Fast facts (if you don’t have time to read the full post): My port seems to be healing well with no signs of infection but I am in a ton of discomfort and weird pain. It hurts to breathe really BIG breaths. I refreshed my hair colors one final time on Friday and went to Spokane on Saturday with two of my close friends to try to enjoy a day out. I am just trying to fucking live but I feel so fucked.

TO THE LONG VERSION!

Anticipating cancer treatment feels like staring down the barrel of a gun. I know I am living in a moment in history where cancer treatments are “great” (aka they get the job done but it will cost you your soul lol) but there is no comfort in that thought. Survival rates are high for many forms of cancer and I am grateful that in a shitty situation you can have some hope. However, I cannot shake the feeling of the grim reaper following me around as I attempt to live these final full moments in my life before I take a swim in the underworld. I feel like I will be like Hercules when he jumps into the underworld to save Meg’s soul. I know this experience is temporary. I know it is a small blip in my timeline of what I hope is a long and fruitful life, but my life will never be the same again. Ever. What is happening now changes the course I was on and any other course I want to be on. My life feels like a fucking shit show right now and I am the lead fucking actress. I am going to do an Oscar-worthy performance of attempting to survive cells that are trying to kill me. I better fucking win.

I walk into spaces and feel different now. I am a stranger in my own body. When I go out, nobody can see the cancer, but I am acutely aware it is in me and that just makes me feel like I don’t belong. People think I am (physically) normal with my rainbow hair and mom jeans, or I guess as normal as one gets with rainbow hair in a sea of blondes and brunettes. I am not normal. Cancer at 29 is not normal. This is not the body I have been nurturing and setting up for success the last 29 years. I exercise six days a week. I limit my alcohol intake. I go to therapy. I try to eat well. I love on my friends and family. I try my best to be a decent fucking human being. It is hard not to feel like my body has betrayed me for all I have invested into it. I have cancer??? I have breast cancer??? What the actual fuck??????

I am dreadfully counting down the days until treatment starts and I keep looking for adventures and opportunities that fill my cup with joy right now because joy just doesn’t seem to be something I will really experience while poison is pumped into my body to save my life. I refreshed my hair color one last time. I went out for a cocktail with a friend. I went to Spokane with two of my best friends. I spent my whole morning talking to a new friend who went through breast cancer, wishing that this was not how I made new friends now. I keep searching for a sliver of normalcy in all of this chaos in hope that these moments and memories will be a life preserver for me in my darkest moments. I am holding on to these things for dear life and wonder how fast 20 weeks can really go while you feel like you are dying.

I cannot tell you how many times this weekend I got complimented on my hair. My hair is fucking amazing. I belong in a Skittles commercial. I am the rainbow! My hair dresser makes me feel like I am the coolest person on the planet. Walking out of that hair appointment for the last time on Friday crushed both of us. We parted in tears. It is another door closing in my life that I don’t know when will open again. Every compliment I got on my hair this weekend felt like a stab to the heart. I love being complimented on my hair. It makes me feel beautiful and seen for the most authentic version of myself that I am able to offer. I wanted to tell every stranger that I had cancer and my hair was my final act of defiance, but I can’t obviously tell every stranger that. That would be really weird, probably. I actually did tell one stranger at Lush while she helped me pick out a cleanser for my face. I told her I didn’t know what kind of skin I would have this spring and then I unloaded my heavy secret on her. “I am sorry to be emo right now…” is how I told her. My anxiety is still annoyed at me that I did that. Why was it not enough to take a hair compliment, joke about dry skin in the spring, and just leave with my fucking cleanser? I don’t want to traumatize people. I just really wanted to not ignore this new fact about me that makes decision making with already crippling anxiety a nightmare. She was gracious and gave me the best recommendation possible based on the information I provided and touched my arm in solidarity. But fuck. I hate that I told her. Who knew that cancer would give you word vomit?

So here I am on a Sunday evening. I am typing with a cat on my lap. My hair looks sensational and I am mourning my final moments looking like a rock star. Soon I will be a naked mole rat. A random stranger in Spokane knows I have the cancer. My port is uncomfortable as it settles into my left jugular. There is a massive knot in my back from sleeping upright on the couch the night before. My port is not infected, but my body is in pain. My neck hurts. I feel like I am falling apart today. I wish this was all over already. I am trying my hardest to count my blessings, to be thankful that this scenario should have an end but I can’t. Not today. I just want this to be over already. Can this be over already?

Today’s song lyric of the day is brought to you by Donkong.

“I never thought I that would end up here
But don’t you tell me where did I go wrong
At this moment, I face my fears
I’ll be gone, I’ll be gone, gone gone”

– Gone, Donkong and Karol Tip