I feel very trapped right now. Like I'm stuck in a place of physical pain (from the expander), emotional pain (from what I'm going through, and from the expander) and hightened anxiety, that may or may not stem from awaiting the test results of Monday.
Despite discussing it outloud to Sean, my mom and my therapist, I have become literally paranoid about developing breast cancer in the other breast, particularly in these next six months before the wedding. What makes it worse is that I would be the one to find it since I'm not having a mammogram until April (after the wedding), and I'm the one who is supposed to do self-exams every month. I've already dicusssed how it was traumatizing to find the first lump, and it will be equally traumatizing to continue to do, on a regular basis, something that traumatized me in the first place. It's a catch-22. If I don't do self-exams I can maybe (but probably not) prevent all this anxiety from thinking I'll find something. But also, if I don't do them I could miss something that could end up saving my life.
I literally don't feel ANY better about ANYTHING now that my treatment is over. My breast cancer is gone. Tumor removed. Clear margin. I'm done. I was lucky. So very lucky I didn't have chemotherapy or radiation. So lucky that now I'm only waiting for my reconstructive surgery. But I don't feel any better. And it's really got nothing to do with the possibility of me having Li-Fraumeni Syndrome. Whether or not I test positive for it, I still got cancer twice, and I still got breast cancer, and that still (gene or no gene) raises my chances of getting another breast cancer. I'd be paranoid no matter what. But at least, with Li-Fraumeni, I'd have a logical and medical "reason" to get another mastectomy. But I'd also have higher chances of more cancer. So my question is this: where, exactly, does the fear stop? And when does it stop? No matter what genetic mutations I do or do not have does not, at all, change the fact that I'm paranoid, and feel paralyzed by fear. It has become something I think about almost every minute of every day. And that is a terrible, terrible way to live.
I try to convince myself that there is no reason, at this very point in time, for me to believe I'll get breast cancer again, and that I should go along with everything that's planned: keep my left breast, get my implants, and work on mentally getting over this anxiety, even if it takes 20 years.
It's gotten to the point where I don't actually believe my fear of getting breast cancer in the other breast is a mental thing; I really, truly believe I have logical, scientific reasons to be scared, and logical, scientific reasons to get another mastectomy. Even IF I choose to get a mastectomy, it wouldn't be until after the wedding, or even months or years after that, so I still have to LIVE, until then, with constant fear and anxiety. You know what that equals? NO.WAY.OUT. That I literally have to find a way to DEAL with this, when I really believe there is no way to, except to have another mastectomy.
I know that my surgery is now less than a month away - about three weeks - so, really we're in the home stretch. But that doesn't change the fact that I'm still in pain every single second of every single day, and it's exhausting to go to work, to live life, in constant pain, and in a constant reminder that I got dealt this card. I'm supposed to live and work amongst people who don't have expanders. People who can open doors without pain, who can carry shoulder bags, and who can get startled without having muscle contractions and spasms in their chest. No matter how hard I try, or how you look at it, I'm still angry, despite every attempt not to be. I'm angry that I have the expander in, and I'm angry that I live in fear and anxiety, and that I actually have reason to live in fear and anxiety. I try so hard not to be mad. I try to look at all the positive things in my life, and trust me, I do see them. I try to think of myself as lucky and blessed, and I do believe I am. I try to tell myself I have a lot of wonderful, amazing things that other people don't have. But I'm still pissed off. VERY pissed off. And worst of all, there's no place for me to go. I'm supposed to live every day for the next three weeks with this expander, driving 45 minutes to work and back, BEING at work, and living my life and going along with my plans in CONSTANT pain. It's almost like I can't do this anymore. I can't pretend anymore. I can go to work because I have to for health insurance, but that's it. That's all I want to do. I want to go to work, and come home, and be done for the day. Because I've got to prepare myself (physically and mentally) to do it all over again the following day. And I can't. It's impossible. I guess it's not "impossible" since it's being done, but it's near impossible. Perhaps one of the most difficult, trying, daunting things is to go to work every day. To drive that distance with the expander, to be amongst people who are ignorant to the pain I'm always, always in, to pretend to be happy and carefree. And to do it every day. Near impossible. Yes, I'm doing it. But now I feel that I can't anymore. I can't keep up with anything. Before it was a matter of finding balance. Of still keeping my plans, and making plans with friends, but not going overboard because it caused more physical pain, which in turn caused more mental pain. So now I feel like I've got to be done until after my surgery. How do I possibly explain this to people? I look and act fine on the outside, but inside I've got a hard-as-a-rock device lodged under my chest wall that constantly pulls and stretches my muscles and my skin. How do I explain to people that I don't want to go out and have fun not because I'm depressed and giving up, but because I'M IN SO MUCH PHYSICAL PAIN?! I can't expect people to really, fully understand that. And that sucks. And that makes me angry. It's not that I want people to feel bad for me; I just don't want them to think I'm fine, because I'm not. I'm definitely not.
