Betty

I went back today and ready every single blog post. Heavyyyy. Ugh. Sorry about that. It was kind of creepy, actually. All of these things that I wrote to Daddy about his cancer- I had forgotten that I had even said them- and now I'm repeating them about my own cancer. I even mentioned the song that is now one of my favorites- Martina McBride's, "I'm gonna love you through it." It seriously made me mad. Like I'm experiencing some kind of divine test- or joke. I know that my job is to show my girls how this is supposed to be done, just like Daddy showed me. I know I can do it, but ya'll. . I really don't want to.

Most of my friends know that what I need most is to laugh. To stay busy with other things besides cancer. Maybe do a couple things that are bad for me and say, "WHAT? Afraid I might get cancer or something?" When one of them complains about something, I like to make them uncomfortable by saying, "trade ya'," or "well, I have a tumor." I told someone last night that I was going to milk that part while I can since someday I won't be able to. ;-) Then I laughed because I said, "milk it," and pretty soon I won't have any boobs with which to milk anyone. The great part about all of that, though, ('that' being cancer, I guess) is that cancer makes everything else seem so freaking AWESOME.

My job was awesome before, but now it's a vacation for me. Somewhere where nobody even knows I'm sick. Somewhere I can be anyone I want to be. Somewhere where I don't have the time to cry. It's so awesome.

My friends are awesome. I've never been one to have a ton of friends. I prefer just a few close ones who really, truly know me. It took me a long time to find that, but I have it now and it is amazing. And I consider every single one of you who takes the time to read this a friend. My friends have touched my heart and made me feel so unworthy of the love they're giving me. Every message, every call, every hug- I am so, so grateful for each of them- and each of you.

My girls are so awesome. Last night they were driving each other nuts in the car and I laughed out loud at them. How awesome that they think that someones knee touching their carseat is the worst thing that has happened this week! It's already like they've forgotten that I'm sick. Of course they can't see it yet, but it gives me hope that they'll brush this off and move on. At the same time, I hope that I can teach them something they'll remember along the way.

My husband is awesome. He's been folding laundry and packing lunches. And when I tell him that my back hurts and I think it must be another tumor, he tells me it's just stress. When I tell him that I'm going to look like a freak, he tells me he didn't marry me for my boobs, that he's really more of a butt man, and that I would never look like a freak.

Exercise is so awesome. I cried in the gym this morning. You see, I've battled my weight since I was a teenager. I've lost more weight and gained it back than I can even count. I hated sweating with a passion- and I used to tell people that I would only run if I was being chased. Two years ago when J was put on blood pressure medication we decided we needed to do something. We started a fitness journey together that changed our lives. I've done things in the last two years that I NEVER thought I would make my body do. I lost 40 pounds, ran in races and began to love sweating.The gym became my second home, and I was so proud of it. I have these fleeting thoughts now that maybe I'm being punished for caring so much about something so cosmetic. On the other hand, if I weren't so strong now, I wouldn't have as much muscle to fight this bi*ch with. That's what made me cry in the gym, though. I'm going to miss it so much. And I'm afraid I'll get fat again. There, I said it. I'm afraid I'm going to be bald and fat with no boobs. Yes, I KNOW I have bigger things to worry about. Yes, I KNOW I'm fighting death. But I would rather not be bald, fat and boobless while I'm doing it. And before you say it, yes I KNOW it's only temporary and I'll get through it. That does not make it any more appealing.

Here's what I've learned that I didn't know- and you probably don't either. They have this thing called "immediate reconstruction," except that it's not really immediate. The only immediate thing is that they put, essentially, balloons in where your boobs were. They blow them up weekly to stretch your skin until you're ready for implants. In the meantime they look all lopsided and uneven. And here's the great part. Apparently, if you need chemo, "immediate reconstruction" isn't even an option. That means I would have NOTHING for several months. NOTHING. How will I even LOOK at that? Isn't that insanely vain? I know it is, but I can't help it right now because I know it's going to be a long time before I will look like something even CLOSE to normal. I am telling myself, even as I write this, that after I get through that, getting ANYthing in there will look and feel awesome for me and I'll never take my body for granted again. See, I really am trying hard to put an upside to every down.

I feel like I have to say this every time. I know that even though cancer sucks, I'm a very lucky woman. There are so many people out there with no hope for themselves or, worse yet, for their babies (by the way, September is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month- talk about a vicious monster). I never want to discount what they're experiencing or compare my pain to theirs. The fact remains, though, that however big or small our battle, our pain is our pain. Thinking about other people's battles can give us important perspective, but it doesn't fix OUR battle. I'm kind of just figuring that out. So when you say you have a cold and I say, "wanna trade?" it doesn't mean that having a cold doesn't still suck.

I named my tumor. Betty. Betty the Bi*ch, actually. Sorry for the language, but she is kind of a bi*ch. And now, even though I know she's only, like, 1 centimeter, she feels like she's the size of my fist. That's kind of a bi*chy thing to do if you ask me. And what kind of bi*ch sets up camp in your body without asking and then, when you evict her, takes your freaking boobs with her? So you see, I think the name fits. It helps me stay mad at her as I sit here and DREAD- I mean full on sweating, heart pounding, can't eat (which is RARE for me)- DREAD tomorrow. Are they going to tell me more unexpected things? Are they going to repeatedly shake their heads when I say, for the 10th time, "YES, I'm 34 and NO there is absolutely no history of breast cancer in my family. Ever. Anywhere. Nobody." Well, my girls will have a much different answer, won't they. I'm praying that the advances in medicine are so great over the next decade that they won't have to fear it as much as we do. But right now it just reiterates what I'm already feeling. I'm 34 and I have a disease that nobody I know has ever had. They even told me not to bother calling the American Cancer Society support hotline because most of the women are retirees and "probably wouldn't be able to relate to my situation." But I know there are more "me's" out there, and I'm going to find them. As soon as this bi*ch hits the road.