I awoke this morning feeling angry and scared. Six months of yuck, I thought. Six months of my life being … what IS my life anyway? I woke up and felt pain and tiredness, and remembered that this is how I’ve awakened every day now for nearly six months. My cancerversary is this weekend. Six months.
I need a new gig.
This Cancer Chick thing is getting old. I can’t seem to wish it away, and I know that wishing things away doesn’t work anyway. What is that saying? What you resist persists. [insert eyeroll here] Oh, fuck you. I see that phrase and want to stab my eyeballs with a blunt fork.
Still, there is truth in it, that saying.
Months ago I decided to resign myself to feeling crappy for months. That decision helped me let go and stop resisting. Six months, I thought. That’ll do it. Sure, the Gerson program that we’ve adapted and expanded upon says you need two years to heal from cancer, but why would that apply to me? I’m special, I thought. Stronger than other people. More magical. Somehow I would harness my superpowers and heal myself in a fraction of the time it takes other people. Six months, I thought. Six months would do it. In six months I’d be dancing tango. Writing a book. Going to martial arts 5 times a week. In six months I’d be fine.
Fine. I’m not fine and it dawned on me this morning that I have no real idea how much longer I’ll feel crappy. Somebody keeps moving the goalpost. And I’m angry about it, and afraid. What if I never get close to the goalpost? What if I always feel tired, weak, and brain-blurred? What if this as good as it gets? What if I’m not special, not strong, not magical, and never find my superpowers?
There are people who will read this and try to make me feel better. I imagine they might say things like enjoy life while you can, or don’t be so hard on yourself. I also imagine stabbing those people with a blunt fork.
I need to feel these feelings. I need to feel alone and scared and small in order to find out once and for all that I am none of those things. I need time and space to heal. Six months? Six years? I don’t know. Tomorrow is another day.