Plans

I was watching the news this morning (I’m a CBS 58 or TMJ 4 kind of girl), and a thought occurred to me: I’ve started actually making plans again.

This doesn’t seem like a big deal to most. On an average day I’m sure everyone thinks about vacation, their home, or retirement. When those things crossed my mind the last 7 months, I’ve acknowledged the thought but never went any further. I even stopped putting into my 401K after I learned I had an advanced stage, you know, in case I died. 

Things I spent a lot of time planning during that time, however, were my advance directive, living trust, and will. You know... in case I died. 

Anyone who knows me can attest to the fact that I’m an over planner. I buy Christmas presents for the next year as early as the day after Christmas. I brainstorm birthday ideas for the kids months in advance. I love planning. 

After my diagnosis making plans took a nose dive. Did I buy Christmas gifts for the next year during after Christmas sales? Sure, a few, but nothing like my norm. Partly because my money has all gone towards paying medical bills, and partly because I wasn’t sure if I would be here. I figured the few I bought Tyler could use for whomever, should I not be around to give them. (You know, like if I died.)

We have talked about selling our house and moving out of the city and into a suburb, but after my diagnosis we stopped talking about it seriously. It became a pipe dream, and our main concern became not losing our house instead of buying a new one. After last weeks’ good news we began talking about it more seriously again. We started asking each other questions like, “do we change this to what we want, or wait in case we decide to move?” It was no longer hypothetical. We were having real conversations about the future. How did I not notice this at the time?

Desmond and Evelyn’s birthdays were a shell of my normal planning. Desmond’s 10th birthday fell 6 weeks after my diagnosis. We had a sleep over with his friends planned that we had to cancel, and instead family dropped by as they could if they had presents for him. There was no party for Evelyn’s 2nd birthday. We went to brunch, we celebrated, but I didn’t plan much aside from choosing the date. Shamus’s birthday is coming up at the end of July, and Friday night I asked him what he wanted to do. His first response was “Wait, I get a party this year?” Followed by “I want to do something with Hunter and Mason.” (The boys’ best friends.) The boys’ excitement over the question was a blow to my heart, but thinking of it this morning makes me happy, knowing the whole family is feeling the positive effects of remission.

Tyler and I have brain stormed vacations we’d like to go on, but even those we stopped talking about. Sure we could repeate things we’d already talked about, but any new plans, any new brain storms, ceased. In fact, previous plans we just assumed wouldn’t actually happen. 

Then, last night we began planning our next vacation. During our discussion I told him that once we had some disposable income again, that I wanted to LIVE. Not just day to day, but I want to go and do the things we talk about. We are not adventurous, let’s be clear. Our dreams are an Alaskan whale watching cruise and eating our way around the US. We don’t want to climb mountains or travel the world. We want food and whales. During our conversation last night the weight of my attitude shift hadn’t occurred to me. 

As I sit here looking out the window into my backyard, thinking about how we’re actually PLANNING these things, I have tears sneaking out of the corners of my eyes. Am I afraid the other shoe will eventually drop? Absolutely. But it’s incredible to me that for at least a brief time (hopefully a LONG time), I can plan again. 

PT, Rads, Remission

I have no idea what I was thinking having two surgeries in a three week period. I’m exhausted! My chest is mostly healed but is now sore because my muscles are settling. My abdomen is sore because I’m seven days post major surgery. My five little incisions from the laparoscopic/robotic hysterectomy are still red and tender, and to be honest every time I have to use the bathroom it’s uncomfortable. 

My body is getting used to something being missing, and I have to be patient with it. The gyno onco surgeon said the hysterectomy would be an easier surgery and recovery, and she said I’d probably feel pretty good two days post surgery. Don’t get me wrong, I do feel a little better every day, but I couldn’t easily get up from sitting on a chair or in a car until yesterday, which was six days post surgery. Getting up from laying down isn’t as hard as the first few days after my mastectomy, but it’s still difficult. It doesn’t occur to you how many abdominal muscles you use to get up until they hurt like hell to use. That, in combination with my chest muscles being sore, make for some creative, and I’m sure hilarious to watch, attempts to get up in the morning. The hysterectomy itself went well, my IUD did a good job of keeping my endometriosis in check, and the surgeon said she didn’t have to remove as much scar tissue as she was expecting while she was in there... now I am just waiting for the super fun menopause symptoms to begin.

