What's Left of Me

MonkeyGurl and MonkeyME 

walking the hallways at Johns Hopkins Hospital

I understand why they say you lose friends along the way because you're not the same person you once were.

I am not alone. You are here and I am grateful. But I want you to see all of me - what's left of me.

I am sad. I am withdrawn. I can't stand up straight. I can't breathe deeply. I can't drive, or take my dogs for a walk, or go to the grocery store, or do errands unassisted like normal, healthy people do. I can't work. I can't lead. I don't feel sexual, or comical, or witty, or engaging. I am weak. I am fragile. And I hate this me - what's left of me. 

Somewhere between my rectum, and my sigmoid, and the lower anterior of my colon, must have been my creative edge, my will, my drive, and my sunny side, because they are gone. I can't focus my eyes. I can't calm my mind. I can't sooth myself.

I know that this is temporary but it's important to honor where I am and what I am feeling if I'm going to grow from it. It's important to be honest with myself and I don't want to bullshit you. You don't deserve that. I don't deserve that.

I have good news. Marvelous news! My pathology report showed no evidence of cancer. Twenty-six lymph nodes were taken and tested and all were clean. Which means, the radiation ate my cancer. It also means I didn't need the surgery but we wouldn't have known this for certain had I not had the surgery.

This time there were no mistakes, I followed my gut and it brought me to a place of healing. Having the internal, high dose, radiation (available only at Johns Hopkins) was the right decision. Having Dr. Susan Gearhart perform my surgery was the right decision. And having the surgery was the right decision because of the knowledge that it gave me.

I now have a 12 inch scar that stretches from just above my belly button to my pelvic bone. I have a stoma - part of my small intestine peaking out from the middle of the right side of my abdomen. I am now missing more body parts than Miss Pegged. This is a game we have played since we first met. And now, finally, (thanks to the lymph nodes) I am winning.

I go back to Baltimore on the 17th of October for a followup and more tests. It's hard to feel cancer free when the need for tests continues. They'll test my lungs and my pelvic area to see if they're still clean. And the worry and the wait will begin again.

I watched the Valerie Harper documentary the other night showcasing her fight against brain cancer. Her will is undeniable. She sees the goodness in everything, even her cancer. I am not there yet and I'm not certain I ever will be. What I heard in that documentary were the facts - you thought you beat your lung cancer but you didn't. You had three years off for good behavior before it moved on up to your brain. Your fucking brain!

It always seems to move up, like it's been promoted. In time, mine will likely move on up to my liver, or my lungs, and I guess, if I survive that, it will move on up to my brain. There is no beating cancer. It's too fucking powerful. All I can do is endure the surgery and the treatment and be thankful for more time.

Cancer will not fool me. My doctors aren't fooled. That's why I will begin chemotherapy in a few weeks - my best bet at stopping the microscopic cancer cells from marching onward, upward.

The bag sucks. It's worse than I thought. I won't get used to it. I won't adjust to it. I'll tolerate it and celebrate the end of it. The next six months will be a lesson in patience, in resilience, in resistance.

I didn't know how I was going to end this because you know how I love to end a post with something uplifting. And then I remembered a story a friend (Sandy - sweet Sasha's first Momma), shared on facebook.

A Father's Love

It is a poignant reminder that love beats cancer, not because it cures it, but because it outlives it.

xo, Monkey ME