Self indulgent/whiny/woe is me/negative post ahead…
Over the last few days the enormity of what faces me next week has sunk in, and I say that with the full respect to those who have gone before me, and two that I personally know, who have said not a peep about their ‘journey’, and yet have been kind enough to lend me a sympathetic ear.
This time next week I will have met with, and been marked by, stoma nurses, supposedly guiding my surgeon as to where the most appropriate place to site my ileostomy is.
This time in 8 days I will have commenced my bowel preparation, which is about as much fun as a fire hose through my insides, and wiping my ass with sandpaper.
This time in 8 days I will also know my surgery time, which, for reasons unknown to me, seems to be a state secret until the day before I am supposed to have a prolonged, not-by-choice sleep.
This time in 9 days I imagine (read as hope) that my surgery will be complete and I will be convalescing in a hospital bed, waking to my loved ones confirming that (a) I am still alive, and (b) that all went well.
So why the whining? Because I’m over it. I didn’t realise how over it I was until I went in to have my port flushed yesterday and sitting in that shit awful chemo room reminded me of how much has passed, and more importantly, how much more is still to come.
I’m over feeling tired. All. The. Time. I’m over the fact that in that respect, the worst is still to come.
I’m over people being overtly positive about how well I’m doing/done/looking and thinking that I will therefore ‘beat’ this. I know you mean well but it gets wearing. The simple fact is that while the odds at present are in my favour, they’re still not great. It’s more likely than not that I will die from cancer. To be completely blunt, it’s more likely that I will die from cancer before I turn 40.
Even that assumes I survive surgery, and I can tell you that the fear of not doing so, has, in recent days, consumed a vast majority of my waking moments. The rational part of my brain tells me that my fears are unwarranted, and yet the irrational part of my brain imagines Lyndell cradling Annabelle and my dad having to explain to my mother, who herself has an imminent terminal fate that something went wrong. And then nothing.
I’m over the fact that this potential death sentence is my/our future for as many years as I walk the earth.
I’m over putting on a brave face. The simple fact is, I’m scared shitless. In the last week every time I’ve looked at my daughter I’ve been on the verge of tears. I had to ring my dad and ask him to be my executor in the event that my surgeon/anaesthetist are not as good as they claim…Imagine how that conversation went down??
I’m even over shitty stuff like losing my hair. I always said that I didn’t mind if I lost my hair and if that’s what it takes to survive, then I’ll happily be bald as a cueball, but it sucks washing your hair in the shower and watching clumps of hair fall out. Perhaps I could see some to Donald Trump.
Most of all I’m over thinking about what I’ll miss if/when I’m gone. I feel sick when I think of Annabelle calling someone else ‘dad’. I can’t fathom that person helping Annabelle through the most important years of her life, and yet at the same time, if I do succumb to this shit of a disease, then I desperately want Lyndell to remarry so that Annabelle has a father and Lyndell finds love again…
I’m over having to think/write about this shit at all!
Anyways, I’m sorry. For some reason everything caught up with me today and I had to vent.
Until next time, be kind to your colon’s, and each other.