It's only about 3 inches tall and light brown. It has my name on it and unlimited refills. And I've never been so scared of anything in my life. I've put off starting Tamoxifen for exactly two months. Though there seem to be just as many women who handle the symptoms fine as those who can't tolerate it, just the thought of popping it is making me physically sick. My head is pounding, my stomach is spinning and I feel like I might pass out. I'm so angry at myself for allowing a little white pill to have this much power over me.
I feel great. A few pounds heavier than when we started this journey, but all-in-all I am a happy girl. I'm so happy that I could easily forget that I just had cancer. I would LOVE to forget it. What I wouldn't give to take my painful, rock-hard saline filled sacks and move on. It will never be that way, though. Once cancer has touched you, you spend the rest of your life chasing it.
I experienced some of this after Daddy died- some fear and paranoia- so you would think I would be able to handle this with more grace. I was okay until my last visit to the oncologist. She explained that my 8% risk of recurrence is a risk of what the cancer world calls "mets." That there is some little breast cancer cell floating around in my body trying to attach itself to something else. There's an 8% chance that will happen, and if it happens I will die. I'm scared shitless.
I'm a Christian, so it's not so much that I'm afraid of dying. It's that I can't bear the thought of missing any of my girls lives and not being here to help them raise their babies. Then there are the thoughts of seeing what Daddy went through and how I would just about rather jump from the top of a tall building than subject anyone I love to that. Yes, there's a 92% chance that it will never happen, but the oncologist also said that there was less than a 1% chance of this happening to me- and it happened. None of us is holding the same hand in this card game.
When I heard the doctor's explanation I felt bad for not starting the meds sooner. I pictured this little white pill running around in my body chasing cancer cells. I should be thankful that I have it, and I am, but I know that as soon as I pop that first pill I'm on my way to a decade- A DECADE- of chasing cancer. Every night before bed I'll have a little white reminder that I'd better do this right. I know I can't be alone because I read a study that said that a large percentage of women stop taking it early because they feel great and the pill reminds them of the cancer. Of course those women have a higher recurrence rate. I don't want to be a part of anymore statistics.
Sometimes, like tonight, I feel incredibly alone. I know I'm not. I had an amazing team rallying around me over the last few months. But now the big surgery's over. The cancer's "out." I appear to have boobs. I didn't lose my hair. To most of the world, I'm pretty much okay. I don't want or deserve a pity party because I do feel wonderful considering the circumstances, but sometimes this is still a lonely club. Nobody can take the pill for me. Nobody will understand my anger and discouragement if it makes me feel like shit, nor will they fully understand my relief if it doesn't. I'm just in limbo now. That young mom that just had a double mastectomy, but they got it all and she's all better now. Only she's not. Not really.
