We have nothing to fear but... fear...

I went to the WeSPARK post-treatment support group this week because I've been feeling lost and out of sorts and very, extremely depressed and decided I needed to get some help and guidance.

As I was on the bus to the group, I got thinking about what I was going to talk about. I haven't been able to go because of the new job and wanted to be able to summarize the last couple of months fairly quickly so as to not take up too much time.

As I was thinking about how I was feeling, I realized something.

I'm afraid.

Of course I'm afraid my cancer will come back, first and foremost. I mean, who wouldn't be? And I wish  I could not take this hormone suppressor because it is making me very depressed and incredibly moody. So depressed that I can't get off the couch.

But...

I realized I'm also afraid of moving forward.

Before I was diagnosed, I felt like I had almost everything I wanted. My teaching job was going very well and I felt optimistic that I would get my studio within a year or so. School was amazing - being able to go and paint for four straight hours, straight A's, learning so much it was incredible.  And, of course, the Filmmaker. Fun, easy days and lovely, sensuous nights with him.

Perfection.

And then...

Invasive Ductal Carcinoma.

And now it's all pretty much gone, except my teaching job. 

Now, who knows what would have happened had I not been diagnosed. I would have lost my father either way. The Filmmaker and I may not have lasted anyway. School, I'm pretty sure, would have still be straight A's because I wouldn't allow anything else.

But now, as I try to put my life back together, I realize that I'm really afraid to do just that - put my life back together.

Because what if I do...

...and the cancer comes back.

What if I build back up this life that I love and find another man who is just as wonderful as the Filmmaker was and what if I fall in love with him and get my own studio and go back to school and my life finally starts to make sense again and...

....what if...

That terrifies me.

Partly because I don't want to build everything up just to lose it again.

And a lot because I don't know if I could go through all of this again. I'm so moved and humbled by my friend who has gone through cancer treatment numerous times and is currently on borrowed time. She is so brave and funny and snarky while at the same time being incredibly vulnerable and honest. I don't know how she does it. I don't know how her husband does it. He, as well, humbles me and inspires me by his sheer devotion to her and to making her life the best life it can be.

I don't want to do this again. And I'm terrified that I will have to.

My risk is fairly low due to the size of my tumor and the fact that I had chemo and radiation and I'm on this stupid fucking crazy-making drug. However, the risk is still there and it's still very real. And cancer's a sneaky motherfucker. With having lymph node involvement and ER/PR positive, there is still a risk of recurrence.

And I'm so terrified right now of it coming back again just as I get my life together - again. 

And I've rebuilt my life so very many times over the past 30 years, I'd like to not have to do that again for the next 30.

And I don't know if I could do it again. 

I was very lucky with my diagnosis. Caught early, small tumor, only a couple of lymph nodes. Very quick recovery, according to my doctors. After all, I am my father's daughter and have genes of steel. I was able to keep my breasts and even my scars are starting to recede and get less and less obvious. And my hair's grown back into this punky rock star style that has people asking me how I got my hair to look that way. Chemo is always a quippy, snarky answer that shuts them up.

And I got through treatment fairly well.

But if it comes back...

If it comes back...

I'll go through it again and I'll survive and I'll rebuild and I'll do what I need to do. Because what choice would there be?

But I'm so afraid to start moving forward in case I get knocked back. I don't want to lose everything again. I just don't.

So I have to get past this fear and keeping going. But it's hard. And the depression doesn't help. Hopefully I'll get some help on that end very soon.

But still...

What if...

But I can't live by "what if" and I have to move forward.

I'm just...

...stuck right now.

We'll see what next week brings...

What I learned from you

I learned to laugh even more than I ever have before.

I learned to be quiet without being afraid of not being heard.

I learned to be heard.

I learned to listen and accept.

I learned that I can be open and honest and not be punished for it.

I learned that someone I love can be gentle and kind and compassionate with me.

I learned that anger is not a normal part of a relationship.

I learned that I am worth something.

I learned how to just be with someone.

I learned to not write your story and to not try to figure out what you're going to do and do emotional algebra with every little thing.

I learned what true intimacy is by just laying in your arms.

I learned about passion. Boy, did I learn about passion. In everything.

I learned how to exist for right now, just in this second, in that moment with you. Every single moment.

I learned that I am good at... well... certain things.

I learned that I like being sexy and dressing like a girl and I learned I liked the way you looked at me when I dressed that way.

I learned to open my heart up again after so many years of being closed.

I learned that, while living in the moment with you was incredible, that I need a bit more. 

I learned that I can make the choices I need to make when it comes to protecting myself.

I learned that I can break my own heart and survive.

