Not to Bum You Out on a Friday, But...

It's been a not good week.

I've stalled on this post for a couple of days now. I didn't want to write it. I had to let the thoughts swirl around my head for a bit like glitter suspended in a snow globe before they settled into a more decipherable pattern. Also, I needed to be able to type without tears blurring my vision (oy vey). We've reached that point, so no more dodging the subject.

I got some bad news from my surgical oncologist on Tuesday.

After quickly checking my incisions, he sat with his head down and said "We need to talk." (up there with "I want a divorce" and "we're out of cheese" as one of the most stressful 4-word sentences.)

Dr. P: "I've been dreading this conversation. It's not something I could tell you on the phone."

"OK."

Dr. P: "We got the pathology back and I'm afraid the edges tested positive for cancer."

"OK."

Dr. P: "I'm going to have to reoperate."

"Oh Kaaaaaay.....sorry?"

To put it plainly: the pathology shows there is STILL cancer in my body. It's microscopic, at the edges of my mastectomy site. My surgeon has to perform another massive surgery on my right side—removing even more tissue this time around. Reconstruction, at this point, probably won't be an option.

Somewhere in that discussion, I chanced a tearful look at Paul. Can we all just agree that seeing your husband with his head in his hands, racked with sobs, is just the worst? Yes Liz, they all said in unison. It's the absolute worst.

It's a wonder I retained any of that consultation.

And I was doing so well! I was healing nicely. I was mostly pleased with my reconstruction, and I was finally feeling like myself again. I was getting closer to something like confidence.

It's like that mistakenly crowned Miss Universe debacle. A moment of elation—then it's ripped away. Just kidding lmfao we need that tiara back, sweetheart. Psych! 

Before this bloody appointment, I was beginning to feel well enough to resume my primary role as caregiver. An important goal because my family needs me to not be sick. My family needs me to get a job and potty-train Ingrid. I have no room in my life for cancer anymore. It needs to go away.

I won't lie. I sulked for a full 48 hours about this. Still a bit sulky, tbh. It's just the working stuff out in my brain that takes time. It's no easy task, managing these icky feelings. My brain will get there, eventually.

Just not today.