I did it. I had a party last night. I’m sorry I didn’t invite you but it wouldn’t have been very much fun. And I decided, it was my party and I’d cry if I want to. It was, after all, a pity party. And what else is one to do at their pity party if not cry and feel sorry for oneself.
I don’t know why it happened. Their was no qualifying event. Though that is rarely a pre-requisite for me. Usually, my pity parties come out of nowhere when sense is not involved in the planning.
Honestly, I just woke up. If I have to really pinpoint what happened, it’s that. I just woke up. From a 6 month fog. And it had me in complete breakdown mode.
I stood in my bathroom getting ready for a “hibicleanse bath”{not like a relaxing bath. like a sponge bath}. And as I took off one change of comfy clothes and readied myself for another for the 8th day straight, I looked at myself in the mirror. Dark short hair growing in from bald. 4 drains strung like octopus arms from my incision sites. And breasts. That are currently filled with tissue expanders — looking a little like stepford tits — and bruised purple and blue atop nipples that are also badly bruised. I noted my port in my arm for the first time in months. I felt the pain in my incisions because I’d messed up on my pain meds throughout the day resulting in my taking too few because I’m terrified of taking too many. I wondered how long the back of my arm where they took the lymph nodes from would feel numb — if that’s temporary or like a forever thing. And how long other parts would randomly tingle or lose circulation, just long enough to remind me that I did chemo and surgery. And instead of stepping into the bath, I slid down, my back against the cold, white tiles that surround the tub, my head in my hands, and I sobbed.
“Who is this person,” I thought.
It was the first time in 6 months that I begrudged what cancer had done to my physical appearance. That I mourned the loss of my hair or my breasts. And I felt sorry for myself. I don’t even dislike my hair or my breasts. They just aren’t the me I knew.
The boys had been off swimming for Grandma and Grandpa’s birthdays and I had held my bed down for the evening. And I just. felt. sorry. for me.
The Mr. came in, my face splotched, my breathing erratic from crying, my nose bubbled with snot, and my sobs getting louder and louder.
“What’s wrong, ash? What’s wrong?”
And I just cried. He got me in the tub, helped me do the sponge bath. Got me out and into clothes. Got me snuggled into bed. All the while, I cried.
“Ashli, you’ve got to talk to me.”
“I just want to go back to being us. To me not being the 33 year old mom with cancer. The mom who can’t be at everything. Who can’t do everything. I want to be able to snuggle you at night. And I want to be able to hug my kids. I just want this to be over.”
“It won’t ever be,” he reminded me. “This will always be a part of us. We will find an even better normal. You’re on the homestretch.”
“But what if it comes back? I don’t know if I can do it again. I did it this time. I did. I did it with strength, and grace, I did. But I don’t know if I can do it again. And I know, you’ll say, we just take each day… but I can’t help but be scared.”
“Ashli, this is all new. You are cancer free. But we are a family regardless of if you are or aren’t. And just because you’re free of cancer doesn’t mean you’re healed. It’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to have bad days. But you have to talk to me.”
“I think I just feel sorry for myself. Because I thought when I heard, “cancer-free”, I would be healthy. I thought I’d feel like me. And right now, I don’t feel like me at all. And that’s hard.”
“You will. And I love you no matter who you are.”
“I know. I know you do. I think it just all hit me….”
We talked more. But the reality is, the car wash doors opened this week, and I am having ups and downs as I am still pretty beat up from surgery and can’t do much for myself. I want to be able to be my kids’ mom — in the way that I remember — and really, it’s been 6 months since I’ve really done that. I want to be able to drive — even though it’s only been a week. I want to be able to have time alone and rejoice in it like I used to — because I never got time alone. And now, alone time in my bedroom is what it should say on Facebook as my current profession. And man, I have to be honest and vapid, I cannot WAIT for my first mani/pedi. That, that will be a celebration of great proportion.
I had a bad day. I had a day where the hard parts of reality hit me smack in the face. I sobbed. For longer than I have in awhile. And that’s saying something from a cancer patient.
As the hubs and I finished the conversation I said, “I know, I shouldn’t be ungrateful. God just moved my mountain and then, now, just days later, I’m lamenting the entire experience. I don’t need to have been without cancer. It has given me so much good. I just want to start moving forward. And today, I felt sorry for myself for laying in my bed, in my pjs, for so many days straight. And I was in pain.”
“Well, I’ll play Nurse Adam this weekend. And we’ll get the meds all straightened out and by Monday, you’ll feel great again.”
“Okay.” And I didn’t tell him right then, but I felt great again already, at that moment. Cancer or none. Hair or not. Real boobs or false. Octopus drains and all. This guy who lays beside me at night loves me. And I love him. And whether I get 2 more years or 100 with him, it will never seem like enough, I am sure. So I will just soak up these days with him, and with the boys, and let Cancer do just what it did last night, remind me that life is a gift to be opened each day. And each day will be filled with different surprises. Some days, those surprises will make us sad. Or mad. Some days, they will make us thankful to be alive. And some days, they will bring us a heart-filling happiness. But above all, it’s a gift to experience it all.
Sometimes, I just have these moments. Perhaps my falls from grace? Perhaps my moments of cleansing through tears? Perhaps just normal mommy moments? I don’t know what they are. But I have these moments every few months like I had last night. Where I don’t even know if there are enough words available to express the emotions I want to express. Where I feel like I all of the sudden get a glimpse of what I feel people from the outside must see when they give me the sad eyes. Where I feel so so scared because… not just because of the cancer… but because I still have to heal from this surgery… and then maybe radiation… and then, another surgery… and then… and then… Cancer will always be with us. Even though it won’t. And so I will probably think of it every day as it becomes an afterthought, as it should, to so many who know me. But I will still have the fear. I will always have gone through the car wash. And wow. That. has been. an experience.
I woke this morning. The sun was shining through the blinds. The middlest was screeching about something in the hallway. The baby walked in about ten minutes later with a shark, giggling as it reached out and bit my finger. The hubs handed my my meds. And the Oldest brought up my coffee.
No pity party today, I decided. Because it was already clear that today I get to be their mama. Even from bed. Today, I get to be his wife, even with drains and pjs. And today, I get to be me. Cancer. Free. And as hard as that is to wrap my mind around, it’s a pretty good thing to get to figure out.
And I’ll let you know when I do… but until then… I beg of you, enjoy the sunshine beaming down on your face today, if you can. Stop, look around, close your eyes and breathe in the fresh air. Feel the day. Feel alive. And let the day be a joy to your heart. If we can’t at least try, it will never happen. And if it never ever happens we may, very well, miss a perfectly good life waiting to be lived. This very day.
