It began after my last post. First, it was just a whisper on the crisp, December air. “What’s that sound?” I wondered aloud. Slowly, the sound began to grow until there was no mistaking its message: “WE WANT THE FOOB! WE WANT THE FOOB!” Of course The Foob, who had been highly perturbed that I didn’t write about him in the last entry, was feeling mighty full of himself. In his snotty French accent (the one he’s recently adopted that sounds suspiciously like the French peas in Veggie Tales) he said, “Zee! I told you zay do not care about your zilly radiazohn or zee zilly roller zkates. Zay want Zee Foob! Now, go make me a zinnamon latte.”
You’ve created a monster. I hope you’re all happy.
Provided that the ol’ pit heals up, I’ll be finishing my radiation next week. Woo hoo! Right now I’m doing what they call a boost. This targets the scar line, giving the armpit a break and a chance to grow some new skin. After this week, I’ll have 3 more treatments. I’m so ready to not have to drive into town every day.
Lately, it seems the question everyone asks me is, “Did they get it all?” They are, of course, referring to the cancer. I guess everybody wants a happy ending. Either that or they’re getting tired of this whole thing. “Dang! I wish she’d hurry up and get cured already! Sheesh! This is taking for-ev-er!” Trust me, nobody would rather have this all be ancient history than I would. The problem is that there are no guarantees. You can’t mess around with this stuff, so we always assume that they did not get all of it. Otherwise, why would I be doing radiation? For the tan?
So, the answer to the question is “We hope so, but probably not.” Even if I get the all clear in the next few months, I will still have to be tested regularly for any signs of cancer. The possibility of recurrence will always haunt me. There’s no ending, happy or otherwise, in sight right now.
But don’t let that bum you out. Life is not on hold because of a little cancer. Good grief, how far behind would I be by now if that were the case? Besides, that would be SO boring. Imagine if I turned down every non-cancer related opportunity. “Sorry, we won’t be able to go skating. I’ve got the cancer, you know. And I’d love to shop for an Angel Tree child, but I can’t because I’m just totally wrapped up in thinking about my cancer this year.” Or if every conversation revolved around me and my cancer, how obnoxious would that be? “Hey, Susie, what’s going on? I just thought I’d call and tell you about my cancer—again. It is all about me, you know. By the way, do you know anyone else with cancer? I just love cancer stories, especially the ones where people end up dying. I feel so refreshed in my cancer-ness every time I get to really focus on cancer…”