This is the first time I've written everything down. I was afraid of exposing myself, and even of seeing the words describe the fear, the success, and perhaps even using the word healing (knock on wood).
There are so many moments in my long journey that it's hard for me to decide where to start, but I decided not to start at the beginning, but rather at the moment when the treatments ended, for the first time. Yes, there were two times, and that was it, it was over.,
I underwent difficult treatments, chemotherapy, biological therapy, hormone therapy, radiation, two surgeries, and most of the time I was fine, I was in control, I managed my own treatment, I made decisions, I gained understanding, I had a supportive environment and also one that was unable to support me, and we parted ways with best wishes for the future.
And then it ended. Not only the treatments, but also the interest, the empathy, the support, everything. All at once, I was alone, even though I wasn't alone for a moment, but I was alone. Me, myself, my fears, my thoughts, where are we going and how long will this thing called life last? So I stopped sleeping. I never imagined it was possible to hardly sleep at all. And the tears, without a doubt, they were the masters of the house and decided when they would wash everything away. It was impossible to stop, on the street, in the car, just like that, at a meeting, crying, alone.
One fine day, various muscles in my body started twitching. I was sure that my luck had run out and I had contracted some other "gift." The doctor said it was anxiety. A month of Klonopin didn't help. I was also afraid of becoming addicted, because it would really be the last straw for me to have both cancer and an addiction.
After a month, I realized that I was alone, that no one understood what was happening to me, and more than that, that no one really wanted to hear how I truly felt. I realized that no doctor fully understood or could answer all my questions, and I learned to interpret their looks as saying, "Be thankful you're alive, lady." I put on a smile, took a breath, put strong gel on the strange hair that had started to grow, and began a long process of recovery with many moments of loneliness, many questions, and too few answers. It's not clear how this happened to me. I'm only 38, a young woman. It's not clear at all.
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