I know, I know. You’re thinking:
What a crapweather friend she is. Posting every week, twice a week even, when things are looking cancer grim and lymphoma painful. When she needs our attention, love, sympathy, tears, laughs, dropped jaws. Then she gets a couple of decent scans, plus some radiation oncologist and a bunch of his pals who probably wanted more golf or cottage time this summer tell her not to bother with radiation (my 11 year old calls it electrocution) and...Poof! She pisses right off.
Now that she’s running about with her fancy un-nuked vagina and her full un-electrocuted head of dyed hair, she’s all la dee da who-cares-about-them-addicted-blogo-fucking-sphere-fans.
What do you want from me? I’m kind of done with cancer voyeurism. Your desperately sought-out, valued, readerly voyeurism. Your waiting or not waiting –something you get to choose - for the next installment of my life in Lymphomaland. But the attention takes me into that blue, blue my heart is blue kind of place. That nasty smelling hospital soap place. That waiting – something I did not get to choose - for shitty news place. I’m moving on.
I get that I started this whole thing. I decided to be the cancer exhibitionist. I own that. It made the ordeal tolerable. There were certainly days when I wondered why I’d ripped off all my protective gear. Why I was prancing around in public dressed only in my emotional birthday suit for everyone to watch and comment.
A few folks took the time to share really harsh cancer survival - or, sadly, not - stories with me. It hurt to read them, but I felt like if I didn’t, I was slamming a door in the face of someone I’d invited for potluck supper.
I asked for it. I started a conversation with which I could barely engage. I only wanted to monologue, do cancer stand-up and be done. Snippets of other peoples’ hardship, beautiful strangers I’d beckoned into my world, were beyond my capacity, unless they had a happy ending that was relevant to me. I couldn’t respond. I had nothing to give.
So now what?
I bought a ceiling fan yesterday.
You don’t want to admit it, but it’s just possible that me writing about clearing 1500 books off a built-in book case covered in decades' worth of dust because the top shelves are too high to reach, and I couldn't be bothered to drag a ladder up to the 2nd floor and inhale what I can’t be sure doesn't trigger cancer (shut-up, I’m NOT thinking about Lymphoma any more) is not so gripping, not Lymphomaland gripping.
So you can imagine, I’m feeling a little fucked up about all the changes, about moving on. I just spent nine months being cancer-girl. Now I’m ceiling fan/dust bunny girl. It’s hard.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m hugely relieved and so grateful to be in some kind of remission. I am. I am. I truly am. I just don’t know what’s next. Writing-wise. Anything-wise. I feel a bit like an astronaut who’s been to the moon (a really icky but life-altering,wordsworthy moon) and back, and now finds herself buying fans and clearing out a room to paint.
I wasn’t meant to be finished my cancer job yet. The contract ended early – damn and yippeeeeeee!! I’m spinning. Can’t get my footing. Twice in the last few weeks I was backing up my bicycle to tell someone something superfluous, tripped over the pedals, and came crashing down on top of the bike. Symbolic?
Life will take some new shapes (hopefully not resembling hot dogs or Barbie Dreamhouse sofas). With all the waiting I’ve done this year you’d think I’d have acquired some patience to cut myself slack and see what unfolds.
Are you fucking kidding? Some things never change.