Why “fuck cancer” as the theme of this blog? Because this is war, and I have to remind myself every single day that I’m a fighter… no, make that a warrior. No time for self-pity or a “why me” attitude. It’s either fuck cancer or fuck Janet and I’m choosing to fuck cancer. It just happened, whether through genetics or the luck of the draw or too many hot dogs. I have cancer and I have to get through it. Period. No choices.
I grew up in a family that was pretty much divided down the middle, with a mother who lived to nearly 97 thanks to her feistiness and great attitude and a father who gave up at 70 without any fight in him. My siblings pretty much divide the same way and there is simply no choice in how I’m going.
When I first told friends on Facebook that I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I asked for messages of “you got this” and explained that there was no time for pity or maudlin sentiment. I also shared images of two “fuck cancer” tee-shirts I bought to wear during treatment. What I got back was frankly amazing and it felt like an infusion of support that has not stopped since. I suspect that if I had bemoaned my fate and this diagnosis, I would have gotten nice sorrowful messages, but instead I got humor and strength and affirmation that I could beat this thing. And I can and I will.
Of course there are days where the best I can muster is “you will be ok” spoken over and over to myself. I haven’t cried too much. I think if I allowed myself to cry as much as I could, I might never come back. I did cry when I saw my children for the first time after my diagnosis, barely able to bear the idea of not being there to see them get older. And then there are days where I can imagine the future with this behind me, and a “me” that might be unrecognizable, and not in a bad way. I saw a quote that said something along the lines of “you may not recognize me, I put back my pieces differently.” I suspect that may be me.