I titled this post and left it blank over a week ago. I owe you guys an update – plus, I like to write — but I just don’t know what to say. I feel like I’ve been chewed up and spit out.
During treatment, I had all kinds of little moments to myself. They may have been when I was lying in bed hugging a pillow or when I was doing the business that chemo makes you do in the lady john, but I was alone much more often than before. It was usually at the expense of my husband’s sanity or my mother-in-law’s free time, and I often didn’t feel very good. But in these moments, I thought. And I thought. And thought some more. A brush with death will do that to a person, and facing my mortality has been difficult and wonderful.
Now that the bulk of my treatment is complete, I am back to professional momming, i.e. slinging milk and goldfish, wiping butts and faces (not in that order), doing preschool drop-off and making play dates. I don’t know if I was just so excited to get back to my life or if I just opened my eyes and saw what a mess my kids and house were…or even if my kids sensed that mom was back, but I jumped right back in. And now I am exhausted, and my head if so FULL of kids and cleaning and stupid worries. I got mad at Josh for putting a dish in the sink. (Seriously, though, the kitchen was clean; the sink was empty. How much harder is it to put the bowl in the dishwasher rather than the sink? But no, you put it in the sink so I can put it in the dishwasher. Gah.) So yeah, things are back to normal.
It’s just that six months ago, or two months ago, that bowl wouldn’t have been a blip on my radar. Because who cares about a bowl? I kind of miss the days (of, like a month ago) when I had time to think.
I’m trying to find the balance between getting on with my life and changing the things that I want to change. It’s really hard to do when I have these amazing little people who need, want, DEMAND so much of me and my time. I suspect that even without kids, it’s a hard balance to strike.
Truthfully, I don’t know where I stand sometimes. I really am still processing what just happened. I only found that lump in my breast less than seven months ago, and here I am bald, boobless, anemic, and aware of so very much more. And even though I suppose I don’t have cancer anymore and I’m trying to “move on,” it’s always in my face.
At the grocery store: “Ma’am, do you want help out?”
Who? Me? Oh, right. I’m bald and frail.
And I start to feel a little offended.
No one ever offered to help me out before! Not even when I was juggling a crying infant and a petulant preschooler. Do I really look that bad?
“No, thanks,” I say and walk out.
Crap! That might be the last time they ask me that for, like, 30 or 40 years. I should have told him yes! I should take advantage of this. He doesn’t know that I don’t have cancer anymore. Next time, for sure.
I don’t know. I’m pretty unsure of where to land except for exactly where I was before (because it’s habit and easy), and I don’t want that. It’s not that it was a bad place. I just know better now. I just don’t know where to step.