Buck up, champ

I haven’t cried in a week. This is pretty impressive because I cried for almost two weeks straight. I’m attributing the drying of tears to my shiatsu therapist who worked on me and let me cry and told me to feel what I need to feel. She’s better than any psychotherapist I could ever find. I had been walking around feeling like my entire body was bruised and beaten, but after my treatment I was better. It was that instantaneous. I had one final cry before I left her house, and that was it. And it’s not like I’m keeping myself from crying, I just don’t need to anymore.

Now that I am walking around with no treatment plan to speak of, I feel a bit like that girl who faked cancer except that I really do have cancer, it’s just not noticeable. Which is not such a bad thing, especially since it is not yet noticeable to me. But I also know I probably won’t keep the status quo forever, so I need to find the people who can help me. I’ve been trying to figure out who in Canada is the low-grade cancer expert, but I haven’t come across one yet. There’s a guy in Houston at MD Anderson who is starting a five-year project on targeted therapies and I’ve decided that come hell or high water, I will get into one of his trials. At the very least, I want to get an appointment with him. He would be an excellent nth opinion. If anyone wants to tag along to Houston with me when the time comes, let me know. We can wear cowboy hats and make like locals.

I’m not sure where I am on the spectrum of grief — I feel like I’ve skipped a few steps and headed straight to acceptance, but I’m sure something will set me off at some point and I’ll have an ugly-cry breakdown or will go on a window-breaking spree up and down Ossington. But I keep telling myself that there’s no need to be scared about this, that I easily have five years at least (not to jinx myself) and a lot can happen in five years. Like new treatments that can keep my disease stable for another five years. And then another, and another, and another until I pass the threshold for dying tragically young.

Because really, what else can I tell myself?

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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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