When I'm through with treatment, I won't be a "survivor." I won't join a support group or wear pink ribbons or raise money for breast cancer research. This thing will not infringe on my identity or time any more than is necessary.
But I do need to figure out how to live with the hovering black cloud of metastasis. My chances are 15% (from what I can figure). But they feel more like 85%. The answer is probably to figure out the chances of other horrible things... speeding busses, etc. If they're over 15%, I can forget about cancer, I guess. Until then, I feel like the walking dead, waiting for the next set of symptoms to start. Regardless of my tendency toward depression and downright moping, that state does the toddler no good. I don't want her to show up in therapy someday talking about her mopey, walking-dead mom who sat on the couch for 10 years waiting to die.
In other news, the hair has started to go, right on schedule. Am especially excited about losing my eyebrows.
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