*When* I die Young
I put on a pair of mermaid print leggings today and for the briefest moment I was heartbroken about how snug they were. I mean, you’ve got to really pack on the weight to muffin top over leggings. Then I remembered that said leggings were purchased two Halloweens ago when I was sick, sick so the fact that I could even get them over my hips was an accomplishment. Then I remembered that I owed yall a follow up cancer post; here it is.
I have trust issues. I’m not proud of it. It’s something that I’m actively working on. The problem is people tend to let me down; in big ways. The walls I’ve built look like audacious independence, brazen confidence, and unyielding strength. Looks can be very deceiving. After many disappointments I adopted the mindset that if I didn’t put myself in the position to need people, if I didn’t rely on or have any expectations of people; then I couldn’t be let down or hurt. I need all my self reliant, “I make things happen,” ‘don’t need no help,’ I N D E P E N D E N T folks to read this next part with intent: It’s not possible to do life alone; whether for something big or small, at some point you’re going to need people. I say this confidently because I am one of those people. Not one of the people you’re going to need, but one of those people that take on way too much for the sake of {insert poor excuse here.}The idea of needing people, showing weakness and such actually turns my stomach. I have caused or worsened many struggles throughout my lifetime because I’d rather tough it out, figure it out, or go without.
Being a financially unstable single mother with a cancer diagnosis is the epitome of needy! That idea alone scared me more than anything I was facing medically. I was more afraid of being the “sick” person than I was of dying. During the staging process, after I worked up the nerve to tell my Wadman what was going on, I actually told her that I was hoping for either a quick surgical fix or “you’ve got a couple months.” Of course it couldn’t be that easy though. As I assembled my team of doctors and waited for all the preliminary tests and labs, I did exactly what everyone with an ounce of common sense knows not to do but would have also done: Yall I dove head first into a Google search bar and it got real ugly, real fast!
Fast forward to Thanksgiving 2018, I’m officially diagnosed with stage 3B breast cancer. It sounds super unhealthy and very ungrateful but I was pissed! I was so convinced that I wanted stage 1 or stage 4; easy or fatal. I saw those Google search results and could not find hope in anything I read. To me, that was the very worst possible diagnosis. I felt like every single part of not only my future but my kids’ futures were screwed, all because I was one stage short of terminal. Not only was I in for a long, expensive treatment, but science says it’ll be back. Which meant I was going to have to fight like hell to live, reassemble my life, then do it all again. And yes, I have faith. I also have memories; memories of each recurrence taking a little more of my momma. Around age fifteen when her eyeliner and lipstick notes on the mirror didn’t make that much sense, I told myself I was never having children. Jump to age twenty and pregnant with my second son: my momma called me Tracy and it broke my heart in so many ways.
I lived about two hours north of her at the time and she’d come to spend a week with me. At the end of her visit, a close family friend met us near the interstate to drive her home. She gave me the biggest hug and said, “Bye Tracy, take care of that baby!” Tracy had been her lifelong bestfriend. If she didn’t remember my name, at least she associated me with someone she loved, right? My mouth would never speak it, but my heart knew she wouldn’t survive the next recurrence. She passed away a week and a half after my 21st birthday and I swore to myself right then that my breast cancer battle would be one-and-done.
You see, I’m no professional geneticist or statistician. Nor am I an oncologist or doctor of any sort; but I’m also no dummy. I’m good at connecting dots and spotting patterns. Even before I knew what a BRCA mutation was, I’d picked up on the prevalence and trend cancer had in my mom’s family. I was her baby; youngest of three with a brother five years older and a sister ten years older. I know for a fact I love my big sister more than I have ever made evident. She means so much more to me now that I’m older and can really appreciate how fortunate I was to have her growing up. However, celebrating my 21st birthday reiterated that she’d made it through her twenties sans cancer while I crept closer to our family’s typical age of diagnosis. As I sipped my first legal margarita in a restaurant the noise that usually pittered around the back of my head telling me I’d probably get cancer, transitioned into a big ole cancer colored veil. For the next eleven days, it was through that veil that I watched the remnants of my momma fade and it felt like watching my own future play out in front of me. In a way, I grieved us both.
