Not Really Me

Last night, my Ultimate Bengal Fan introduced me to a great move; 1000 to 1: The Cory Weissman Story. Based on a true story, Cory is known as Mr. 1000 since he scored 1000 points in his high school basketball career, then received a scholarship to Gettysburg College. While prepping for his freshman season, he suffered a massive stroke that nearly killed him. It took him 2+ years of rehab to be able to suit up for a game. In the final game of his senior year, he scored a single point. His team was up by 20+ points with less than a minute to play. His coach allowed him onto the court (he was still suffering seizures so this was a liability for the school). The other team fouled him, so he could make 2 foul shots. He made the last one. It was a great story about determination, heart and the desire to live life. The Bengal Fan even said the liked it better than most sports movies because it didn’t have a miraculous comeback. It just showed him becoming “normal” again.

During one point in the movie, Cory is speaking with a psychotherapist. He breaks down screaming that he just wants his life back. The one before the stroke. That one scene continues to resonate with me today and I think it will for the days and weeks to come. I completely understand what Cory’s saying. I understand that primal need to get back what you had before.

People who have faced or continue to face a life threatening or chronic disease know that there’s two phases to your life; the one before the disease and the one after. Try as you might, even with medical advances and technologies, your life is never the same. You can do all the same things, be with the same people and wear the same clothes, but you’re never, EVER the same.

My sons continually point out to me that I’ve changed since cancer, but I’m never sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. As I’ve said before, they love to mess with my ever present chemo brain. They also talk about my penguin strut, although with PT that’s pretty much gone unless my feet are really numb. The gray hair jokes are starting to lose their appeal and I’m pretty sure the B-man is getting tired of telling the kids on the street, “No that’s NOT my grandma! My mom just looks old because she had cancer. Duh!” He then proceeds to explain that when you lose your hair to chemo, it comes back soft and gray. Nothing like a trash talking 9 year old explaining the pros and cons of chemo hair. I believe I can count these conversations as a health credit for homeschooling purposes.

I talk with my husband about this quite a bit. I miss what we had before cancer. Not that our life was one of romance and roses. It wasn’t. It was an average life, doing average things. But sometimes I can’t manage average.

We love to go to Home Depot. It’s a date for us. We walk around the store and talk about all the things we’d love to do in the house. I look at countertops and cabinets. He looks at Pergo and light fixtures and we dream about what our house could look like if we’d just win that $5,000 gift card for filling out the survey (somebody has to win, right?). We even have a list of future projects.

Then I’ll look at the budget. Now I did this before cancer, but not quite as closely. BC (Before Cancer), I just checked to be sure the money was there. In my PC (Post Cancer) life, I not only check to be sure the money is there, but I’m also checking the reserves in case we spend the money and the Beast decides to roar back into our lives. While I hate my carpet, I hate cancer more. We spend a lot of time wishing rather than doing, and that makes me sad.

Our financial advisor recommended that I get more life insurance. While cancer patients have a tough time getting insured, ovarian cancer patients just can’t get insured. My AAA membership allows me to apply for insurance “that approves nearly everyone.” Guess who didn’t get approved? I actually called the number on the letter that said I was declined. They politely said, “We don’t insure people who’ve had ovarian cancer.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because you run a greater risk of dying.”

“Doesn’t everyone run a risk of dying?”

“Not like you.”

“Do you know something I don’t?”

“I’m sure you’re familiar with the survival rates. They just aren’t very good.”

“Yet here I am. How about a letter from my oncologist?”

“No. You’re not worth the risk.” OUCH! Now that’s customer service!

What I really wanted to say is “Let’s face it, life is fatal,” but that fact was lost on the Customer Service Representative I spoke with.

Fortunately, John’s employer offers spousal life insurance. Unfortunately, I could only get a fraction of what I need on a guaranteed issue basis. I was finally able to get Critical Illness Coverage as well. It will cover our deductible if and when the Beast returns. I hate feeling that I’m a drain on our financial future. We have to look at everything in the context of “what if.” We never did that BC. Being PC stinks.

There are parts of me that continually seek out my old life, while some parts embrace the new. Writing has become important to me once again and my faith is stronger than it’s ever been. I just hate not being able to do what I did before. I recently tried to do a 2 mile walk. After a mile I was about ready to fall over. I did finish it, but it was a sloppy finish. It’s a lot like how I clean my house. I start off strong, but in the end I just end up with a neater mess than I started with.

