in early 2013, which essentially forced me to move to the shoreline. I selected a job whose flexibility would allow me to travel back and forth relatively easily to Yale, a well-known and well-respected entity in the cancer field, to meet with a highly-respected and highly-recommended oncology team to discuss strategies and options for my then-precancerous breast conditions. I selected Yale and this team mainly because of the fact that my dad had moved in with his girlfriend who happened to be based in Branford (a scant 20 minutes or so from New Haven); in his local travels, my dad had also happened to befriend a famous genius doc who's a pioneer in the cancer field and who just happened to have run Yale's oncology department for a decade (and who, interestingly enough, happens to be the father of the infamous "boy in the plastic bubble"). Mere coincidence?
It was inevitable, though, anyway. I'd been on the cancer radar from the age of 31, when I began having yearly mammograms because of the overwhelming familial breast cancer risk. I never assumed I'd be "lucky" and escape this ugly fate. When the best human being I've ever known–my dear, beloved Mom–succumbed to cancer, that sort of "sealed the deal" for me. I lost any and all faith in kindness or justice, and became even more sour, bitter, angry, and hopeless. I suppose I was just awaiting my turn.
Ironically (of course!), while I swirled in the midst of a miasma of rancor, bitterness, and self-loathing, I met a man with whom, I realized relatively early in our relationship, I actually could conceive wanting to spend the rest of my life. In sickness and in health–wow, who knew? Poor guy! We had a grand total of one "good" year together before my diagnosis. We'd talked about buying a little house someday, with just enough of a yard to have a functioning garden (vegetable/herb/flower) and maybe a chicken or two. Way to go, E! Thanks for screwing up this little fairytale!
So now, amazingly enough, I don't want to die. I don't want cancer. I don't want debilitating poison and ghastly disfigurement. Too bad, bitch! You asked for it, you got it, Toyota! If I brought this cancer on myself, does it mean that I can will it away, as well? Guess I'll only find out the hard way. I'm very, very afraid.
Why
...does it always seem to require something heinous and profoundly life-altering for me to finally be able to understand and "grow" as a person? And where's the "furious" smiley when you need it?!
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
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