But people I work with, and people I interview for stories, would never, ever guess that a 26-year-old would be dealing with what I'm dealing with. You look at me and you'd never know I have a rock under my chest. And I used to think that would be good - that I could live my life and the normal public would never guess anything was wrong. That I was LUCKY to have my hair, and that on the outside I look like a normal, healthy person. But instead, I actually feel like that is a curse. Because people expect me to be a certain way based on what I look like. They see someone who is in shape, who dresses well, who wears makeup, and who's got a rock on her finger, and they assume I'm the luckiest woman in the world. And yes, in 99 percent of the ways I am. I do believe I am the luckiest woman in the world because of the life I have, the friends and family I have, and the support I have, the spirit I have, and Sean. So it's OK for ME to know deep down I am lucky. But I don't want strangers to assume that based on what I look like. Because when people assume just because you're young and look healthy that nothing's wrong, it makes me mad. Because I work hard every day to put on this face, and to deal with things that plague me: two cancers and a dad who has been missing since 2003. (Noticed I never mentioned that before in this blog, but I'm baring all now so no going back.) I won't get too into my dad, but what happened with him is something that helps shape my life so I can't NOT mention it. It can't always be avoided. I'm sure it will come up again.
One thing I've never wanted for myself was to become a bitter, angry person, and to think that being bitter and angry was OK because of everything I've been through. But it's not OK to ever be like that, in my opinion. What keeps us living, and what makes our lives worth it, and what enriches us day to day is our spirit. We can't prevent terrible things from happening to us. But we can act on those things. We can choose to let them make us or break us. We can choose how we want to live our lives, despite what happens to us.
We can wake up in the morning and agree to have the day. That is why I put on makeup, brew myself a pot of coffee and watch design shows on DVR before I head to work. Because I'm trying to get myself excited for the day. That is why I try to sing in the car while driving to work, or atleast listen to songs I enjoy. That is why at work, I work hard, get engulfed in my writing, and am friends with all my co-workers. I laugh all day with them, talk about life with them. That is why after work I drive home, and try to sing in the car again. That is why I host parties, or go out with friends, continue with my life. Because I often ask myself: what choice do I have? Not living is not really an option. So I choose to live, but have to do so in a balanced way until the expander is out. And every day that is a struggle, and today, I just became officially, officially sick of it.
So I'll say it like it is, and this is what I would say if I were to tell somebody, right here and now, how I'm feeling: I'm having a very, very difficult time today. I'm sick of being in pain, sick of living in pain, and sick of being in fear. I'm sick of being anxious about getting breast cancer again, and also sick of feeling like I'll always be anxious about it. I'm scared that I'll always be scared. I'm mad that I'm always in pain, and mad that I have a reason to be anxious, and mad that I AM anxious. Mad that being fearful is a part of my life, and mad that the expander is still in me. Mad I feel I have to pretend at work, or in life. Mad that I have a rock under my chest, and mad that I'm expected to live like this. Mad, mad, mad, and sad, sad, sad.
Mad that my neck and back hurt all the time. Mad that I can't lift my right arm above my head without my chest muscles spasming. Mad that I have to open doors carefully. Mad that I have to be cautious around other people because if they bump into me it could really, really hurt. Mad that I can't exercise like a regular person. Mad that being in pain makes everything extra hard. Mad that staying out late makes the expander hurt more. Mad that sleeping hurts. What makes the being mad part worse is that it's ongoing. That it's always there. Mad that I'm trapped. Mad that I think, even when the expander is out and the pain from it is no longer there, that I'll still be anxious. I'll still be scared. I can only hope that's not the case.
And mad that I can't plan my wedding free of fear or anxiety. That might be the worst of all. Is that when I'm planning and ordering and picturing it all, I am blocked, trapped, by this fear that it's not quite OK yet, and I don't know when, or if it will be. I just want to know: when will it be OK?
I literally can't live the way I'm living right now - mentally, physically, emotionally. It's near impossible.
