I recently lost my 2014 planner. Tim often teases me I need to move to the digital age, but I live and die by that thing. So not being able to find it has caused me a bit of stress as of late.
Lots of things are I guess. I haven’t written in quite some time. My mother always says if you don’t have something nice to say…
Anyway, I always say a prayer to St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost things and causes, when I’ve misplaced something. Old Catholic habits, perhaps. I’ve been feeling a bit like a lost cause myself as well so I figured it wouldn’t hurt.
I’ve been seriously considered stopping treatment. It all seems like a bit of overkill. EIGHT sessions PLUS radiation? I don’t have a boob for Chrissakes. How much can you do to assure this is gone? I’ve lost my patience, along with my planner. And I get the feeling everyone else has too. Work, family. How many times can I possible have a sick day? Or not want to get off the couch? I’m bored of cancer, bored of this disease that is slowly seeping the joy from my life. I want to be a newlywed. I want to not feel like a stranger to my body, which can at times be a source of excruciating pain, things I don’t want to talk about. Not to doctors, not to my husband. I’m starting to feel like a stranger to him too. To everyone.
I’m not just declining mentally, but physically as well. I look like shit. My eyes are constantly running, sometimes with tears of depression, sometimes with just moisture. They stick together, causing clumps of eyelashes to come out and making wearing makeup next to impossible. My skin is darkening under my eyes and swelling.
Adding to the unending shit storm is just the everyday. A hit and run accident. Broken garbage disposal, microwaves. Missing hubcaps. The constant bills. It never ever seems to end. Ever.
So I say my little prayer, sending it out to God and the universe, hoping one of the two will hear me. I get a sign here and there, every once in a while. Sometimes it helps. Sometimes it’s not enough. Today I stepped into the elevator at work, on my way home to meet the man who was fixing the aforementioned garbage disposal. A woman asked me how I was doing. At first, I thought she was speaking to someone else. When I realized she was talking to me, I quietly said fine. 13 years, she said, glancing at my head cover. I know it’s hard, believe me, and I know you want to quit. But it gets better. I promise it gets better.
I don’t know if it was the runny eyes or the jaundiced coloring I’ve been sporting recently. I’m not sure how she knew I needed to hear that. But I did. And for a few minutes, it helped. Thank you I told her. You don’t know how much that means to me.
So thank you Lord. Or universe. I need more of that. And while you’re at it, I need that planner too. Heaven knows I need a plan. Cause I’m completely and totally lost.