The best worst case news

It’s interesting how a clump of cells can gather like a party to create a life or end one. I wonder how they decide which party they’re attending. Part of me believes by this time in April, as the flowers are birthing their way through the yielding soil, I’ll add “cancer survivor” to my endless list of descriptors.

Part of me thinks there’s countless knowing others years ahead of me shaking their heads and chuckling at my naïveté the way parents do when we hear “when I have kids….” my kids will never…” letting to-be parents have their moment of moronic bliss.

I’m certain others are thinking the same of me.

It’s ok. Buzzed optimism is sort of my sweet spot.
Although, I’ve been pretty pissed lately.

Kind of an understatement.

I knew going into the biopsies that we were looking at cancer… I just didn’t know exactly what we were dealing with, so- shocking- I kept it mostly to myself for awhile.

Five masses; breast bruised, swollen, and still bloodied under the bandages; and then- of course- asked to wait.

I take that back- no one asks your permission to get back to you in 3–4 business day with the impending news of how quickly your life clock is about to change… it’s just, you know, part of the process.

Some of these things take time.
I understand.
It’s not your time we’re playing with.

When the phone rang two days later and the nurse said to please hold while she patched in the doctor, the mind invariably finishes the loop, preparing for the worst case scenario.

So when his words effortlessly tumbled: early stage… contained… mri… surgery… all at the pace of a rabbit on crack,

it hit that maybe this isn’t the end but another beginning.

And yet, the fuckery wasn’t knowing that this is the best worst scenario I could possibly ask for,

in the mind of complex trauma, early stage… contained… means what the fuck is wrong with you- you’re not dying so get the fuck up and quit complaining.

Forget about the support team you’d allowed yourself to mentally create, Stef. Hell-chopping your breasts off doesn’t even require an overnight stay.

Let the people battling real cancer- chemo… radiation… extensive hospital stays- have the support, and help, and compassion….

yours is just a little flesh wound- barely even cancer.

I know. I hear it.
It’s sick & fucked up.

But I wasn’t ready to hear That’s great news for you! You’ll get through this! You’re strong! You’ve got this beat!

Because even though I knew I’d do the tests- I’d go to the consults- I’d have the fucking surgery…

I wanted- for a moment- to leave the arena.
I didn’t want to fight.
I didn’t want to be strong.
I wanted to crumble.

But I never really did. I got pissed instead.

Like, lacing up my sneakers, blowing out earbuds, and running again pissed.

Probably not the most effective emotion, but I’m choosing to not deny myself any feelings. That’s partially how I believe I ended up in this mess in the first place.

So I’m going to be angry. I’m going to be scared. And I’m likely still going to crumble.

I’m not being dismissive when I say I have no idea what I need for support; I’ve never been here before.

It’s like someone asking what’s good on the menu at a restaurant you’ve never tried.

I’m trying to coordinate my needs with previous situations, yet it feels a little like opening a suitcase full of swimsuits and sundresses on a ski trip because I only knew how to pack for the beach.

It’s physiological for everyone- the brain is hardwired to write the endings for uncertainties.

Cancer is nothing but uncertainties.

And as someone who struggles with clarity- yet thrives on itineraries and checklists- staying present and rolling with unpredictability is exhausting.

So, it looks like 2024 begins as the unexpected chapter:

the fallen face down in the arena pages…
the crawl before you can stand again pages…
the emotionally inebriated pages…
the giving in to needing and support pages.

I won’t flip ahead to the ending and presume “survivor,” but I’m sure as fuck showing up for the pages in between.

2023 gave me the tools.
And even though I really don’t want to, it’s time to get to work:

To love. To be loved.
To nourish. To savor.
To triumph. To rise again.