I'm learning how to let you back into my life, without hope, without agenda.

I learned that I can be myself when I'm with someone, that I don't have to be anything but me. And that's enough.

I learned that when someone listens to me and cares about me and lets me be heard, I don't need to make as much noise.

I learned that there are beautiful, amazing, incredible men out there who don't use their love as a weapon.

The most important thing I learned is to let you go...

Made it through... ?

Almost two months after finishing treatment, I'm really starting to comprehend what I went through.

Two surgeries.

Five months of chemo

Eight weeks of radiation.

Losing my father.

Ending a relationship.

Starting a new drug for the next five years.

And I'm here.

I don't know how I got here.

Going through treatment, especially chemo, I just put my head down and got through it because I didn't know what else to do. You don't really have a choice. Chemo or let the cancer come back and grow.

Walking to the bus stop the past few days,  I was thinking about how during chemo I almost couldn't make that two block walk. I would have to stop and rest after a block. And just climbing up the stairs to my apartment, I would have to stop and rest. Days and days and weeks and weeks of not being able to get off the couch. I made myself try to live as normal a life as possible. I was very grateful to have the Filmmaker there and it helped me find energy to know he would be on the other end of the bus route when I got there and that he would take care of me. But looking back, I don't know how I did it. How I survived.

There were days through chemo and especially the end of radiation where I just wanted to stop. Just stop. Didn't care about the future because the present was just so fucking hard. 

I don't know how I got through radiation, especially the end when my collarbone was burned and blistered and so incredibly painful, I couldn't sleep, I couldn't sit, I couldn't do much of anything. The wonderful Dan Panosian, one of my comic book mentors, saw me at Drink and Draw as I was at the end of radiation and was so happy to see me, he grabbed me by the shoulder/collarbone area as I was sitting to try and hug me from his standing position. I had to bite back the pain because he was so happy to see me and so sweet to me, I didn't want to let him know that I could feel the pain down to my toes. And the first time I saw the Filmmaker after I walked away was when he brought his daughter to class and as he went to hug me, he tried to compensate for my burns and tried to let me slide into him. But even with that consideration, horrible, horrible pain. It killed me that everyone who hugged me caused me such pain. The one thing I crave is physical interaction and I almost couldn't have that for so long.

The tough thing about making it through is that I'm not through.

Although treatment has ended, I'm still going through it. 

I am on Arimidex, a hormone-suppressing drug, because my cancer is hormone positive and estrogen can make it grow and spread very, very quickly. I'm supposed to be on this for five years. The big side effects are fatigue (big surprise), joint pain and possible mood changes. So far, the joint pain has been minimal. Fatigue I have gotten used to and know how to deal with that. But the biggest problem has been depression. This drug has exacerbated my depression to a degree that I really can't bear it. I tend towards depression as it is and this just doesn't help. And it always leads me to the Filmmaker, because "he" represents so many things I've lost and let go and wish I had back. It's not about him personally, it's about what he meant/means. 

And I don't want to add an antidepressant on to what I'm taking. I just don't want to be depressed. But I'm not sure that discontinuing the drug is a viable option. I don't want my cancer to spread or come back. My lovely friend, http://pinkgoose.wordpress.com/, is dealing with Stage 4 metastatic cancer with such grace and dignity and she has given me so much hope and advice along the way. But I don't want to be there with her. I don't want my friends to have to deal with all of this again, possibly even worse. I want to be healthy. I want to be healed. And this drug is essential for that. However, what kind of life is it if I'm depressed and cannot live the life I want to live.

But I made it through this far, I guess I can make it through whatever comes next.

I've made it through pain, fatigue, depression, suicidal thoughts, death of my father, ending this relationship, sorrow, heartbreak, and loss like I have never felt or could comprehend. 

And I'm here.

But I am not sure where exactly here is. 

I do know that I'll make it through whatever is coming. I'll make it through this drug and its effects and make the decisions I need to make to regain my life. I'll make it through figuring out where to go creatively and professionally, even though right now I can't see it. I'll make it through eventually letting go of my feelings for the Filmmaker and maybe finding someone and losing someone again. 

I know I'll get to the other side of anything because I'm already here.

But here is kind of lonely. Going through treatment, everyone leaps to take care of you, give you comfort, sit with you, bring you food, whatever you need.

After treatment, *crickets* *crickets* *crickets*.

No one understands that you're still dealing, you're still hurting, you're still processing. For months, maybe. I have friends who have been still dealing for years. But without "active" treatment, everyone figures you're fine. And it's not their fault. They don't know. And everyone's always kind and gentle and wonderful when I see them. 