I was aggressive with my plans during the week, thinking I’d be up and moving around much more than I was actually able to. I ended up having to cancel breakfast plans with someone, then had to get a ride from my MIL to one of the kids doctor appointments the same day. It all worked out, but I am so disappointed that even today I still don’t feel very good. I’m so damn tired.

The boys were off school Friday, 5/24/19. I managed to drive the three of us to an appointment I had at the hospital, then to get lunch, then to the vet for one of the cats. Although I had to shift myself a few times during those rides, I was happy that the worst of the discomfort had passed, and I felt well enough to drive. I was exhausted by the end of the day, but at least I achieved something. I ventured out of the house for a few hours Saturday and today (Sunday), as well, but mostly I’m still taking it easy.

The week wasn’t all bad. On Thursday 5/23/19, Tyler picked me up and we got my official prognosis from my oncologist. She was quick but covered the bases. I began with stage 3A breast cancer that had metastasized in my lymphatic system; a tumor in my left breast and a tumor under my left armpit. After 16 rounds of chemo, I had what they call a total response. The first twelve rounds of chemo killed the cancer in my breast and shrunk the armpit tumor by half. The last four rounds finished off the armpit tumor before I had surgery. During surgery my lymph nodes tested negative for any sign of residual cancer, and after being sent to a pathology lab, my breast tissue from both sides also came back with no signs of residual cancer. My uterus, ovaries, and fallopian tubes also came back negative for any signs of cancer from the pathology lab. This means no addition chemo is needed, it means after radiation treatment I’ll have a “10% chance or less” of re-occurrence, and it means I’m finally in remission!

I do still have to have radiation. The type of cancer I had, triple negative, and how advanced my stage was, means radiation is a must. It’s a fail safe to ensure the area won’t ever start growing cancer again. Total I will have 28 rounds. I get fitted for my arm pillow on 5/30 and start rads the following week.

I start physical therapy Tuesday 5/28. I’m not sure how long I’ll have to go, but I feel like I’ve already got a pretty good range of motion in my right arm. My left arm definitely needs some work, though. 

I’m thrilled that I’m officially in remission and absolutely plan to party in celebration of this, but I don’t have the energy or feel well enough for that party just yet. In addition, strange as it may seem, I’m overwhelmed with everything I can’t do. If I walk, lay down, or sit too long I get cramps, if I move the wrong way I hurt my chest, arms, or abdomen. I want to DO things, but I can’t DO things. I’m not allowed to push or pull anything, I’m on a weight restriction of 10 lbs or less for another week, and after that a restriction of 20 lbs or less for four weeks. I can’t clean, take care of Evelyn, and can hardly take care of myself. I’ve been living the cancer life for almost eight months now.

Asking Tyler to do things for me or around the house when he’s already been doing so much for so long gets harder and harder. He is also exhausted, and makes sure to remind me every day how exhausted he is. Sure, we’ve got family offering to help, but everyone has already done so much. I hate having to ask for help. I thought it was hard to ask for help when this all began, but honestly I think it’s harder now.

We’re drowning in laundry that I can’t help with exception of putting away, and even then I can’t reach with my left arm to hang things, so how helpful am I, really?  I’ve started relying on the boys to help more with chores like vacuuming and bathrooms, but they’re only here Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and every other weekend. It’s also not always as easy as “asking”. They’re 10 and 8, so often it’s a fight. I don’t have the energy for that. I sure try, though.

All in all, I’m elated about remission, I look forward to PT,  I’m nervous about rads, I’m dreading menopause symptoms, and I am eagerly anticipating the day when I’m a functioning part of our household again!

Good news & mixed emotions

It’s been two weeks since my last blog. My double mastectomy took place on 4/30/19, and I’ve just been spending these last few weeks healing.

In the days leading up to surgery I was extremely nervous, but on the day of surgery I felt calm and ready. Tyler and my mom came with to the hospital. I joked and laughed while we waited, and felt confident as they wheeled me away to the operating room. The last thing I remember is them asking me if I could scoot myself onto the operating table. I said yes, I could do it myself. I remember laying on the table, but nothing after that.

The next thing I knew, my eyes were blurry and I was begging for ice chips. Ice chips were a bad idea. I have trouble with anesthesia and for every ice chip I crunched on, I dry heaved 5-10 times. The night of surgery is all a blur. I vaguely recall talking with my friend Desiree, being happy that the surgeon saved my tattoo, tearing up when I heard I was kicked off the clinical trial because my lymph nodes tested negative, but otherwise I don’t remember much.