Coming to terms with myself PC is not easy. While I laugh at my PC quirks on the outside, there is a piece of the old me railing on the inside. That “new normal” everyone talks about stinks. But it beats the alternative.

Normally, I think being PC is overrated, but it has it’s benefits.

Fog as Thick as Peanut Butter

I’ve always loved Yukon Cornelius of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer fame. He was so blissfully ensconced in his search for silver and gold that he tended to be oblivious to what was going on around him. He came up with one of my favorite similes – “This fog’s as thick as peanut butter.” When Hermie (another great character) corrects him by saying, “You mean pea soup,” Yukon proudly tells him that he prefers his fog to be like peanut butter.

Today, my fog is as thick as peanut butter – chunky with low sugar (my personal favorite). Actually it’s been thick for a few weeks now, but today it’s beyond what I’ve experienced since chemo. I could write it off to stress. After all, my mom and the B-man both had surgery within a week of each other. While both are, thankfully, fine, stress wreaks havoc on my chemo addled brain. My stress tripled this morning when my hubby left for a conference in Las Vegas and a much deserved break from the madness at home.

I didn’t realize how much having my hubby gone would throw me until the boys and I headed out for church this morning. Since getting my smart phone two months ago, I’ve been able to feed my addiction to Dunkin’ Donuts coffee every Sunday on my way to church. I have their app on my phone and can just tap and pay. I have no idea how I lived without this. But I digress. When we go to church, we have our route that swings us past Dunkin’ Donuts then up to church. Today, I tried to turn down the wrong road not once, but twice. What makes this even more frustrating is that it’s the same route I travel to go to our co-op. Fortunately, I did get my coffee and made it to church with 10 minutes to spare. God is good.

Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to stay focused on anything else today. I can’t begin to tell you how difficult it is to write this today. It’s not because I can’t find the words, although they are elusive today. It’s because I can’t stay focused long enough to actually explain it. My brain is like a pin ball and my skull is the table. Thoughts are banging against the walls racking up points, then missing the final flipper. Fortunately, some are being caught and are being flipped back into play. God help me if my brain decides to “TILT.”

This is the first time I’ve been “on my own” since ovarian cancer struck. Actually, the year I met the Beast was the last time Hubby went to this conference. I’ve asked him to not be so generous this time and leave the Beast in Las Vegas this time. I’m not in a big hurry to meet up with ovarian cancer again. Honey, if you read this while you’re there. I don’t need anything. REALLY! I’m good. No guilt. I’d much rather have more mulch for the landscaping. Honest!

I think not having the safety net of my hubby has thrown me. Granted The Ultimate Bengal Fan is now 12 and the B-man is 9. They do a great job of reminding me to do things. Actually, I think they enjoy it. They only remind me of the fun things. The Fan needed a haircut, but didn’t really want to waste his time getting one. He didn’t remind me. He did finally get one, when I was driving past Great Clips and saw their $5.99 special. It actually worked out better than I thought since it saved me $9.00. B never reminds me to make vegetables for dinner. Let’s not even talk about bedtime. They do remind me about promises to go out to lunch and pizza night. I guess it’s about priorities – theirs not mine.

Just when I was feeling like I was going to be smothered in peanut butter, I read a study that had been published in Great Britain. Apparently chemo brain is real (GASP – Really?). Chemo affects the brain’s ability to focus for more than just a brief period of time. You can no longer order your thoughts (as in putting them in order, not telling them what to do. Apparently I can no longer to either) and your mind drifts even when you think you’re on task. How crazy is that? I’m surprised I can type coherent sentences after reading that.

While the study does confirm what I knew to be true, it does seem to provide me with a sense of relief. I’m actually not crazy. I have a legitimate reason to forget things. I can play the cancer card without feeling like I’m duping people. While I hate to play the card, sometimes a girl’s gotta’ do what a girl’s gotta’ do. I rarely play it though. I tend to forget where I put it.

In the future, I will be using the GPS on that phone. I have a new purse with a special pocket just for it. Hopefully, it can find the closest Dunkin’ Donuts. Until then, hand me a spoon. I need to get through this fog.

Dual Reality

For those of you who have been patiently waiting, the news is in. I have officially passed the 2 year mark in remission. This is HUGE when you’re a survivor. It means I only have to put my feet in the stirrups once every 6 months, instead of once every 3 (I apologize to my male readers for the mental image). I will still get my tumor marker drawn every 3 months since I have to get my port flushed anyway, but it’s still another step in the right direction. The next milestone is at 5 years, so I’ve got a while for that one.

