Cancer Didn't Make Me a Hero. It Made Me Tired.

I am done with chemo. That's right—I wrapped up my 16th and final infusion yesterday.

There was a lot of congratulating going on and thumbs up and even a pair of fresh-cut roses gifted to commemorate such a victorious feat. People are so kind.

It felt good. 

But it also felt strange because, c'mon—it's not like I contributed anything worthwhile to the human race by surviving weekly doses of poison being pumped through my veins. Mostly, I sat in a La-Z-Boy for 2-3 hours every Wednesday trying my darndest to complete a single Sodoku puzzle. Which, by the way, was always a one-star level puzzle, and I still found them IMPOSSIBLE. 

Some people spend their Wednesdays discovering new gene-altering drugs. Others devote their mornings to composing euphoric musicals with transformative dance numbers. And I can't even complete a level-one Soduko. I do not deserve so much as a high five, let alone two white roses.

I just get through things, really. I'm no pioneer here.

People, though, are so kind that they bestow, with alarming regularity, glowing epithets on me and Paul that I'm not certain we've quite earned.

They say things like "you're the strongest person I know" or  "you're such a fighter" or "damn girl, you are such a ninja warrior princess!" (No one has said that last one, but if they did I would be so beyond flattered that my head would probably burst into a thousand pink butterflies and I would legally change my name to "Liz Warrior Princess") ((morning after chemo here—anything goes.))

The truth is, if you care to know, I don't feel particularly brave or strong or brilliant (again, level 1-star puzzle, people). I am just doing what I have to do to survive and carry on. Sometimes, I'm good at it (i.e. I don't cry in the shower, and I go for a walk after treatment.) Sometimes I'm miserable at it (I'm driven home in self-imposed silence and then devour potato chips while binge-watching Sherlock. Later, I may or may not launch into an irrational fit of rage over a bowl of cereal milk left in the TV room.)

I understand why people say such undeserving things on my behalf. Really, I do. And I can appreciate it. A compliment, however undeserved, always feels nice.

On the other hand, having cancer has also brought out some ugly parts of ourselves, mostly when we are at home together. The gracious people calling us Warrior Ninjas do not see that, of course. The truth is there are looming moments (days, weeks, months) of despair and hopelessness. Times of doubt, lack of faith, crankiness over blanket-hogging.

We fight. We grumble. We worry. We are just humans being humans. Weak. Tired. But (usually) doing our best.

Thank you for choosing to see our better side, though. Thank you for the kind words. They are good to hear. And it is good to have chemo behind me.