The next day was like learning to ride a bike. I had to teach myself to use my core muscles and legs to sit up, move, everything. My arms were useless, and when I did use them either accidentally or not, it was achy and made my chest burn. I was shown how to care for my drain tubes. I napped. I ate. I went home. I slept more. 

My husband, sister-in-law, and mother-in-law spent the week with me, helping me, taking care of me. By Friday, 5/3, I was functional enough to leave the house for my son’s musical in the morning, but took an hour nap when I got home. The boys had spent the majority of the week at their dads, but asked to come home on Friday night. They were sweet, helpful, and wonderful to be around after a long week. They went back to their dads after a competitive game of kick ball with their uncles in the backyard on Saturday morning. Seeing them was exactly what I needed, but it was necessary for me to relax as much as I could, so off they went.

I spent the weekend on the back porch or napping. My mom brought me a bagel and tea from Starbucks, Beth (step MIL) kept me company and watched Evelyn while Tyler got some shopping done and did things around the house. It was a good weekend for healing.

Tuesday, 5/7/19, while my brother was over helping me clean my house (because I basically can do nothing), my surgeon, Dr. Kepple, left me a voicemail. THE VOICEMAIL. She told me pathology confirmed my tissue had no residual cancer. I’m cancer free. I cried. I’m thankful my brother was with me when I listened to the message, because I wasn’t expecting such great news and to be honest it was a little overwhelming.

The next day Beth took me to my post op appointment. I was able to get one drain removed, Dr. Kepple and I rejoiced over the pathology news, and she was happy with how my incisions were looking.

Amazing news right? I’m healing well, I had a total response to chemo therapy, things are going so well. As of Monday, 5/13, all of my drain tubes have been removed, I had my radiation consultation the same day, and I’ve got one more post op appointment on Friday 5/17. Yet every time I text, email, or verbally tell someone I’m cancer free, I cry. They’re tears of joy, absolutely, but also that feeling of being overwhelmed with it hasn’t left me. I know what the issue is... I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. This is too much good news. I’m afraid something bad is on the horizon, and I won’t get to hold this happiness in my hands for long.

My next large event is Monday, 5/20/19. I am getting a hysterectomy. Thanks to my BRCA1 gene mutation I’m high risk for ovarian cancer. Since Tyler and I decided no more kids while I was pregnant with Evelyn, when the gynological oncologist recommended a total hysterectomy I didn’t hesitate. I scheduled it that day. 

Just like with the mastectomy though, as the day draws nearer I feel the anxiety and emotions building up. I’m nervous... 

what surprises me most, however, is how much I’m mourning the loss of my reproductive organs. The hysterectomy feels so... final somehow.

I’ve been struggling with this upcoming loss more so than the boobs. With them I was nervous for surgery; with this I’m sad. There is no logical explanation for how I’m feeling. I don’t want more kids. I’ve already started going through chemical menopause from chemo. Why does this upset me?  Again, there is no logical explaining that I can find. 

It doesn’t really matter... it’s all got to go! Anything that puts me at a high risk for reoccurrence has no room in this body. Bye bye!

A Goodbye Letter

I woke up Thursday 4/25/19, my last day of work before surgery with a terrible stomach ache.  Sleep has been hard to come by the last few nights. Tomorrow, 4/30/19 I say goodbye to a piece of me that people associate with being a woman.  

I am not doing reconstruction. It was a very personal decision for me, but I am confident that it's the right one.  I'll get a prosthetic pair if I feel the need.

It's a piece of me that I proudly used to feed all three of my children.  I will never again experience the feeling a satisfaction that accompanies being the sole food source for another human life.
It's a piece of me that I proudly used to seduce my husband.  I sure hope he likes the rest of me, or my personality or whatever. ;-)
It's a piece of me that when I was a tween, I would ask my mom why everyone else had them, and mine still hadn't grown yet. They eventually came through.
It's a piece of me I've always enjoyed having. I've enjoyed others', too, but mostly my own.
It's a piece of me I had wished were larger, but came to appreciate as I grew up.  
It's a piece of me that for much of my life growing up I was lead to believe defined a woman.

They do NOT define me.  A part of me will, however, miss them.

Dear Breasts,
I'm sorry it has to end this way.  I really thought we had a good thing going.  Unfortunately, trying to kill me crosses the line.  We have to go our separate ways.  There is no "working it out", and it can never go back to the way it used to be.  What you've done to me is unforgivable. When things were going well, they were amazing, but when things went south they were awful.  I appreciate the time we've had together.  The last twenty years have been great, but this is the end of the road. Bon voyage boobies, and please take your cancer with you.

