It’s interesting how people say I am handling this crappy situation with “grace” and “strength”. Let me tell you – I’m not. I may have moments of kick-ass attitude, but I am and have been a mess. I cry. A lot. When I was first diagnosed (and the week or so leading up to it), I spent a lot of time curled up in a ball. Sobbing. Pounding my fists into the floor and scaring the heck out of poor Alexander. I tried to sleep it all away. I avoided calling people because maybe if I didn’t say it out loud, I’d wake up the next day and it would be a dream.
I cry every time someone asks me about breastfeeding. I’m crying right now.
I don’t want to feel sorry for myself, but I am just so mad. I’ve tried my whole life to be proactive with the whole cancer business, because everyone in my dad’s family died from different cancers. I have asked doctors to do blood work, just to make sure. I have eaten well, and I have stayed active. So what gives? And why the heck didn’t anything pop up on ultrasounds or blood work when I was pregnant? No symptoms. Nothing. Until my liver was so enlarged and full of tumors that it made my belly stick out.
I look at myself in the mirror and am reminded of all the cancer that is inside my body. Every time. And I don’t feel good. The stupid liver is pushing on everything, so I sometimes can’t catch my breath, and I can’t eat much at a time, and I am just downright uncomfortable.
And yesterday I had fevers. Thank God they didn’t make me go back to the hospital; I hate the hospital.
I hope today I feel better than yesterday. I keep imagining the cancer tumors like they are pac-man guys, eating the chemo and killing themselves. That helps a little.