I’d like to do two things with this post:
- Tell you the story behind My Cancer Story,
- And run a title by you dear readers.
I’d love to have your thoughts on both in the comments below.
Not familiar with this? Start reading the story now.
WARNING: This chapter features some vulgar audio clips from my past.
My nomad status returned during the month of March, akin to my brother and I’s younger selves as a divorcee’s child. It was hard not “reminisce” shuttling between Dad’s, Mom’s, and the apartment. I knew I had to be happy and spend as much time with everyone as I was physically able. I mean, after all…
I WAS HOME! FOR GOOD!
But the connections were there. We threw a massive party, just like the event when we were released back into our Father’s care after our foster run.
My brother and I rarely got along while staying at Lori and Todd’s, but I had hoped that after this deadly ordeal, our fighting days were over. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
It was eerie how well things had been going. The chemo bombardment had become shorthand to my caregivers and me. I would receive the blood count-killing poison and then waited it out until my body bounced back to life. The overall process wasn’t as long as it had once been for the first few courses, as these were significantly less potent, but nevertheless, I was running through the paces.
But this one was different in another way… It was my very last one. Continue reading
Mom recovered nicely from her surgery, and somehow, she was a fan of the food (maybe I’m still quite picky after all). February progressed without so much as a medical whimper, but with my past experiences, I was ready for the absolute worst. What was to befall me in my last weeks in Medical care; Crohn’s Disease? Chlamydia? A prolapsed anus?
…Maybe I should slow down on these guesses… Cannot afford to tempt fate at this junction.
Instead, I focused on what was to come after treatment. As much as I always knew I would come out of this relatively unscathed, I hadn’t thought of my future, post-treatment. I devoted so much of my own mental energy to healing, that the thought had rarely crossed my mind.
Okay, when I said that I was bored, I didn’t want this.
I lifted the blue dome, freeing the fragrance of bacon and pancakes to waft into my nostrils. I took in the scent deeply, and smiled; it always smelled better than it tasted. It’s like when my friends and I would stay up all night, and I’d whip them up a batch of pancakes for breakfast. There was nothing quite like the first whiff of a freshly lifted hot cake.
The room’s door had a window on its body, but I always kept the blinds almost all the way down for privacy. I saw someone’s legs in what little window I allowed, so I knew what was next: a knock.
There’s a saying about boredom: “There is no such thing as boredom, only boring people.”
Having spent years in a small town, designing ways in which to pass the time, I agree wholeheartedly with this statement. To be bored is to be without an idea of something achievable that excites you. Sure, I suppose that real boredom can happen sometimes, but other times it’s a realization that the thing you chose to do wasn’t what you wanted. You do something that you initially thought you desired, like watch a TV show, but then soon after, realize you’re bored with the show.
The need for things to keep me preoccupied was ever present and even more so when I would stay at the Ronald McDonald House. This first smaller-dose treatment of the back half of my chemotherapy was boring. I wanted to go out in the town of Bangor and explore, but there were a few problems with that: