[Caveat emptor -If you don't like the F-word, don't read this]
So you read the material provided, and sit through the "survivor" sessions, but nothing, and I mean NOTHING can prepare you for the road ahead, train tracks directing metaphorically or not. Others survivors try, bold truths or even gentle lies. NOTHING prepares you for the bodily harm done.
My mother in law described the surgery to me today as "bodily assault" - an attack - really - on the body. She is right. If someone other than a surgeon took a knife to me and cut me in the same fashion, it would be a crime. Thankfully, I have faced my virtual attacker, the cancer, and know the physical assailant, my surgeon, is a gift. He saved me. He preserved me for my loved ones. The team of medical professionals has saved me. My mother says the tracks, the scars, are the same as when she first saw them some 50 years ago. Alarming, but not surprising. Impossibly hard to see on your child, no doubt. Have we progressed not at all?
But this wound, which is stapled together like a mere paper bag, which I quite seriously refuse to openly admit, talk about or discuss, will be rent asunder tomorrow, and it better fucking hold tight. Miracles of modern medicine had better work for me tomorrow. Or someone will pay. I know not how, but there will be vengeance. It's the pain I fear. I said to Michael tonight, I took the other invasions of my body in hand, since frankly, the goal was clearer. Beat cancer. Swallow the medicine. Do the time. Greater good.
Now, I am closer to an end game, "freedom" from cancer, but I am running out of gas and frankly, I am afraid of the pain. Like someone in a foxhole, immune to the bombs, but afraid of the sniper. Can't see the forest for the trees. It makes me sleepless, wide awake, panicked. Mental-making. And here we thought we were in the end game. La La La Land.
So many words to express the jumble of emotions and feelings (really- thoughts, since I feel very little in my upper left quadrant, except loss - and what I do feel smarts like hell) - about this phase. This whole thing is a mess. Doctors, life issues, children, lunch, laundry, payroll. Fucking payroll, of all things.
I actually got a letter from my "employer" saying "if you have a terminal illness or have less than 24 months to live....fill out this form" --Yes, I did. How is that for a mind-mess? Received by mail, the day of my surgery, no less. By my poor exhausted and cancer-weary husband.
So ok, besides that, I am a typical post-cancer-surgical mess. A perfectly, exquisitely sewed together mess of thoughts, emotions, and hope. Emotions bottleneck, burst through. I have a long long list of people I could throw darts at right now. Don't ask. Simple transactions gone wrong, Life wrongs un-righted. Long line ups at Zellers.
As Owen says - "Mum, cool it. You are REALLY grouchy."
Yes, I am. And with good reason. Will update on staples.