The dawn before the storm

Feeling better, finally.  The virus seems to be abating; tomorrow is Day 10 which is now fondly dubbed Somewhat Human Day around here, so perhaps the convergence of these two events are helping me remain vertical for longer than 10 seconds.  I'm still taking it easy, just to be safe. 

When I was feeling particularly whiny the other day, I posted on a BC support forum I belong to, in a group of women who all started chemo in January.  Many of us are on the same protocol, some of us on the exact same schedule, and so we carry each other along during the rough patches, and (virtually) hug each other when we feel we can't go on.  In my low moment, I started to equate this disease and treatment with something akin to PTSD.  We have been told we have cancer; we've been told we could die.  We are cut up and reconstructed and poked over and over again.  We are pumped full of drugs that could kill us, that are meant to kill parts of us.  We want to live, but every treatment leaves us feeling like we are dying.  We know we must do this, but none of us really wants to make this choice. 

The first treatment is difficult because we fear the Unknown.  The subsequent treatments are difficult because we now fear the Known.  I can smell the infusion room when I step off the elevator; I can taste the drugs before they're even administered.  I can no longer wear the shirt I wore to my first infusion so I donated it.  I drive past the hospital on my way to the store and find my stomach in knots.  It's not like a one-time event for us, either - say, a horrific car accident that we relive over and over in our minds - but rather a repeated event that we actively participate in (we chose to go to treatment).  We can't get away from our experience.

I wouldn't change for a moment every thing that I do to fight this battle.  It is what it is, but sometimes it's just traumatic.

So after my post, one of my BC sisters commented that there are "way worse cancers you can get" and that at least what we have is treatable.  She is right, in some ways.  Right now, my cancer is treatable, possibly even curable.  Does that fact make it any less traumatic?  Do I feel any better, do the drugs make me feel any less like walking death?  Do I enjoy my every-other Thursday trips to the infusion center? 

But some days, knowing there are "way worse cancers" doesn't take the fear and anxiety and exhaustion away.  It doesn't make it any better.  So that is where she is wrong.  There are degrees and perspective to everything in life.  I am blessed that I am not Stage IV, but I still have cancer.  I am grateful I have insurance, even though we're learning that insurance is not as great as we once believed.  I am loved by a partner who truly cares for me and does not consider this a burden, but he still works hard to take care of me, of himself, and of everything around us.  I am lucky to be alive and still fighting, when so many do not have that opportunity. 

So I can balance the bad with the good.  And in the end, it's all good.  Because I'm still here, still whiny, still fighting, still determined, and still carrying on.  Another day is just that - one more day.