Love,
Brave Betty

P.S. On 5/20/19 you can take your sisters with you - ovaries, Fallopian tubes, and uterus. I don't need them, either! Also, if you come back as metastatic cancer, I will never forgive you.  

Waiting is the hardest part

As Tom Petty once told us, "the waiting is the hardest part".  

My bi-lateral mastectomy is one week away. (https://www.cancer.org/cancer/breast-cancer/treatment/surgery-for-breast-cancer/mastectomy.html)  
My total hysterectomy is four weeks away. (https://www.mayoclinic.org/tests-procedures/robotic-hysterectomy/about/pac-20384544) 
Radiation is somewhere between eight to twelve weeks away. (https://www.cancer.net/navigating-cancer-care/how-cancer-treated/radiation-therapy/what-expect-when-having-radiation-therapy) 

As these new things approach my stomach is churning, my emotions are unbridled, and my mind keeps racing.  Sleep hasn't been coming easily.  When I do fall asleep, my dreams are vivid, chaotic, and bizarre.  I had no time to process being anxious about chemotherapy.  Within a week of my diagnosis chemo had begun.  There was no down time, just treatment.  Waiting for the next stages of treatment is hell on my nerves.  

Lately I've felt an overwhelming need to talk about it, but there isn't always someone there to talk to, and often times when I try to talk about it the words don't come out right.  When the words are flowing freely, often tears follow, which I struggle with.  I hate crying.  In other instances, the person I'm unloading on doesn't understand the significance of me needing to talk about it, or they can't handle me talking about it.  It's been a strange few days, and only seems to be getting worse as April 30th draws nearer.

I've never had a major surgery before.  I had a minor reconstruction procedure when I was eleven (1996), and I had a laparoscopic procedure when I was twenty-six (2011) to remove endometrial scarring in my abdomen.  The extensiveness of a bi-lateral mastectomy makes me feel light headed.  The unknown is my nemesis.  With the hysterectomy, it's being done in a laparoscopic procedure by a robot. I am not as tense about this one, because it's fairly non-invasive.  This mastectomy, however, has me feeling apprehensive.  It's odd... other patients and friends have offered to tell me things, give me pointers, offer some insight, and even when the give it freely I don't want it. I don't want to know.  It's a strange balancing act; nervous about the unknown, but not wanted to hear about others' experiences or get their advice.  I can't stop thinking about it, but I don't want to think about.

Radiation is a bird of another color.  It's only going to be four to six weeks, but in those weeks I won't be able to cuddle with my cat, dog, or my daughter. I should probably limit my exposure to my two sons as well.  That is tough emotionally for me.  I can handle it though, right? RIGHT?!? It's only four to six weeks... I can do this... I hope.

So, back to the bi-lateral mastectomy. It's been three weeks since chemotherapy has been complete. My hair on my head, my eye brows, my eye lashes, my leg hair, etc have all begun to grow back.  Every little ache and pain, however, sends me into an internal panic.  My cancer is in my left breast and left arm pit, but my right breast is sore this week. Boom - paranoia.  I had a sharp pain in my abdomen over the weekend (probably gas), but it sent me into a total crying freak out in the shower Sunday morning.  As fearful as I am of the surgery, I am also afraid of my own body.  It is absolutely terrifying and exasperating to be stuck in this piece of flesh that I know has a disposition toward cancer.  Is it mets? (https://www.cancer.gov/types/metastatic-cancer) Has the cancer spread?  Constant, never-ending fear is all encompassing.

I repeat; waiting is the hardest part.  The four weeks since chemotherapy has ended I have become more and more anxious.  Just one more week... one more week. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uMyCa35_mOg

The Power of Pampering

Do not underestimate the power the pampering.

One thing that can't be avoided is the fear that accompanies being seriously ill.  It's hard to relax, it's hard to sleep, and sometimes it's hard just to function in normal day to day activities.  It follows you around.  Even when you aren't thinking about your illness, even when you feel normal enough to forget, it's only temporary.  Out of nowhere something reminds you, or someone asks "How are you doing" and the reality floods back, along with the fear.

Jeff, an old colleague and friend, Shelly, my mother-in-law, Barb, my mother's colleague and friend, and Becca, a friend of mine, all were kind enough to gift me massages over the last 6 months.  It's nice to be able to relax, forget, and just breathe for that 60 minutes of bliss.  All of the massages took place at Massage Envy  (https://www.massageenvy.com/massage/) except the one from Becca. She is a member at a place called Elements Massage. (https://elementsmassage.com/elm-grove)  While I was very happy with all of the massages at Massage Envy, the therapist at Elements was my favorite.  To say I always left feeling refreshed, relaxed, and positive after each time is an understatement.  A massage is the perfect break from everything going on.

