I’ve been in a weird place, lately.
Somewhere where I don’t know where I am.
I’ve fallen off my anti-cancer wagons. And then beaten myself up, accordingly.
I’ve slipped into my pre-c self-loathing. And then beaten myself up, accordingly.
I’ve tried and succeeded. I’ve tried and failed.
But we’re alive, healthy and happy. March break is just around the corner. Mark’s employment story looks bright.
And the canal is still open — and perfect. March fourth.
I’m extremely grateful that we’re alive and healthy and happy.
Still, between the upheaval of Mark’s job juggling and health worries for myself and others, I’m feeling pretty run down.
Run down yet sleepless.
It could be worse.
I could actually look like this….
Our Tulip Festival‘s brewing, so my walk today was dotted with cheery cyclists checking maps.
I considered the comfort of having a map to consult.
we never really have one.
Five days ’til radiation.
But I’m having second thoughts.
Living the aftermath of chemo — the swollen eyes, the mounting fatigue, the weakness, the aching, the blurriness, frustration and fog — I’m questioning the wisdom of this four-fold onslaught.
Mark’s concerned that turning down radiation and hormone therapy would make me low priority for any relapse treatment.
It’s a tough call.