Warning: Not Happy Thoughts

Last night, David got cupcakes and Prosecco to celebrate my birthday, and we ordered Indian food from my favorite place (love those samosas!), and we spent some quality time with Sappha watching American Idol (the girls are smokin' the boys this year), and then we popped in Bull Durham, which I had never seen before and which a friend who was cleaning out her massive video tape collection gave to me, along with several other movies, because they don't have a VCR anymore.

Okay. So we were watching the movie, which further cemented my opinion that Kevin Costner just isn't a good actor, although he is very good looking, and for about an hour I completley forgot that I had cancer. It was so nice, just curled up on the bed with a red velvet cupcake and glass of wine and my loving husband, being the young, happy couple that we are. Just being together, with our beautiful kids sound asleep and everything going our way. And I didn't think about cancer once, for maybe the longest time that I've not thought about it since the dx two weeks ago.

And then all of a sudden I remembered that I had breast cancer. And I remembered that we are a young, happy couple, but that we're not just that, and everything is not going our way, and we have this horrible, horrible thing hanging over us. Hanging over me. And in an instant, my stomach dropped, and I got this ominous, cold, sweaty feeling, and I thought I was going to throw up.

People keep saying that I'm strong and strong-willed. That I should be positive, think of the best possible outcome. That I should pray. That they are praying for me. That they're there to help with anything I need. That lots of women are diagnosed with bc and survive. That their own aunt survived. Or mother, grandmother, sister. That the treatments are so much better now than they were even a few years ago. That I'm lucky to be in New York with the best possible medical care. That I'll beat this. I'll live.

Here's the thing though. No one really knows that. I don't know that. My doctor doesn't. And maybe being strong-willed helps. Maybe prayer does. Maybe thinking positive thoughts will help keep this beast from growing and spreading inside of me. Keep it from killing me. Maybe I'm doing everything I can do. Maybe there's nothing I can do. Maybe if I give up alcohol and fatty foods for the rest of my life I won't have a recurrence. Maybe if I get my breasts removed. Maybe I'll be one of those stories, too - that I (someone's mother, grandmother, aunt, sister) had bc and lived to be 101.

No one knows. I don't want to sound cruel or ungrateful to the very people who have rallied to support me. I know that no one knows really what to say, and that everyone is trying to say something positive, to boost my spirits, to help. And that when they say to me, "You're going to make it," what they're actually saying is, "I really want this to be true," in the same way that when I offer comfort or advice to another bc patient I am actually comforting myself at the same time. But no one knows for sure. And sometimes I feel so frustrated and scared and sad and, yes, mean, because there are plenty of other stories that no one shares but we all know they're out there: of women my age, or younger, or older, who succumbed to this disease. And they were probably strong, too. And they probably thought positive thoughts. And people probably prayed for them. Just like me. And no one knows why they died and others lived, or why their cancers grew and spread and others didn't, or why they got cancer and someone else didn't, or why whole families are genetically predisposed to bc and other families have no cancer at all. And no one knows why I have cancer, or if I'll beat it this time, or if it will come back, or if I'll die of it now or 30 years from now or never.

There are moments that make my heart cry out. Like when Finn looks at me sometimes, and he knows me, and wants only me to hold him, and I see the purest delight and love in his little eyes, and I think, if I have only a year left, or a few years, he won't even remember me. Or when I see Sappha playing with him, and he's squealing and she's giggling, and I think that maybe I won't see them grow old enough to really become friends. And Sappha, my big girl, what if I don't see her as a beautiful young woman, watch her graduate from college and get married and have her own children? What if she has to do all of that without a mom to talk to? And what will David do? This is almost too painful to even write. What if the dreams we had of being old together don't come true? Would he marry someone else? Would he be happy again, eventually, without me?

I know that this is all part of the process, and these emotions are all normal and "okay" to have. I know that I am loved. I know that I will go through chemo, and radiation, and maybe a mastectomy, and I will do all that I can and probably I will live, and maybe I will never have cancer again, like lots of women. Those are my rational thoughts. And mostly I have been feeling okay since the second surgery, buoyed by the doctor's confidence and the prayers and encouraging words of my family and friends and support group. And many times I have been happy, and sometimes I have forgotten about cancer. And then other times, like last night and this morning, I feel like the world is crashing down again (or still) and my darkest thoughts just sort of gnaw away at my insides. And at those times the survival stories and the comforting words from others chafe and seem empty, and I feel very fragile and uncertain. David said that we need to try to enjoy each day, as many as there are, and I got angry - was he trying to say that I don't have much time left? Talk about positive thinking! But of course he wasn't saying that, just that life is uncertain by its very nature, and that no one knows what the future holds, and don't we want to be happy in the moment, rather than fearful of what might happen? Well, yes. But...

I hope I didn't hurt anyone's feelings by ranting like this. Everyone has been so loving and supportive; I appreciate all of you. A few people have told me that I need to worry less about others right now, less about my roles as mother, wife, daughter, sister, and more about myself and what I need to get better. That I shouldn't be afraid to be more assertive about telling people what I want and need from them. I don't really know what to ask for. Mostly I'm just trying to keep my life as close to the track it was on before it derailed a few weeks ago. I don't know how things will change over the next weeks and months. I just know that when I hear, "It's going to be okay," I really want it to be true.