But there are a lot of empty days and empty nights as I try to figure out where "here" is and what it means. And as I try to process what I've gone through and what I'm going through.

But I'll make it through that, too. Because what choice is there? We go on. We make it through. 

Because we have to. To choose life, we have to make it through.

So here I am, through. 

Now, to figure out what all that means...

The other side

One year ago today, I was diagnosed with Invasive Ductal Carcinoma.

I still have the piece of paper I wrote those words down on because I couldn’t believe it was true.

And I’ve written and written and written about everything that’s changed in this past year. And about my fears. And my hopes. And my dreams.

I’ve written about my friends and the Filmmaker and the hope and the loss and the everything of everything.

I sat here and cried until I couldn’t anymore last night. For all of this. For all the loss.

And I got up this morning and I went and I taught.

Real life.

Trying to get back to real life.

A year ago, I didn’t know how I was going to get through it. I didn’t know where I would be a year later.

And here I am.

On the other side… sort of.

There’s still a long way to go to heal, to recover, to rebuild. Just because the treatment is over doesn’t mean I’m suddenly healthy and ready to take on the world. That’s the hard part. No one really understands unless they’ve been through it. Your body goes through a year of hell, it doesn’t necessarily bounce right back.

And my heart needs to heal. Not just from leaving the Filmmaker, but from… I don’t know what from. But it feels beaten and battered and just wants to rest. Not think about anyone but me for a while.

And I still miss the Filmmaker every day. But I’m choosing to appreciate and hold the memories of him close and relish their beauty. And it’s more like a wistful wanting, not the painful, difficult, heart-rending wanting. And I’m glad he’s still in my life, as distant and far away as he is.

But I need to heal in every way. Focus on me. Focus on where I’m going.

Because suddenly, I’m not sure where to go next. It is difficult to move on after focusing for a year on what comes next. There is really no next now. I’m on a new medication that suppresses my estrogen since my cancer is estrogen-positive and we don’t want any of that crap running around, breeding other little cancer spawn.

But it’s been a horrible week of crippling side effects – the deepest, darkest depression I’ve had in years, moments of suicidal thoughts because it just didn’t seem worth trying to get through this, epic fatigue and just the lack of will to do anything at all. I have barely eaten because I just don’t want to. And all I can think is if this is what being on this drug for the next five years is going to be like, I may just say, fuck it, and take my chances because I can’t live like this. Yesterday and today were better, though, so I’m hoping my body is adjusting and that this will just be one more bad week in the midst of one really horrible year.

So the other side…

That’s a big empty space, the other side. The good thing is that all the stuff I love about my life is still here on the other side. My teaching job, my friends, my artwork, my writing, all of that. I don’t need to figure out my whole life, just need to figure out where to put my feet. There is potential, there is hope, there is… the other side.

One foot in front of the other…

To the other side.

I’ll let you know what it looks like from there.

Who are you?

You sat across from me last night and all I could think was - and who are you?

Hard to believe we were together for 16 years and now we're total strangers again. I know we've been apart for a long time - my choice and I really wouldn't change it, even now.

But I looked at you when you walked in and I thought, who are you? And who am I? And what happened to those two people who fell in love all those years ago? Where did they go?

And if we met today, being the people we are now, would we have fallen in love? How did we get here?

I looked at you and I saw that you haven't changed in the past - god, has it really been? - more than seven years. I don't think that's who you were when we met. That angry, bitter, negative person. Did I do that to you? Turn you into that?

And it made me sad that all those years mean nothing now. That we can only sit across the table from each other, being uncomfortable, knowing there was a history there but not knowing what that means now.

I wish sometimes that I could have let you be a part of my life. To not lose all those years together because there were good things in there, under all the bad. To hang on to something, some vestige of a relationship. To not lose all of that time.

I wish I could invite you back into my life now. But listening to you last night, I know that's not possible because, well, you're the same person you were when I left. And I can't invite that person back into my life. I just can't. Even if I kept you on the edge of things, I don't think you would stay there. And the old habits would come crashing back. And I can't do that again.

But I wondered who you are now. How you have changed, if you have changed. Did you wonder that as you sat across the table from me? Did you recognize me? Or did you wonder the same thing - who are you?

And our history laid on the table between us, just staring at us. Our friends were kind enough to ignore that history and just treat us as individuals, not like the couple we were. I appreciated that. I don't know if you did. 

I wish I could be a bigger person and say, hey, let's have dinner, grab coffee, whatever, and just catch up. But the things you said last night made me know that that is never going to happen. Because ironically, I know exactly who you are. 

And, more importantly, I know who I am.