But the funny thing is, that no matter how many times I say I can't do this anymore, and that I won't be happy anymore, and that I'll curl up in a ball and avoid life because that's what I want to do, I won't. I might say I'm sick of it all, but I'll still do it. I might say I hate the world, but I'll still live in it. I might say I'm just done. But I won't be. Because the truth is, my spirit can be tampered with, but it can never be fully crushed. And I'm choosing to live my life fully not just because I think that's the best option for my well-being, and the healthiest choice, but because, deep, deep down, I don't really have a choice. My spirit fuels, full-force, the way I live each day. It always shines through, even if it's just a tiny speck of light in a dark hole. Because today, as dark of a day this is, and as much as I hate "this day," there's still a little, tiny bit of light. Because that's really who I am, and I know that. That I look for the good in every situation. I always have and I always will. Yes, I can be mad and angry and even say I hate the world. But I'm still here, and living. A part of that is me forcing myself to. And a part of that is just me being me. This is what I do. This is Marjorie. The hope never fades, and the light is still there. My name in Hebrew means "To Light." I used to think that meant I light up other people's lives, and maybe the world. But I now know there's more to it. It means my "light" is always there, or that I always have light. Sometimes it's the size of a light bulb and sometimes it's the size of the sun, but it's always there, doing what it's supposed to.
The light is my spirit and my reason for living. It enables me to look at the good, and find millions of reasons to be happy.
Part 2:
So I started writing earlier and stopped, which isn't usually how my posts go. Usually I can find a conclusion and sum everything up right away. But today that isn't the case. Hours later, I'm still having a very, very difficult time with just about everything (breast cancer related).
I have officially decided I am going to bring up the possibility of a preventive mastectomy at my next doctor's appointment in April - when I will see my breast surgeon for a mammogram. I've done way too much research that can possibly be helpful for me, but have figured out I have two high risk factors, and therefore am considered either moderate or high risk, for develping breast cancer again. Both moderate and high risk women consider preventive mastectomies. What makes me potentially a candidate for doing this, and therefore makes me NOT crazy for being scared: is 1) Having breast cancer once significantly increases your risk for developing another breast cancer, including on the other side, and 2) Having dense breasts (which I have been told I have by numerous doctors who read my mammograms and ultrasounds), significantly increases your breast cancer risk, ESPECIALLY if you've had it in one breast. Density increases the risk of getting it in the other breast. Density increases your risk for DCIS (which I had) and hormone receptor-negative breast cancer. (which I had).
Now I've already figured out that I don't want to live my life in fear. I don't want to have constant screenings all the time. I can't live like that. I know it's early to decide that, which is why I haven't DECIDED if I'm having a mastectomy or not. I've decided I don't want screenings all the time and I don't want to live in fear. And in addition to that, I've decided on a game plan, and that is to discuss this option with my doctor in April. I will bring up my concerns and fears, and I guarantee they'll still be there seven months from now, and I'll discuss my risk factors and if this surgery makes sense.
I know getting a mastectomy doesn't make your breast cancer risk 0. You can still develop cancer in whatever tissue is left over, and usually some tissue is left over in the chest wall, armpit, etc. But having a mastectomy can reduce the risk of getting breast cancer, either for the first time, or again, by as much as 90 percent. YES. I will be able to live like that. I can live knowing that. I cannot live like this, and frankly, I refuse to.
This decision to discuss this option with my doctor is partially based on fear and anxiety, which I will continue to work through with my therapist. But mostly it's based on the fact that I have real reason to be worried. I have real risk factors. Real, real things that make my risk higher. I'm not pulling this out of my arse; this stuff is real and it has me concerned.
Most of all, I don't want to spend the rest of my life looking for cancer in the other breast. I know if I were to have it removed I'd still have screening - most likely MRI or something like that. But the doctors wouldn't always be looking, searching, suspicious. No more "suspicious" areas on mammograms, no more biopsies, no more dense tissue getting in the way of detecting a tumor. How do people live like this? I can't and I won't. I just hope I can "deal" with this until April, because frankly, I don't think I'm able to. Not now, and not months from now. I am literally stuck in this place of fear and I want a way out. And my only way out is this game plan I've decided on today. But I don't feel that's enough. I want more and I want action.
The only "light" I have at the end of this post and at the end of this day is the possibility that I won't feel this crappy tomorrow. I once said, in a previous post, that something I can count on for hope and encouragement is the fact that whatever feelings I have now may not be my feelings later. My emotions may change. There's always hope in knowing life moves on and the brain can form new thoughts. That is what I'm hanging onto right now - that tomorrow will be better. It has to be.
