13 days

I am now less than two weeks away to finding out what various surgeons and oncologists have decided to subject me to. I am working to fill my calendar between now and then. It’s tricky. I vacillate between wanting to be with other people all the time and wanting to be alone. Regardless of where I am or who is around me, I have a constant refrain of cancercancercancercancerCANCERCANCERCANCERCANCER accompanying my every thought and action. It’s annoying, much like I imagine tinnitus might be. Also, it’s really boring.

There is a lot I don’t remember about treatment. I don’t remember how long it hurt after surgery, but I do remember how hard it was to walk or even sit up at first, and how I would have hated the nurses if I had the energy to hate. I don’t remember much about how I felt during chemo, except that my legs constantly hurt like I’d been running a marathon on concrete, and that sometimes I felt weak. But I can’t remember how often I felt weak or how long it lasted. I remember being knocked out with benadryl during the actual chemo sessions, and I know the steroids made me feel crazy for days, but I can’t recall the feeling of craziness. But, oh god, I know it was there.

I am worried that everything will be worse than I remember; that I’ve blocked out how bad it was. When this all went down the first time, I was a university student. I dropped out, went on welfare, and had all the time in the world to nap. In retrospect, I’m not even sure how I spent the rest of my days, the non-napping portions. I certainly don’t remember reading any books. I don’t remember much of anything. There is a good six months of my life that is almost perfectly blank except for hospital visits, blood draws, pills, and needles.

Oh well, maybe it’s for the best.


About Alicia Louise

I'm a writer, editor, fact checker, storyteller, events organizer, chronically busy yet endlessly lazy, mildly neurotic (though I keep the neuroses well-hidden, one hopes) 32-year-old with recurrent ovarian cancer. I like people and good writing and straight talk. I have a hard time feeling sorry for people, including myself, but the people that I love, I love passionately; one may even say creepily. I try to keep that mostly to myself. I'd like to be charming, but I'm usually just a mess. I'm like a gull slamming into your windshield.
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