Why I am trying this whole blog thing...

There are two things that I know. One, I had cancer. Two, I will never escape it. I may have survived, but I will spend the rest of my life paying for something I didn't do to myself.  I am starting to blog, because frankly, I don't see me reflected in the general cancer narrative.

I don't fit the "happy go lucky go climb a mountain" survivor mold, and I am definitely not carved from the "I had cancer so what" block. I am just me, a two time cancer patient who lacks patience. My story is not a unique one. It's not a special one. It's just my story, and I hope by opening up about it, I can help other people seize their own narrative. Because chances are good, I am not the only one lost between the aforementioned two poles.

When I was first diagnosed, I wish someone, maybe future me, would have shown up and said,

• Here's the real deal...cancer sucks...you really have no control over whether you will make it or not.
• The doctors won't ever be able to tell you, "it's gone." If they do, they are either hopeless optimists, or they whisper in their heads "for now..." 
• You will watch some of your friends die and some of them live, at random.
• People will tell you that you are an inspiration, and you will struggle with what to say. Part of you knows that they mean it as a compliment, and part of you may rebel at thought. They, after all, don't see you at 2 am in the morning in a sob fest...that's a rite only for the dearly beloved inner circle to witness.
• People will expect you to be positive when you are not. When you are having a bleak day, they will genuinely tell you to stay positive, and they will mean it in the best way possible. So you'll either be an inspiration or a downer, you get to pick.
• You won't ever truly out live the shadow of this diagnosis, and if you think you have, chances are good, you've just forgotten it is there. 
• This place you are going is where hope and fear live, breathing the same breath, living the same life, day in and day out.

When I was diagnosed the first time, I was 21. I had been married for 7 months or so. I almost had completed college, and I was ready to move on and move out. I found a lump in my breast, and that lump of "I'm sure it is nothing," turned into, "I'm sorry, miss, it is something." Fast forward six years, I was rushed to the emergency room hemorrhaging and sobbing in pain, and this time no one said "it's probably nothing." They were right.

So I'm 30, I made it out of twenties. I'm here, which I should be grateful for, and I have an awesome sweetheart, which I am grateful for. I have two dogs who think I am the moon and the sun, and I have an extended network of family and friends who treasure me.

I am, however, alone in many ways. I am alone when I add up my health insurance costs and realize I'm taking a 6% pay cut. I am alone when I look at the bill for a machine that would make it so I can keep working. I am alone when I look at the scars of my treatment: the two that streak across my chest, the one underneath my armpit, the vertical one above my belly, the constellation of dots left by tubes and robotic arms. I am alone every time I cut or burn myself and do not feel it. I am alone every time I fall, because I cannot feel my feet. I am alone every time I force myself to go swimming in the sleeting rain in a vain attempt to keep my lymphedema under control.

There's a divide between me and everyone else. A path that separates me from everyone else. I can see it, and they cannot usually, unless they say something casual like "you won't say that when your 40," and I reply, "I'd be happy to get there." The contrast between them and me becomes more clear in those silent moments. I try not to say these things. I'm a kind person, and I don't like making people uncomfortable, but I am uncomfortable all the time. My skin no longer fits, and I feel stretched thin. My resilience everyone so admires is an empty promise.

I am not comfortable with my diagnosis, and my blog might not be comfortable to read. I have found, though, that it is with this discomfort that I need to spend the most time. It is with this discomfort that I need to sit and be, because maybe I can make peace with it like an old injury. Maybe one day it will just ache, and I will simply know the weather is changing.

All is well,

Amanda