Now, you’d think I’d focus on just carrying on with life and I am. Came home from the doctor, ate some lunch, did some schoolwork with the boys, thawed out some meat, did the laundry, etc. Just another day in the life of a homeschooling mom who freelances from home. Yet my brain is somewhere else. It’s focused on how to maintain what I have in spite of what may be.

So as I’m getting dressed this morning, I realized I had mixed emotions about being a 2 year survivor. If you’d asked me 2 years ago, how I’d feel today, I’d of said, “Ecstatic! Overjoyed! Relieved! Amazing!” And I do feel all those things, but with a twinge of sadness. Please understand that I am so very thankful that God has blessed me with healing to this point. I am able to do most of the things I love. But I grieve so much as well. Two years later and my neuropathy continues to be a royal pain (pun intended). I finally gave in last month and started PT so I could get my hips and back into some type of alignment so I could walk again (talk about pain!). When your gait is a cross between a penguin and a duck, you need some work. Despite the progress I’ve made, I wonder if I’ll EVER be able to walk without pain. I forget things I shouldn’t forget – like my sons’ names.

You’d think a mom could remember her kids names. A couple of weeks ago, I called the Ultimate Bengal Fan “Sierra.” Sierra is our 14-year old cranky, snow white cat who is part Angora with the hair that goes with it. He looked at me and said, “Seriously Mom, do I look like the cat to you?” “No, but you do need a haircut,” was my reply. Still couldn’t remember the kid’s name. I remember it now, but I could tell that through the joke there was pain. “My mom can’t remember my name.” Chemo fog, you’re one cruel master.

On the good days, I barely notice the neuropathy and chemo fog barely raises a blip on my radar. I go through life doing what I do. On the bad days, I need an iPhone so Suri can remind me of all those things that I would otherwise forget. With my luck, I’d probably forget where I put the phone.

I realize that I live two different lives on many days. There’s the one I show the world and there’s the one I live. The one I show the world is the one who is a doting wife and mom, writes articles, schools her kids, attempts to clean the house, and loves to cook. The life I really live is one that wonders who will do this if I’m not here. The life I really live is the one that has the Beast lurking in the shadows. While the Beast is safely off my property for the time being, I know he’s an opportunist and if I give an inch, he’ll take more than a mile. Meanwhile, he’s got his friends Chemo Fog and Neuropathy to remind me that he’s only a cell mutation away.

It’s tough to live in two places at once, but I’m too scared to go all in where I should be and too smart to go all in where I shouldn’t. So I stay where I’m at, trying to balance in both worlds while keeping more of myself in the present and less in the “but what happens if…” place. Actually, I like where I’m at. It keeps me from getting complacent without being a hypochondriac. Maybe a little “what if” every now and then is okay.

As always, God’s got this. And let’s face it, we all have a dual reality where God’s concerned from time to time. There are times when we’re in sync with Him and times we’re not. That’s okay too. The disciples weren’t always in sync with Jesus, but He loved them anyway. I know God loves me just the way I am – a foot in two realities. And I’m okay with both of them.

The Land of Discontentment

I have been feeling very discontented. It took me a while to latch onto the right word, but discontented sums it up nicely. After sitting on pins and needles for 2 months because of a unexpected rise in my tumor marker, I have been given a thumbs up by my oncology team. I’m back on quarterly testing for the foreseeable future. Thankful, yes but certainly not content with status quo. After over a year in the 7 range, I’m in the 10’s now. Well below the threshold of 35, but not where I was. I’m certainly not content with that.

I’m convinced that stepping on a scale is the fastest way to the land of discontentment. It’s the bullet train of emotion. If it drops, you go to the land of euphoria. If it remains that the station, it’s either a relief or a puzzler. If you gain, you zip straight into discontentment. I gained 4 pounds. I’m not surprised considering the vast amounts of junk food I’ve consumed the last 10 days. I bought into the lie that I could walk the dog 4 days a week and eat whatever I wanted. I walked from the land of healthy into the land of discontentment. I’m not happy, but it’s not unexpected either.

I talked to my devoted husband last night about this nebulous, discontented feeling I have. He was puzzled since he has left the land of discontentment and is on the island of contentment. Seems we’re never in the same place at the same time any longer. Could be that was one of the stops I missed on the train.