Me and Becca - 2013

Karen, a nail technician at Craig Berns salon in Delafield (https://craigberns.com/) and fellow cancer survivor, gave me a pedicure on her own time at the salon.  Kaitlyn, my sister-in-law also works there, and they are an amazing group of women.  Everyone was very supportive when I was there for Kaitlyn to cut my hair at the beginning of chemotherapy, and everyone was just as kind and supportive when Karen did my pedicure.  It was nice to not only get pampered that day, but to have someone who understood what I was going through to talk to while it was being done. 

"Hello Gorgeous" Certificate

Me and Kelly from Gaia

Recently, my friend Jodi nominated me for a "Spa Day" for a program called "Hello Gorgeous" (http://www.hellogorgeous.org/) geared toward people with cancer. It's a pampering day for a patient, and it's done through Gaia Micro Spa. (https://www.gaiamicrospa.com/) Not only was this an amazing surprise by my friends, but the ladies at the salon were absolutely amazing, especially Kelly who owns Gaia.  It began with them all greeting me as I walked in with flowers, chocolates, and by all saying "Hello Gorgeous".  I received a shampoo, conditioner, a head massage, a facial, a manicure, a pedicure, had my make-up done, and also got to pick out a new outfit.  It was a whole make-over geared toward reminding me how beautiful I am. (I may not always feel that way, but I sure did on 4/11/19 when they did this for me.)  Later on when Jodi and my other girlfriend Stacey took me to dinner, I found that all of our friends, my mom, my mother-in-law, my husband, and my kids were all there with us.  I felt relaxed, amazing, loved, and above all grateful at the end of the day.

Rosie performing Reiki

Reiki through the hospital while receiving treatment was helpful to get me through the stress of chemotherapy. The benefits I found from Reiki were relaxation, the feeling of calm, it offered a break from overthinking, and I always felt positive and renewed for a day or two after.  I even went back on a day I had an appointment with my oncologist and met with the Reiki therapist Rosie and received it that day, too.  (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reiki)

I can't always do these things for myself, especially with my limited hours at work due to treatment.  My money all goes toward regular bills, medical bills, and groceries.  I can never repay those who have given me the gift of pampering during this time. I means more than I can express, and truly is the only time where I am able to forget the stress of what is happening to me and just enjoy being.  Do not underestimate the power of pampering.  Those few moments have been the best I've felt since diagnosis.  That kind of gift is irreplaceable.

I'm Not Dead Yet

As of tomorrow, 4/16/19, my surgery is exactly 2 weeks away. It's hard to believe a third of my treatment is complete.  Chemo is done, surgery is next, followed by PT and radiation. So many people think because chemotherapy is done that we're "almost there", but we are pretty far from "there".  By there, of course, I mean being told I am in remission.  As of right now though, I've still got a tumor lighting up my scans. This girl still has cancer.  I'm not dead yet, though!

Having to tell the people you care about that you have cancer is the stuff movies are made of.  Everything moves in slow motion, it's overly emotional, and it's hard to accept it as the truth.  It feels like just yesterday I was navigating through having to tell the people I love about my diagnosis.

I told my husband, my cousin, and my 2 closest friends about my cancer diagnosis before I let anyone else know.  (Aside from the few co-workers who passed me on my way out of work the afternoon of 11/1/19.) I did also call my ex-husband Ryan, and that one was out of fear of how to tell my boys.  Every single person that I spoke to that first afternoon had to hear it through absolute hysterics.  I could not stop crying, no matter how hard I tried.  I was trying to wrap my head around what was happening, and wasn't sure how to talk about it without breaking down.  I knew we had to tell people quickly because treatment was going to begin fast, but that didn't make it any easier.  I wanted to tell family in person, but in some cases that wasn't possible.  

I told my mom on the way home from my appointment with the oncology navigation nurse on Friday 11/2/19.  It helped that Pam, the navigation nurse, eased some of my fears and also gave me a timeline to work with as far as treatment.  When I got to my mom's house she was home alone, which was nice.  She and I were able to talk for 45 minutes before my brother Chris came home.  She wasn't shocked.  She knew I'd been to the doctor a lot that week.  When I walked in and we sat down in her dinning room, the first thing I said was "You know what I am about to say."  My mom responded "I do, but go ahead and say it."  So, I did.  She didn't flinch, her only reaction was to simply say. "OK, we'll get through it.  Whatever we need to do we're going to do it."  Damn, that woman is tough. 

