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.