welcome to the danger zone

Preparing for Battle: Queen of the NotDead vs The CMonster

Well now, this is a fine kettle of fish I’ve been served. If you haven’t figured it out by now, and you’ve been reading this bloggity blog, I’ll spell it out for you. I have cancer. Or had, and I am about to make sure it doesn’t rear its ugly head again anytime soon. It’s a matter of perspective I guess. The formal diagnosis is Stage 3B Endometrial Cancer and the prognosis is Very Good. I’m not going to go into all the specifics of the surgery or the treatment, because today’s soapbox is all about what you don’t say and do around a person who has told you they have cancer.

I love my friends and family, but not all of those I come in contact with know what to say, and I’m okay with that. If you don’t know what to say, then that’s what you say, “I don’t know what to say”.  I don’t know what to say either, except to make jokes, because even though I am scared to death about the future a lot of the time, I’d rather meet my end in laughter than in tears. Not that I am meeting any end any time soon. Just sayin’. Please don’t remind me that Stage 4 is the worst, or that I am particularly happy for someone with such a serious diagnosis. I know what I am facing, and I also know that believing in a good outcome has as much effect many times as the actual treatment. Cancer is just a disease. I’m going to get treatment. Yes, it’s a serious disease, but it is not a death warrant by any means. I could just as easily have heart disease, or diabetes, which also typically end in death. Life itself ends in death. Yes, I am scared to know I might die, but it isn’t the first time I’ve contemplated my own mortality. Sheesh people, that is why I choose to refer to myself as Queen of the NotDead — cuz I’m not, and I’m not planning to be.

Yes, I know this sounds a bit harsh, but I am having to deal with my diagnosis, the scheduling, the logistics, the cost and the rest of my life coming together in a new way right now. I don’t have time for wallowing in self-pity. I am sorry if I don’t seem disturbed enough about my diagnosis for you. But here’s the thing, the CMonster sucks. It is causing me to ride on a rollercoaster of emotions, but just because I don’t display them publicly doesn’t mean that I am not feeling them. Quite frankly, it’s more troubling to me that I may not be reacting the way a person with cancer should be acting, or how people think I should be acting.  By the same token, don’t be afraid to ask me how I am, or if I’ve started treatment, or if I want to talk about it. It has now become part of who I am, and I more than likely want to talk about it, but I don’t because I am afraid that it might upset the people I am with. And remember, not only am I going to be going through treatment for cancer with very toxic medications, but I will also be going through menopause at the same time! So expect psycho-emotional behavior, which I cannot be realistically expected to control. I’m probably going to be stark  raving mad some days.

Finally, I am happy with my treatment team. They treat me with respect, they keep me informed, they make me laugh, and I am content to let them keep treating me. I am also an educated woman, who can and does read. So please don’t try to convince me that what worked for your great aunt once removed is going to be effective for me. Unless you are a legitimate voodoo priestess, I’ll trust my judgment, thank you.

And yes, I am upset. Upset that the stupid Steelers failed to get the wild card spot. I’m dealing with that, menopause and cancer. It’s tough, but not as tough as trying to believe that Rick Santorum has any chance to be the republican nominee.  And with that, I shall return to my regularly scheduled program. Goodnight puppykins.

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