When I’m bothered by something, it never comes up and slaps me along side the head. It’s always this cloudy, endless black hole in the back of my mind. It takes a while for the black hole to collapse so I can put words to the visual. My visual today was a huge mass of wires with me tangled in their web. My land of discontentment is covered in computer cables, e-mails and the hundreds of other electronic gizmos that clamor for my attention every day.

I had high hopes for myself when I ended chemo. I wanted to be a different person. I wanted to be the fun mom, the sexy wife, the fabulous friend, the great housekeeper and organizer extraordinaire (quit laughing Mom). None of it happened. I’m still just a Mom, an overweight wife, a so-so friend and my house looks like I have a perpetual windstorm blowing through it. I didn’t change, at least in the ways I hoped I would.

I find that I now have little tolerance for people who whine about the piddly things in life. Who cares if you can’t find a place to park close to the door? Wal-Mart’s out of your favorite cookies? Deal with it. Dropped your dinner all over the bottom of the oven? It happens (and I do get upset about it because tuna casserole is a pain to clean up), but it’s just one meal and that’s why God created cereal (I know my DH, I need to take my own advice). Life is a series of choices. Mull over the big ones, give a second thought to the average ones, and let the little ones fall where they may. I’ve learned not to stress over the B-man’s dislike of generic Cheerios. In the grand scheme of things, it’s piddly.

Chemo made me more distractible. My concentration a lot of days is in the negative zone. Half the time I can’t remember diddly and the other half I can’t figure out why I’d want to. My boys accept the fact that Mom has chemo fog. They even say it when I’m standing in the middle of a room, trying to look like I know what I want, when, in fact, I haven’t got a clue. That makes me sad. Should my kids have to understand what chemo fog is at 11 and 8. I know it’s a joke to them, but to me it’s taken a huge part of who I was. I could juggle lists and appointments with the best of them. Now, the idea of juggling anything other than clean socks is scary and I’m not very good at that either. This is discontentment at its finest.

This morning I realized I needed to find a way to clear my head and get out of the Land of Discontentment. I deal with too much noise. Remember the static noise on TV when the channel was out? For those of you old enough to remember life before cable and satellite this shouldn’t be a stretch, unless you’ve had chemo. Then Google it. It’ll come back, I promise. That’s what I hear in my head; all day, every day. I’ve discovered that’s the National Anthem in the Land of Discontentment.

I made a huge decision. I’m unplugging. My Kindle has been turned off. I’m on a Facebook fast. I’m only tutoring 2 days per week. I’m checking e-mail twice per day. I still text, but have decided the phone is a good way to communicate (remember actually calling someone?). I continue to freelance, but will print off my research and work on it in the dining room where I can actually see out the window. I want to write creatively and cross stitch and play games with my kids. I want to move my body as I actually do something in my house. I’m hoping to lasso the source of the windstorm and try to slow them down.

Life is tough, especially in the Land of Discontentment. Cancer is tough, even after you dance with NED (No Evidence of Disease). You spend a lot of time on the Island of What-If, which is across the Channel of Dread from the Land of Discontentment. It’s like have Charon take you across the River Styx. You don’t want to be on that boat, but you can’t see a way off. Cancer taught me that my life isn’t under my control. I like to think it is, but it’s not.

What I can control is how I look at life and what I do with what I’ve got. Yes, I’m in remission from ovarian cancer. Okay, so I eat healthy (well, I start to eat healthy AGAIN) and exercise. I try to tame the chaos in the house. Uncluttering the physical goes a long way to uncluttering the mind and soul. God won’t talk above the static, but He does talk. He needs me to get rid of the static to hear Him.

When I can finally find the mute button, He tells me to just look around and get off at the next train station. There’s always a train headed back to Contentment. You’ve just got to know when to change trains.

Processing Life

I have had a serious case of the grouchies for the last week or so.  I couldn’t figure out why.  I know funds are tight (when aren’t they?) and the boys are perpetually tired (golf camp, July 4th, VBS and all the other summer fun), especially since they won’t sleep in, but that didn’t explain why I felt the need to dive into every box that remotely looked like it might contain chocolate and no soy.  Then, it happened.  Last night, I just dissolved into tears when I realized why I was grouchy.  My brain is processing and it really doesn’t like to do that.