My brother handled it better than I expected when he got home.  He pretty much ate through the entire announcement, asked a few questions, and got slightly choked up.  Having had some issues of his own recently, I expected a more extreme reaction, but he stayed strong and handled it well.  My mom said he wasn't as strong once I left, but I appreciated the strength he showed me while I was there.  My step-brother Josh arrived shortly after my brother, and he also handled it well.  He sat with me for a while after he learned the news and was very quiet.  He is only 15, though.  This is all very serious for him, and I think he wasn't sure how to react so he just cuddled with me.  I appreciated that.

The night of 11/2/19 I ended up having to tell my mother-in-law Shelly over the phone because she was going out of town the next day.   She was with her husband Jim and my sister-in-law Kaitlyn at the time.  They were out to eat at the time, and she'd gone outside to talk to me.  I knew she would tell them.  The conversation took about five minutes, and by some miracle I kept my composure even though she did not.  She asked for details, and I gave her the information I could at the time.  Through tears she managed an "Okay" along with a few words of encouragement.  She was nervous to go back to the table, and from later conversations I found out they packed up and left shortly after she returned.
The next day, 11/3/19, I told my father-in-law Gary, his wife Beth, and my other sister-in-law Gabby.  We went over to their house for about an hour to a visit, and while we were there we gave them the news.  They all handled it pretty well, no one burst into tears or had trouble talking about it.  They had questions, and Tyler and I answered the best we could.  Everyone was very supportive, and it was one of the easier times I had telling family.  It was my third go-round telling people also, so the facts came out more fluidly.  I was starting to become numb to the news.

Tyler, Ryan, and I tackled telling the boys together that same Sunday, 11/3/19.  We explained it in a simple way, and I didn't say the word cancer but my oldest, Desmond, knew.  His first question was "Do you have cancer?" followed closely by "Are you going to die" and he started to cry.  My response was simple:  I was going to do everything I could to NOT die.  Shamus ran around while we were talking, and although he paid attention, I felt like he didn't absorb the seriousness.  It wasn't until later that night that he started to show that he did understand the reality of the situation.  He has a little bit of anxiety, which I recognize because as a child I had it horribly after my dad went to jail.  He started to throw up.  He threw up randomly for about two weeks after we told him the news.  Every time he talked about it, thought about it, or pretty much any time he was at home he threw up.  Finally after two weeks I reached out to some friends and then called the pediatrician and asked for suggestions.  Both the group of friends and the pediatrician suggested sitting him down and giving him the treatment plan.  All he heard were Desmond's questions, and his understanding of the situation was limited and dark.  So one night Tyler and I sat him down, gave him the entire treatment plan, and asked him if he wanted to talk to my "special cancer doctor", which he did.  After all of this, he stopped throwing up.  Simple as that.

I told other close friends via text, call, or FB messenger before I went public on social media, as well.  Not too many, but some.  There are some people that you just do not want to find out from a Facebook post.  I also announced to work immediately.  As someone who suffers from anxiety, keeping it to myself would've made it more difficult to make it through the day.  Letting everyone know what was going on took a weight off of my shoulders.  I didn't have to hide my feelings, not that I could've anyway.  At least this way everyone knew what was going on, and there was no room for gossip or speculation.

After everyone knew what was going on I thought it would be easier, but that wasn't always the case. Mostly everyone was supportive and offered words of encouragement, or supported me in other ways. Sometimes people would start crying every time they saw me.  Sometimes people would tell me what a hard time they were having with my diagnosis. Sometimes people would say things like they wish they could forget this whole period of time.  It's awkward for me when these things happen.  Am I suppose to comfort them?  In some cases I tried, in other cases I politely avoided responding.

Selfishly, I have thought to myself that I'm the one going through treatment, I am the one being poisoned to kill the cancer, I'm the one who has to have two major surgeries and radiation in the hopes of being cancer free, and I am the one who will pray for the rest of her life that it doesn't come back somewhere else.  The logical part of me knows these people just care about me, and that's why they are having a tough time, but the emotional part of me throws the temper tantrum over having to bear their emotional cross with them, when I'm already bearing the cancer cross by myself.  Don't morn me. I'm not dead yet.  I don't want to forget any of this.  I want to remember how strong I was through it.