Saturday, November 18, 2017
I told my doctor that I worried. Mostly at night, right around 3 am, after I had woken up to pee.
I told her I worry about my family and friends and the hardships they are going through. I worry there is nothing I can do to fix any of it.
I told her I worry about breast cancer and the treatment that I had for it. I worry about what it has done to me--physically and mentally. I worry when I get out of the shower and see the scars in the mirror. I worry when the radiation burns stare back at me. I worry when my body can't seem to run a 5k as fast as I think I should be able to. I worry when I am always tired and can't lose weight. I worry I have passed my peak. I worry when I worry.
I told her I mostly worry about the ticking time bomb limbo I'm in-the aggressive cancer that likes to come back. The dream of living 5 years without it knocking on the door of my liver, my lungs, my bones or my brain. I worry about this when my back aches for 3 days in a row or my "shin splints" won't go away or that shooting pain comes, again, across the side of my head. I worry about the unknown.
I just finished a book by Good Morning America anchor Robin Roberts, a two time cancer survivor, entitled, "Everybody's Got Something". She's right. I'm not special with my cancer or my worries. Every person out there could tell a similar story of hardship, a similar story of worry. Unlike the outgoing Robin Roberts, I'm a little bit shy, 75% introverted, and frequently appalled at my public self expression.
I really don't want you to know my business.
Yet, sometimes I blog
Sometimes, I throw myself out there.
And then, probably, I worry about that.
This is my problem.
I had my yearly physical the other day with my regular family doctor whom I've been seeing for years. We talked about lots of things that didn't have anything to do with cancer. But, as it does, cancer forced it's way into our conversation. I told her about the 42 things I worry about. She told me that almost 2 years out from treatment isn't very far out in the breast cancer world. She told me worry at this point was normal. She said anxiety was normal.
And then she said,
"When I had my breast cancer............."
She told me her story.
She didn't question my feelings.
She said things that made a difference to me.
She also said a bunch of super smart doctor stuff.
But the most important thing she said was,
"I've been there."
She knew that sometimes cancer isn't all physical.
She knew that sometimes cancer doesn't end when treatment ends.
But she also told me that cancer wasn't the last sentence in her paragraph.
She told me that cancer wasn't even the last paragraph in her essay.
She told me that her essay might even
She told me she knew.
She was a good doctor.
And so I write this blog.
And tonight, the little bit shy, 75% introverted parts of me will probably worry about it.
But tomorrow, I will be grateful that this wasn't my last paragraph.
Tomorrow, the essay evolves.