The Truth About Me

I’ve been too ill to add to this lately. In other words, I’m really feeling the side effects of having cancer. Not all of them are a result of chemotherapy, surgery or having cancer. Some of them are the result of not being able to speak my mind. I started writing about my trip to Europe and I realized that I was hiding behind that. I want to tell that story, sure. It was a good time in my life and some of it was funny. But that’s not the reason I was writing it…

Too many people who I want to protect, to hide from, to assure and pretend with are reading this. When I write I have to pretend that I’m alright. Pretend it’s not scary. Pretend that all this is temporary. A blip. I’ll get over it.

The problem is that I just can’t seem to find it in my heart to agree.
Some days I just want to write how I feel. But I can’t do it. I can’t scare Mom, Cheryl and god knows who else has this address, this url, this blog spot. I just don’t want to tell everyone how shitty my days are. I wish I’d never given them this address. I wish like hell I only had strangers, and, now that I think of it, not really strangers. THere are people who read this blog that I like and respect. They know who they are.

They don’t worry me and that’s the point. I know they like me, care about me. But they don’t see me. They don’t know me the way my sisters and brothers and Mom does. My family would look at me differently. I don’t want them to. I don’t want them to be sorry. Or sad. I don’t know who else has this that can walk up to me in the street and know my feelings. I don’t know them. Some of the people who belong to Arms Around Bainbridge? My co-workers? It got handed around and now I don’t know. It means I can’t be critical or mad or sorry or sad. I can just be optimistic.

Well, fuck that. I am NOT FUCKING OPTIMISTIC!!!

I don’t think about the cancer often because when I do I freak out. I feel like absolute crap. I have no energy. My legs feel as if they weigh 500lbs. I’m losing my eyelashes and eyebrows and the steroids are making me bloated and fat. I have an 18″ scar to remind me of all the stuff they took out of my abdomen and I’m fish white except for that red red scar. My gums are receding and I’m losing teeth. I have no wind so it’s hard to walk. I look like a monster.

I can’t even draw or write. My handwriting! What happened to my handwriting? I used to have beautiful script. I loved writing. Not typing. I would write and then when it was good I would type if up. Because I love writing. Now my handwriting doesn’t even look like mine. It slants to the right and it’s not neat. I can’t draw either. That was shocking. I used to draw. I loved pen and ink. Now I can’t concentrate. I can’t make straight lines. I start something and it looks like a 10 year old did it. It scares me. If I survive this YES I SAID IF will it come back like my hair? What if it doesn’t? What IF?

So lately I lie there in bed looking out the window and I think of all the scary things and I want to write them down. I take a pen and write and I see my handwriting and it scares me. It makes it worse, being reminded.

I have shitty odds. Women are dying of this every day and I’m not ready. What can I compare it to that isn’t some hackneyed cliche?
Well, guess what? I write. So I can compare it to something and have it come out NOT sounding hackneyed and cliche. But not when I get people who correct me.

“Don’t say that Laura.”
“Oh, you’ll pull through. You’re strong.”
“Try and visualize a positive outcome.”
“Did you hear about _____? Their ____ beat ovarian cancer.”
“Don’t say that. Don’t say negative things. Don’t say anything bad it means we’ll have to think about it. DON’T SAY IT!!! Don’t say it, please pretend with us. Please don’t think about it. okay? Pretend with us that it is imaginary monsters. Please pretend you are alright. That everything is working. That you are the same.”

So can you just stop reading this? Please. I’m asking nicely. My alternative is to stop writing at all. I’ve thought about just changing it. Just take the blog and go somewhere else and not tell them. Not tell anyone. Just for the peace I feel when I write. To have that back.

Go read someone else’s blog. There are so many upbeat people here who truly believe. Who write for the best reasons. I am writing to save my sanity. Most days I DO believe. Really. I think about all the things I want to do, to change, to try, to really TRY this time. But that’s not all the time. Sometimes, when I can’t get up without breathing hard, I DONT NEED YOUR SYMPATHY. I don’t need your worry. I JUST want to get through the day, that hour, that minute. That’s all I want. So please anyone who knows me, who see’s me…stop. Stop reading this. I don’t want to lose this.