Here’s what I need to write about:

I found a lump in my left breast. I went the doctor, like your supposed to.

She said “I am not overly worried, but with such a strong family history, I want you to have . . . → Read More: A strong family history]]> I have written 5 blog posts while sitting here – all about nothing.

Here’s what I need to write about:

I found a lump in my left breast. I went the doctor, like your supposed to.

She said “I am not overly worried, but with such a strong family history, I want you to have a mammogram”.

That’s verbatim. I quote her, because I have dissected what she said and how she said it over and over and over again, looking for more or less or something else. I know there’s nothing else, she’s always been very honest with me and she never dulls anything down so as not to freak me out. She knows I’ll freak out anyway. She knows that there isn’t anything she could possibly tell me that is worse that what I make up in my head when I don’t have her quotes to obsess about.

It’s probably nothing, because if it were something, she would have just said “You need to get a mammogram” or “I’m concerned” because that’s ok for a doctor to say. That’s their job.Right?

“I am not overly worried, but with such a strong family history, I want you to have a mammogram” and then “Ohh. You are self-pay. Hmm.” because YAY: No insurance. and then “don’t let not having insurance deter you from having this done. This is important.” Shit.

So this morning, I’m online searching for programs that offer mammograms to those of us that cannot pay $300-$500 to have one and $230-$400 to have the results read. Only in this case, “searching for programs that offer mammograms” equals “writing 5 blog posts about nothing”.

Ok, 6 posts, now.

I believed everything she said – every time she spoke, because she was an anomaly to me. . . . → Read More: Crazy can’t save you from cancer.]]> There was no end to the excuses I would let my grandmother get away with. I would nod when she told me stories, nod when she got them backwards, nod when she called me by my mothers’ name.

I believed everything she said – every time she spoke, because she was an anomaly to me. She was fascinating and strong and beautiful. She was amazing and scary and strange and comfortable to me. There were days when she would tell me with great clarity of her love affair with my grandfather and days when she couldn’t remember his name.

When I was little and I would visit her, she would transform her entire house into yellow heaven. Yellow was my favorite color, so naturally, she would throw everything out that was anything but yellow. Soap, coffee cups, rugs, peas, toilet paper, bedspreads – every un-yellow thing had to go in the trash.

She ordered candy bars by the case. She called 800 numbers to see if someone named Ben would answer – because she wanted to talk to a Ben. She fed me cucumbers and chocolate syrup and Coca-Cola for lunch and orange-flavored cough medicine for desert. She kept a picture of Lee Majors hanging on her wall because she thought he looked like Jesus.

There was nothing on God’s earth that could have extinguished her like cancer did. It crept in unnoticed and unannounced and swept her away before she had a chance even to battle it. I held her cross when I got married and clutched her rosary when I was baptized last December, and I think about her when I see yellow in unexpected and  unexplained places. She was my hero – cancer her villain.

My uncle – her son – was invincible. He was made out of pure steel – unbreakable and unsinkable. He fought in wars and in bars and was never afraid. He loved his wife madly from the minute they met until the minute he died and he never let her doubt it. There was simply nothing on earth that was strong enough to break him like cancer did. It was fast and violent and painful and we all deal with the guilt of thanking God for ending it when He did.

My grandfather wore his dress uniform to both funerals and saluted his son’s casket when it passed. I remember thinking that I’d never seen him look so handsome. I remember thinking that he looked so tired and so sad. Both times, I prayed that God would hold onto his heart and not loose all the pieces if it shattered. Both times I prayed that God would not make me see him cry. Both times I prayed that this time would be the last time that cancer stole from my family.

My mother and her twin have both seen the shadow of cancer on their doorstep and they both check and check and recheck to see that it’s really not standing there anymore. We’ve all been told we should check and check as well, and we do.

Today, though, it feels like no matter how vigilant we’ve become, no matter how many motes and canals we dig around our castle, or how many dragons and monsters we chain to our front door – cancer keeps finding a way in. The shadows all over my grandfathers’ lungs is cancer. His heart condition has progressed to the point that a pacemaker is a necessity, but the aggressive nature of the cancer treatment he’ll need will destroy it.

Well played cancer – you fucking win again.

I get nervous when my allergies act up because it means I . . . → Read More: Being ‘Better’]]> I have not taken a drink of alcohol in 2 years, 2 weeks and 2 days, as of today.
I have not smoked a cigarette in over a year and a half.
I don’t smoke pot or take pills or even use Nyquil.

I get nervous when my allergies act up because it means I might have to take something stronger than Tylenol and that means I might slur a word. My eyes might droop – my head might nod. I  might miss something. And most certainly the scariest thought: I might like it.

I don’t know why a disease that tortures everyone around me never swallowed me whole. I don’t know why I don’t take chances with my sobriety. I don’t know why the same monster that chews on the souls of people I love never bit me as deep as it did them. I don’t know why I refrain from destroying myself. I don’t know why I have the ability to keep my shit together now. I don’t know why it’s no longer hard.

What is hard, though, is staying grateful and thankful that I don’t ache for that escape that I used to build my world around. It’s hard to love the light when people you love live in the dark. It’s hard to hang on to being free when those around you stay caged – hard to celebrate when they suffer.

I don’t know why I don’t know how to share being better, why I can’t give it away. I don’t know why I can’t love or fight or hate or beat the beast that is this disease out of everything, everywhere, but I can’t.

I don’t know why sometimes I desperately wish I could just want to drink it or drug it away, but I can’t. I don’t even want to anymore.

Sometimes being better just pisses me off.