Cancer Sucks

I know. Depressing title. And I know that we have all heard it before. What I don't think people without cancer realize, is that to you...it sucks "on paper". (Warning, I am having a crappy day and this blog post is my outlet for that crap.)

Those of us that are living the experience, can't set the paper down and decide not to have cancer for a while. That sucker is stapled to our forehead. Its in permanent marker. Its in the fiber of our clothes. It sucks.

Sometimes, I will be okay for a little while. Forgetting that I have cancer, as much as forgetting is possible. I get completely immersed in what I am doing, enjoying life, savoring the moment. But the savoring doesn't really last long. Not as long as one would like. Because when you savor the moment, you are, in a way, touching that sacred something about the moment that is so special. And when you do that, you are instantly connected to the cancer center in your brain which reminds you that you might not be here in the near future to see this or experience this again.

Now, I do get the positive in that. I understand that not one of us leaves this earth alive. That we are all going to die. That it is a good thing to remember our mortality so that we make each moment special. But there is something about making contact with the C word that makes it all just a little too real. Lets face it, if humans truly experienced the vanity of their ultimate situation here on earth with regularity...life wouldn't be all that fun. We are an amazing species that even in the light of our inevitable demise, we are able to HOPE. We are able to move forward. We plan and we hope and we dream and we build and we love and we dance and we make babies and we create...even though in a few short years its all going to be dust. So I get that. In reality, I am no different than the next girl or guy. We are all dying, right?

No. Not right. When you take your innocent, naive little self into the doctors office and he gives you a cancer diagnosis...you're altered. Permanently. Death is no longer something that is off in the future on the distant and barely visible horizon. It stares you in the face with its hollow eyes and disfigured white face through a hooded black cowl. (Okay, so maybe I am thinking of the mask from Scream...but you get the picture). The Scream mask is actually a pretty good analogy only, after it stares you in the face...you have to wear the mask. Everything you look at from that point onward, you look at through the eyes of a completely mortal person. WHAT? Aren't we all completely mortal? Ya, sure. We are. But people without a terminal cancer diagnosis can pretend they aren't, quite easily. I know this...because I used to be one of them. With diagnosis, Death becomes real. It becomes tangible. It becomes something that you carry around, from that diagnosis moment....forever more. Because now, you can't see anything without its color tainting your vision.

Where am I going with this? I'm not sure but I think I am close to some sort of point, so hang with me. Sometimes ( a lot of the time), I have a hard time integrating this new mortal personality, with the rest of the living world. Sometimes, (a lot of the time), I feel jealous and pissed off for no apparent or really good reason. Sometimes, (a LOT of the time), I feel invisible. As if I have sort of phased out of this world a bit already and when I watch the interaction of other people, I feel like I am a ghost, watching, but unable to effect anything. And sometimes (a lot of the time) I need to be reminded that I matter.

This is hard for my husband to get. He loves me. I know this. But it is hard for him to think about the fact that I am thinking about the fact that I have cancer just about every moment of every day. It isn't that I am in active "poor me" mode. But its just the fact that I didn't have cancer and now I do have cancer and how that all changes my world in more ways than I can articulate. I think he feels that if he treats me like I am fragile, I'll bust into a million pieces. And lets face it, I've had the diagnosis for 8 months and not much has changed on the outside. Well, I lost 30 pounds and look healthier than I ever have in my life...but no chemo, no hair falling out, no doubled over sick. These are good things, but that means that my diagnosis is very "mental". It is all about changes in my mind. New fears. New fragility. New information to take into account with each decision I make.

Chronic Leukemia is weird. Your told you have cancer (the good cancer he called it), but your also told that they aren't going to do anything about it. Well, they will, when you start having serious problems from it. When your immune system becomes so weak that  you catch every virus and opportunistic infection. When your bone marrow no longer is producing red blood cells leaving you anemic. Or when it no longer produces platelets, making bleeding a risk. Or when your spleen swells up or..... Which could be in 2 weeks or 10 years. Weird. Then they try to narrow things down a bit. Look at your individual cancer type...hmm looks like your average overall survival is about 5-9 years. Wow. Thank you. Just come in every three months and have your blood checked. I am only beginning this journey and I can totally see what a freaking roller coaster ride this every three month blood checks are. For crying out loud...any one of them could indicate its time for me to have a bone marrow transplant.

I think there needs to be a manual for men whose wives are diagnosed with cancer, for family members and children and for everyone else who knows the person who is diagnosed. And maybe things are more complicated when a woman is diagnosed. I don't know this for sure, but we are emotional creatures. And we sort of expect the men in our lives to be emotional at the correct time as well. But there needs to be something, because the truth of it is, EVERYTHING changes. Nothing is the same.

So today hasn't been that great for me. But tomorrow will be better. Or maybe even later today :) I am still an optimist...I guess that's one thing Cancer hasn't changed!

In my next post, maybe I'll compile a list that people can print out and hand to their spouses and family.