Our safe word will be poodle

OK so you may have noticed, dear readers, that I have shied away from talking about how I feel. I am warning you now that this may be a tough one to read as I have a feeling that it will be tough to write. If at any time you need to ‘poodle’ out you will find no blame or judgement here.

I have been intentionally guarding my feelings pertaining to this cancer as I have been trying to let them develop naturally and not force them into text boxes. For the most part this all feels like unreality. I don’t physically feel any different (except for the anxiety, and we’ll get to that) so in a way, nothing IS different. The only difference is that I know. In this case knowing is not even close to half the battle. Eat it G.I. Joe. The knowing is really only the tiniest little lump that throws everything into a whirlwind.

While these feelings, thoughts and notions are still nebulous for the most part I wanted to start penning some of them down. Part of the reason I wanted to start a blog, other than that everyone else is doing it, is because I’d like to look back through this some day and watch my own emotional evolution through this process. The other reason is to be able to tell the story as few times as possible. I am a story teller. This is my defense mechanism. No matter how horrible or scarring a situation is, the more I tell the story, the more it becomes only a story. I am able to fictionalize it away if you will. I can’t do that with this cancer. I need to stay present in it to meet this shitty foe head on.

It was very tough deciding who I wanted to know that I had been diagnosed with cancer. Who should be on the first e-mail? Who finds out via Facecrack? Who gets the phone calls? Who in person? I still don’t know how I made those decisions exactly and I think there was little logic involved. There are some days when I want everyone to know. The IT guy, definitely. The overtly racist bum that hangs out near the dumpsters at my bar, you bet. The lady who waxes my hooha, in person for sure. But then there are other times where I closely guard it like a secret. Recently those have only been times where I know nobody. It feels good when nobody knows. Like I’m normal (yeah right! But you know what I mean.) I really would prefer not to be the center of attention ever but especially not for an illness. Even though people try not to, I can see a change. Little tiny things but changes all the same. The only thing different is that they know and again, knowing fucks things up.

I fucking hate the color pink! I hate it. I do not feel empowered of emboldened when I see the pink ribbons. What a flaccid color to choose to represent the group of badass hero women who are fighting or have won against this freeloading scuzz. This color is assigned to us as baby girls. This disease attacks a part of us that quintessentially makes us women. I do not associate with this infantilizing color.

I am angry at cancer. I am angry that I am 25 years too young for this cancer. I am angry that in my never ending struggle towards unnecessary uniqueness my body has made this choice for me. This is over the moon too far! This beats out the top hat, the feather boas, the lycra bodysuit, all of it. It sucks to be upstaged by a rude little mass of unruly cells.

I am finally at a point in my life where I have a loving partner, a fantastic support network, a decreasing debt load, etc. All things that I wanted to be in place before starting a family. Well, shit. Again it just goes to show what happens to me when I try to hang my hat on convention. However there is a flip side to this one. I honestly believe that all things happen exactly as they should. Not as I want them too often but as they should. If I look at all I am surrounded with right now that is good and perfect then I think about where I was even a few years ago I feel so lucky all over again. I’ve got my army amassed with me now when I need it most.

I am scared. I am scared of all of the parts I don’t know about yet. I’m scared of what they’ll find in my genetics and in my lymph nodes. I am scared of the pain I’ll be in and I’m scared of the scars. I’m scared of how this will change me. I’m scared.

I am humbled. I am so grateful for all of the support and love. All of the tender sentiments. All of the tears shed on my behalf though I hate HATE that it had to happen. All of the hugs and laughs. I am thankful for the front-deck mower which is a better meditation than anything else I have tried. I am so happy to talk to everyone who has called and written or pestered me to get coffee. I am awed by the stories my mentors have told me and their willingness to let me ask (and touch). I love all of the gifts. The pig shaped flower arrangement. The South American stone carved into a fist holding a lucky horseshoe. It’s all perfect. I feel the love. I know that I can do this. I know that I have no choice.

Poodle.

For those brave souls who made it this far here is a picture of my new tattoo. I love this guy so much and he is a fantastic compliment to Poppy on my other arm. They feel good.