I’m convinced that having cancer is a bit like childbirth, although I’ve never had the pleasure of childbirth.  My friends tell me that childbirth hurts, A LOT!  But after they see that sweet little face and get home and bond with their little bundle, they forget how much it hurt (thus the explanation for having more than one child).  With cancer, after you have a few months of remission under your belt, you forget just how miserable you really were.  Oh, you know you were miserable, you just don’t remember the pain that went with it.

John told me that there were nights right after chemo that he would wake up and make sure I was still breathing (ironically, I did the same thing when he was diagnosed with his arrested hydrocephalus) since I looked so pale.  Obviously I have no recollection of this, nor of much else from my time I spent bonding with chemotherapy.  I realized yesterday that I have no recollection of Thanksgiving, except that it was the weekend John shaved my head.  I also have no memory of Christmas, except that my oven broke on Christmas Eve and I had to make whatever it was I had to make in my Crock Pot.  Other than that, it’s all a blur.  It’s like I had one very long day that lasted from November 9 – March 15.

Now, I can attribute some of it to being seriously stupid (my term for chemo fog), but not all of it.  I am convinced that my brain was so overloaded by the sheer enormity of the events slamming me in rapid succession that it just shut down – BOOM!  I know people tend to forget parts of traumatic events in an effort to seal off the pain.  It’s the brain’s defense mechanism.  Maybe that’s why there’s a chemo fog, so patients forget about the crap that goes with the treatment.

While I certainly don’t want to relive those times, I would like to have some memory.  I have a few recollections, mostly of the kindness people extended to myself and my family.  I remember our friend Renie giving up her Mondays to spend a couple of hours at the Outpatient Cancer Care Center (OPCC) while I got fluids.  My friend Cathy drove me to labs and went to my first post chemo CT scan.  She also texted quite often or called.  I know she was checking up and giving me pep talks, but I can’t remember them.  My friend Kelley took the boys for an extended period on chemo days, did school with them, fed them, entertained them and still brought dinner for John and I.  I can’t remember any of the meals, except her lentil soup, which sustained me for several days.  I still need that recipe!

I do remember the care I received from every person at the OPCC.  I do remember every nurses’ name.  My incredible nurse, Sharon, had to take a leave of absence shortly after I started chemo, but when she was there she always took care of me.  So did Kelly, Jacqueline, John, Barbara, Whitley and Paige.  They were my lifeline.  I recently returned to the OPCC after my first 3 month absence to have my CA-125 drawn.  Whitley and Paige gave me a teddy bear because they missed me!  Apparently, on my good days, I made cookies and brownies for the girls.  I really don’t remember this, but I do know that when I felt good, I baked just because it made me feel normal.  This was their way of saying thanks.  I bawled like a baby then too.  I’m not sure if it was because I was overwhelmed by their generosity or because I couldn’t remember doing anything.  I think that may have been what started the grouchies.

Now that I realize I’m processing, it’s somewhat easier, although I’m still in a chocoholic frenzy. Unfortunately, I can no longer blame PMS, but I’m hoping menopause can be somewhat responsible.  I realize I need to take care of myself (it’s kind of fallen to the wayside).  On OVCA boards, I find myself telling people who are newly diagnosed to be kind to themselves, that life will take care of itself.  I need to take my own advice.  I need to try to let go of the past and realize it’s shaped who I am, but it doesn’t define me.  I faced the Beast in the eye and stared him down and, hopefully, walked away a better person for it.

So I continue to process my past, grieve what I lost, and embrace what’s to come.  It’s gonna’ be great!

Seriously Stupid

Again, this post comes with a preface.  I don’t want any pep talks, sympathy or “oh no, you’re not” messages.  My blog, my rant, my choice.

I am seriously stupid.  Cathy would say I’m forgetful, but no, I have become seriously stupid.  Went to Target today, but scoured the sites for coupons and deals before the trip.  Got them together with my list and headed to Target.  Pulled out my coupons at the checkout.  I LEFT THREE OF THEM IN THE ENVELOPE ON TOP OF THE STACK, meaning I gave Target $3 more than I should have.  Now, that might not seem like a lot of money, but when you consider the $2 I left at Kroger, the $4 coupon I forgot to download for CVS and filling my tank without checking Gas Buddy first and I figure I’ve depleted my budget an extra $12 this week.  Multiply that by 4 and that’s nearly $50 bucks I’m out this month, $600 months for the year (you may want to check my math.  My mom will tell you it’s never been my strong suit).  When I got home I found my mistake and did some serious head slapping on myself (literally) while repeating my new mantra, “Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

While at my oncologist this week, I had a heart to heart with him about this whole menopause thing.  While he agreed that it’s a double whammy to go through instant menopause and chemo, he also said there’s not much he can do.  Normally, he would prescribe a low dose of HRT to offset some of the symptoms, but since I was lucky enough to have an estrogen receptive tumor, that’s off the table.  While my hot flashes are minimal, this whole forgetfulness thing is throwing me for a loop.