Despite discussing it outloud to Sean, my mom and my therapist, I have become literally paranoid about developing breast cancer in the other breast, particularly in these next six months before the wedding. What makes it worse is that I would be the one to find it since I'm not having a mammogram until April (after the wedding), and I'm the one who is supposed to do self-exams every month. I've already dicusssed how it was traumatizing to find the first lump, and it will be equally traumatizing to continue to do, on a regular basis, something that traumatized me in the first place. It's a catch-22. If I don't do self-exams I can maybe (but probably not) prevent all this anxiety from thinking I'll find something. But also, if I don't do them I could miss something that could end up saving my life.
I literally don't feel ANY better about ANYTHING now that my treatment is over. My breast cancer is gone. Tumor removed. Clear margin. I'm done. I was lucky. So very lucky I didn't have chemotherapy or radiation. So lucky that now I'm only waiting for my reconstructive surgery. But I don't feel any better. And it's really got nothing to do with the possibility of me having Li-Fraumeni Syndrome. Whether or not I test positive for it, I still got cancer twice, and I still got breast cancer, and that still (gene or no gene) raises my chances of getting another breast cancer. I'd be paranoid no matter what. But at least, with Li-Fraumeni, I'd have a logical and medical "reason" to get another mastectomy. But I'd also have higher chances of more cancer. So my question is this: where, exactly, does the fear stop? And when does it stop? No matter what genetic mutations I do or do not have does not, at all, change the fact that I'm paranoid, and feel paralyzed by fear. It has become something I think about almost every minute of every day. And that is a terrible, terrible way to live.
I try to convince myself that there is no reason, at this very point in time, for me to believe I'll get breast cancer again, and that I should go along with everything that's planned: keep my left breast, get my implants, and work on mentally getting over this anxiety, even if it takes 20 years.
It's gotten to the point where I don't actually believe my fear of getting breast cancer in the other breast is a mental thing; I really, truly believe I have logical, scientific reasons to be scared, and logical, scientific reasons to get another mastectomy. Even IF I choose to get a mastectomy, it wouldn't be until after the wedding, or even months or years after that, so I still have to LIVE, until then, with constant fear and anxiety. You know what that equals? NO.WAY.OUT. That I literally have to find a way to DEAL with this, when I really believe there is no way to, except to have another mastectomy.
I know that my surgery is now less than a month away - about three weeks - so, really we're in the home stretch. But that doesn't change the fact that I'm still in pain every single second of every single day, and it's exhausting to go to work, to live life, in constant pain, and in a constant reminder that I got dealt this card. I'm supposed to live and work amongst people who don't have expanders. People who can open doors without pain, who can carry shoulder bags, and who can get startled without having muscle contractions and spasms in their chest. No matter how hard I try, or how you look at it, I'm still angry, despite every attempt not to be. I'm angry that I have the expander in, and I'm angry that I live in fear and anxiety, and that I actually have reason to live in fear and anxiety. I try so hard not to be mad. I try to look at all the positive things in my life, and trust me, I do see them. I try to think of myself as lucky and blessed, and I do believe I am. I try to tell myself I have a lot of wonderful, amazing things that other people don't have. But I'm still pissed off. VERY pissed off. And worst of all, there's no place for me to go. I'm supposed to live every day for the next three weeks with this expander, driving 45 minutes to work and back, BEING at work, and living my life and going along with my plans in CONSTANT pain. It's almost like I can't do this anymore. I can't pretend anymore. I can go to work because I have to for health insurance, but that's it. That's all I want to do. I want to go to work, and come home, and be done for the day. Because I've got to prepare myself (physically and mentally) to do it all over again the following day. And I can't. It's impossible. I guess it's not "impossible" since it's being done, but it's near impossible. Perhaps one of the most difficult, trying, daunting things is to go to work every day. To drive that distance with the expander, to be amongst people who are ignorant to the pain I'm always, always in, to pretend to be happy and carefree. And to do it every day. Near impossible. Yes, I'm doing it. But now I feel that I can't anymore. I can't keep up with anything. Before it was a matter of finding balance. Of still keeping my plans, and making plans with friends, but not going overboard because it caused more physical pain, which in turn caused more mental pain. So now I feel like I've got to be done until after my surgery. How do I possibly explain this to people? I look and act fine on the outside, but inside I've got a hard-as-a-rock device lodged under my chest wall that constantly pulls and stretches my muscles and my skin. How do I explain to people that I don't want to go out and have fun not because I'm depressed and giving up, but because I'M IN SO MUCH PHYSICAL PAIN?! I can't expect people to really, fully understand that. And that sucks. And that makes me angry. It's not that I want people to feel bad for me; I just don't want them to think I'm fine, because I'm not. I'm definitely not.