For the next seven years my anxiety was triggered by a lot of things; cancer was not one! It was an inevitability that I’d accepted and did not fear. I didn’t live my life waiting for it to happen, it was just a part of me. As sure and easy as I could say, “I have an astygmatyzm.” I could also say, “I am going to die from cancer.” I can’t tell you how many friends, coworkers, and therapists heard me jokingly say some variation of, “I probably already have cancer anyway.” I despised when folks would tell me that just because my mom had it, didn’t make getting cancer a certainty for me. To me it was and guess who was right; like always. I can remember one therapist briefly thinking my cancer beliefs were passive suicidal ideation, but like the rest he eventually dismissed it as dark humor and pessimism.
Whew! I said all of that to say this: I knew cancer was coming. I spent years psyching myself up for it. I had a plan! I was going to fight like hell to survive, one time. YEARS of mental preparedness and let me tell you… it turns out I was anything but prepared. People hear cancer and think: chemo, fatigue, nausea, hair loss. Pish posh. I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that my life insurance policy was so pathetic! Was there time to bump it up before the official pathology reports caused me to get the label “pre existing condition?” Is that even how it works? I’m still single, are my kids going to get separated when I’m gone? I knew this was coming, yet I’d done so little to prepare things for my children. I was ashamed. I was terrified. Aside from my ex that had been sworn to secrecy, I hadn’t told a soul. I’d be at work and on the outside everything was normal. As for the inside, I have no words to convey what was happening.
It has been two weeks since I started this entry and admittedly, this is one of the rare occasions where words fail me. I have tried over and over again to adequately describe those first days when it was just me and my diagnosis. I can not. I haven’t come across words sufficient for the biggest feelings I’ve ever felt. Even using the word ‘feelings’ just seems wrong. Anywho, we seem to have run out of October and I have had more than enough cancer talk, so… maybe we’ll circle back to the Dark Days next year :-)
I’ll wrap it up with this… You may recall before all my tangents and side stories, I told yall that I have trust issues and really don’t like having to rely on people. Well after my cancer and I had a little alone time, I knew that for my boys’ sake I needed to bring someone into the loop sooner rather than later. The vast majority of our Illinois family had been curated after we moved here in 2015. The only actual relatives that lived in state were my 17 year old sister and a close family friend (let’s call her Aunt Lydia) Lucky for me, Lydia was the ideal person to help me get my things in order. She is a caretaker through and through. She thrives on being needed and she genuinely loves my boys. I sat her down privately and very clearly explained that I had news I wanted to share but could only do so if she promised not to cry in front of me and not to tell anyone, at all. She agreed so I shared my preliminary diagnosis; and so did she.
Now I’m not sharing this story to make Auntie out to be a villain. I quite literally would not be alive if it weren’t for her. I know that she has done five hundred million times more good for me than bad, even when I wasn’t the most deserving. Just so happens, the bad she does is always the kind of bad that really really sticks. I don’t harbor any resentment and on some level I understand how blabbing my business could be justified. However, anytime I reflect on my cancer journey this situation always comes to mind.
My intent was never to hide my illness, I wanted time to process things in my own way, get a few things in order, and notify certain people personally. Lydia robbed me of that. I hadn’t told my children or my daddy yet. I was especially struggling with having to tell my siblings who’d been caregivers when this very illness took our mom. So now on top of all the other feelings, I felt pressured and extremely frustrated. That frustration led to terrible guilt. I felt guilty because my inability to be taken care of made me think I was a terrible person anytime Aunt Lydia frustrated or annoyed me. With all her sacrifices the only thing I should feel was immense gratitude. Right?
I am beyond blessed. There would be days I’d just lay on the floor and cry because I had absolutely no clue what I’d do without my sister and Lydia. So believe me, I am aware of the magnitude of selfishness dripping from this post. I know it sounds extremely self centered and somewhat narcissistic for me to complain about having too much support. I also know that logic didn’t make it hurt any less; and it flippin hurt. And that’s real; take it or leave it.
Halloween 2018 vs Halloween 2020… It’s been a looooong two years that I wouldn’t want to repeat, but I definitely like myself a lot more now. Those are some nice Docs though!
Creatively yours,
Miss Bee Humble. Honest. Kind.