BC (Before Cancer), I had an incredible memory.  I could keep an entire grocery list, Braeden’s soccer schedule, a partially written article and my computer passwords in my head at the same time and rattle off any one of them with ease.  Now, I’m beyond stupid.  The cat’s name escapes me most days (it’s Sierra), my children have learned to respond to the snapping of my fingers, then pointing and my saying, “You know who you are.  Come here,” rather than their own name (which are Kyle and Braeden, in case you’re wondering).  My mom has had the same phone number since I was in elementary school.  I actually had to use the phone memory to dial the number the other day (we have it programmed in for those boys whose names escape me right now).  Despite it being on my list for the last 3 weeks, I cannot seem to remember to buy graham crackers because my Kroger decided to move everything around in the store.

I used to be able to write articles with the TV on, no problem.  Now, I have to have it nearly silent to write.  It’s sad because I use music as inspiration.  Now I just type the lyrics, which makes for an interesting aside in the articles.  Writing was my escape.  It’s the only thing I could do better than just about anyone else I knew.  It was my parents’ bragging right:  their published author.  I would just whip stuff right off the top of my head.  I was finally making some money at it.  Not any more, it’s so difficult.  The one thing I had a talent for is gone.  It’s not fun any longer, it’s work and that is extremely frustrating and just reinforces the fact that I’ve become seriously stupid.

Seriously stupid is a side effect of chemo, I realize that.  It’s like neuropathy, except you can’t ignore it.  Unless I’m on my feet for an extensive period of time, I’m pretty used to the numbness.  I’ve learned to type with numb fingers.  You can’t get used to being seriously stupid.  Forget it, yes.  Get used to it, no.

On the OVCA (ovarian cancer) support board, I love to tell people to extend themselves grace when they feel overwhelmed or overly tired.  Grace is not something we earn or deserve.  Grace is God’s gift.  I think I threw my package away.  Either that or I put it someplace where I wouldn’t lose it.  I can’t remember.

I remember reading that chemo fog or chemo brain is real (don’t ask me where) and that it can last for decades.  Yes, you read that right – DECADES!!!!!  So while I am thankful for the toxic cocktail that saved my life, I’d like to strangle the person who wrote the brochure.  They did NOT include serious stupidity as a lingering side effect.

I used to be able to be my quick witted, sarcastic self.  Now I just stare blankly, trying to remember what witty actually means. This is a disadvantage for me since humor is my defense.  I really want this back when I tell someone that I’m in remission from ovarian cancer.  I need to write another blog on that (guess I should write that down) because the looks I get are priceless.

While we’re on the subject of writing stuff down, I have resorted to leaving notebooks all over my house to write down what I need to do.  I do this because I tried to keep a single notebook, but could never remember where it was.  Seriously stupid!  So the notebooks lie around and the short kid with the dark hair likes to draw and write on them, sometimes covering up the things I was trying to remember.  While (bear with me here, I am drawing a major blank right now.  Oh yeah, I remember.  Let’s chalk that up to being seriously stupid.) I applaud the fact that my son is practicing his writing, I wish he’d find a more appropriate place to do it.

I HATE being seriously stupid.  I am fed up.  I am defeated, deflated and just plain worn out.  I knew when I was diagnosed, my life was changed forever.  I never expected this change.  So many things that made me who I am are gone.  I grieve this every day (yes, I do remember to do this).  Unfortunately, there are so few people who understand which makes it that much more difficult.

I hate myself for getting cancer (remember, the title of this post is Seriously Stupid, so bear with me).  When I have a really stupid moment, I try to figure out what gave me cancer despite the fact that my oncologist tells me that he’ll never know why for sure.  I do what I can to ensure it doesn’t recur.  I’m tired of the whole thing, but it will never go away.  The me BC is gone.  Now I have to learn to live with the me that’s AC (After Cancer).  Hopefully, I won’t be too stupid about it.