But people I work with, and people I interview for stories, would never, ever guess that a 26-year-old would be dealing with what I'm dealing with. You look at me and you'd never know I have a rock under my chest. And I used to think that would be good - that I could live my life and the normal public would never guess anything was wrong. That I was LUCKY to have my hair, and that on the outside I look like a normal, healthy person. But instead, I actually feel like that is a curse. Because people expect me to be a certain way based on what I look like. They see someone who is in shape, who dresses well, who wears makeup, and who's got a rock on her finger, and they assume I'm the luckiest woman in the world. And yes, in 99 percent of the ways I am. I do believe I am the luckiest woman in the world because of the life I have, the friends and family I have, and the support I have, the spirit I have, and Sean. So it's OK for ME to know deep down I am lucky. But I don't want strangers to assume that based on what I look like. Because when people assume just because you're young and look healthy that nothing's wrong, it makes me mad. Because I work hard every day to put on this face, and to deal with things that plague me: two cancers and a dad who has been missing since 2003. (Noticed I never mentioned that before in this blog, but I'm baring all now so no going back.) I won't get too into my dad, but what happened with him is something that helps shape my life so I can't NOT mention it. It can't always be avoided. I'm sure it will come up again.
One thing I've never wanted for myself was to become a bitter, angry person, and to think that being bitter and angry was OK because of everything I've been through. But it's not OK to ever be like that, in my opinion. What keeps us living, and what makes our lives worth it, and what enriches us day to day is our spirit. We can't prevent terrible things from happening to us. But we can act on those things. We can choose to let them make us or break us. We can choose how we want to live our lives, despite what happens to us.
We can wake up in the morning and agree to have the day. That is why I put on makeup, brew myself a pot of coffee and watch design shows on DVR before I head to work. Because I'm trying to get myself excited for the day. That is why I try to sing in the car while driving to work, or atleast listen to songs I enjoy. That is why at work, I work hard, get engulfed in my writing, and am friends with all my co-workers. I laugh all day with them, talk about life with them. That is why after work I drive home, and try to sing in the car again. That is why I host parties, or go out with friends, continue with my life. Because I often ask myself: what choice do I have? Not living is not really an option. So I choose to live, but have to do so in a balanced way until the expander is out. And every day that is a struggle, and today, I just became officially, officially sick of it.
So I'll say it like it is, and this is what I would say if I were to tell somebody, right here and now, how I'm feeling: I'm having a very, very difficult time today. I'm sick of being in pain, sick of living in pain, and sick of being in fear. I'm sick of being anxious about getting breast cancer again, and also sick of feeling like I'll always be anxious about it. I'm scared that I'll always be scared. I'm mad that I'm always in pain, and mad that I have a reason to be anxious, and mad that I AM anxious. Mad that being fearful is a part of my life, and mad that the expander is still in me. Mad I feel I have to pretend at work, or in life. Mad that I have a rock under my chest, and mad that I'm expected to live like this. Mad, mad, mad, and sad, sad, sad.
Mad that my neck and back hurt all the time. Mad that I can't lift my right arm above my head without my chest muscles spasming. Mad that I have to open doors carefully. Mad that I have to be cautious around other people because if they bump into me it could really, really hurt. Mad that I can't exercise like a regular person. Mad that being in pain makes everything extra hard. Mad that staying out late makes the expander hurt more. Mad that sleeping hurts. What makes the being mad part worse is that it's ongoing. That it's always there. Mad that I'm trapped. Mad that I think, even when the expander is out and the pain from it is no longer there, that I'll still be anxious. I'll still be scared. I can only hope that's not the case.
And mad that I can't plan my wedding free of fear or anxiety. That might be the worst of all. Is that when I'm planning and ordering and picturing it all, I am blocked, trapped, by this fear that it's not quite OK yet, and I don't know when, or if it will be. I just want to know: when will it be OK?
I literally can't live the way I'm living right now - mentally, physically, emotionally. It's near impossible.
