A Depressing Post -- but, Hey, Cancer Ain't Cheery.

Today was my six-month checkup with my oncologist.  Twice a year, I get a variety of tests -- my blood drawn to check tumour markers and my hormone levels (God forbid I have even a whiff of estrogen left in my poor, battered body) -- and a  mammogram and a bilateral ultrasound.  I had them last week and both were clear.

SO why was I up all night, fretting and tossing?   I knew my tests were clear.  But there I was last night sucking down drugs to fend off a migraine.  Why did I burst into tears when Allan talked to me this morning and then vomit twice before leaving for my appointment?  Was it because I was afraid that the cancer came back?  No.

It was because I had to return to the scene of the crime: A place of incredible fear and pain and misery.  A place where I watched the nurse inject the poison into my veins, knowing that I'd be sick beyond belief for the following week.   It was the place where I underwent CAT scans and PET scans and  biopsies and mammograms and radiographs and surgeries.  It was the place where I had radiation to the point that I finally broke down and cried -- for the first time since my diagnosis -- from the pain of the burns which culminated in a red, raw, seeping wound.

I went to see the doctor who prescribed all the drugs that changed my life:  Forever.  I still suffer from "chemo brain," the inability to find the words I want or need -- words I've known forever.  I am tired and winded and exhausted all the time.  And then there's the tamoxifen that keeps my body form utilizing estrogen, and that makes me even more tired and fatigued; my skin is dry; I'm forgetful.  My thyroid no longer workds.  And don't forget the chemo:  I not only lost my hair, I lost my fingernails and some of my toenails (from  infection due to a suppressed immune system), and they've never come back. The dermatologist tells me I'm lucky that's all I've lost.

And I am lucky.  I know I am.  I am still alive.  But for any of you who have ever known someone who has had cancer, know that it doesn't end.  It lasts forever.  My children will now always have to check the box at the doctor's office that says "Does any family member have or ever had cancer?"  My husband will fear every time that I go for an appointment.   And I'll continue to vomit. I'll cry, and vomit, and pray.

 So do your part.  Get your physical. Take care of yourself.  Listen to your body.   It's important, because if you can save just one daughter, just one son, one wife, one husband -- one family -- from going through what my family and I went through, it's worth it.

God bless you all -- each and every  one.