But the funny thing is, that no matter how many times I say I can't do this anymore, and that I won't be happy anymore, and that I'll curl up in a ball and avoid life because that's what I want to do, I won't. I might say I'm sick of it all, but I'll still do it. I might say I hate the world, but I'll still live in it. I might say I'm just done. But I won't be. Because the truth is, my spirit can be tampered with, but it can never be fully crushed. And I'm choosing to live my life fully not just because I think that's the best option for my well-being, and the healthiest choice, but because, deep, deep down, I don't really have a choice. My spirit fuels, full-force, the way I live each day. It always shines through, even if it's just a tiny speck of light in a dark hole. Because today, as dark of a day this is, and as much as I hate "this day," there's still a little, tiny bit of light. Because that's really who I am, and I know that. That I look for the good in every situation. I always have and I always will. Yes, I can be mad and angry and even say I hate the world. But I'm still here, and living. A part of that is me forcing myself to. And a part of that is just me being me. This is what I do. This is Marjorie. The hope never fades, and the light is still there. My name in Hebrew means "To Light." I used to think that meant I light up other people's lives, and maybe the world. But I now know there's more to it. It means my "light" is always there, or that I always have light. Sometimes it's the size of a light bulb and sometimes it's the size of the sun, but it's always there, doing what it's supposed to.
The light is my spirit and my reason for living. It enables me to look at the good, and find millions of reasons to be happy.
Part 2:
So I started writing earlier and stopped, which isn't usually how my posts go. Usually I can find a conclusion and sum everything up right away. But today that isn't the case. Hours later, I'm still having a very, very difficult time with just about everything (breast cancer related).
I have officially decided I am going to bring up the possibility of a preventive mastectomy at my next doctor's appointment in April - when I will see my breast surgeon for a mammogram. I've done way too much research that can possibly be helpful for me, but have figured out I have two high risk factors, and therefore am considered either moderate or high risk, for develping breast cancer again. Both moderate and high risk women consider preventive mastectomies. What makes me potentially a candidate for doing this, and therefore makes me NOT crazy for being scared: is 1) Having breast cancer once significantly increases your risk for developing another breast cancer, including on the other side, and 2) Having dense breasts (which I have been told I have by numerous doctors who read my mammograms and ultrasounds), significantly increases your breast cancer risk, ESPECIALLY if you've had it in one breast. Density increases the risk of getting it in the other breast. Density increases your risk for DCIS (which I had) and hormone receptor-negative breast cancer. (which I had).
Now I've already figured out that I don't want to live my life in fear. I don't want to have constant screenings all the time. I can't live like that. I know it's early to decide that, which is why I haven't DECIDED if I'm having a mastectomy or not. I've decided I don't want screenings all the time and I don't want to live in fear. And in addition to that, I've decided on a game plan, and that is to discuss this option with my doctor in April. I will bring up my concerns and fears, and I guarantee they'll still be there seven months from now, and I'll discuss my risk factors and if this surgery makes sense.
I know getting a mastectomy doesn't make your breast cancer risk 0. You can still develop cancer in whatever tissue is left over, and usually some tissue is left over in the chest wall, armpit, etc. But having a mastectomy can reduce the risk of getting breast cancer, either for the first time, or again, by as much as 90 percent. YES. I will be able to live like that. I can live knowing that. I cannot live like this, and frankly, I refuse to.
This decision to discuss this option with my doctor is partially based on fear and anxiety, which I will continue to work through with my therapist. But mostly it's based on the fact that I have real reason to be worried. I have real risk factors. Real, real things that make my risk higher. I'm not pulling this out of my arse; this stuff is real and it has me concerned.
Most of all, I don't want to spend the rest of my life looking for cancer in the other breast. I know if I were to have it removed I'd still have screening - most likely MRI or something like that. But the doctors wouldn't always be looking, searching, suspicious. No more "suspicious" areas on mammograms, no more biopsies, no more dense tissue getting in the way of detecting a tumor. How do people live like this? I can't and I won't. I just hope I can "deal" with this until April, because frankly, I don't think I'm able to. Not now, and not months from now. I am literally stuck in this place of fear and I want a way out. And my only way out is this game plan I've decided on today. But I don't feel that's enough. I want more and I want action.
The only "light" I have at the end of this post and at the end of this day is the possibility that I won't feel this crappy tomorrow. I once said, in a previous post, that something I can count on for hope and encouragement is the fact that whatever feelings I have now may not be my feelings later. My emotions may change. There's always hope in knowing life moves on and the brain can form new thoughts. That is what I'm hanging onto right now - that tomorrow will be better. It has to be.
Marjorie- this is tough but very honest writing. Tahnk you for it.
ReplyDeleteWe are there for you, and stay, as you put it, in the light.
Shalom,
Ø