When I was first diagnosed with breast cancer, I remember saying that I didn't want it to dominate my life. I didn't only want to write about cancer, I didn't want to wear pink, and I didn't want any part of a support group. You know.
I wanted cancer to play a bit part in my life. I expected to heal from the surgery in a week or so and pretty much go on with my pre-cancer normal life only with chemotherapy treatments.
It didn't work out that way.
There are so many constant reminders of cancer: my bald head, the scarf repertoire, the itchy skin and search for products to relieve that side effect, the humidifier, the dry eyes...the list goes on and on and on, each thing on the list is minor but a daily reminder.
Even though I feel preoccupied with cancer, I don't feel burdened by it. I'm not sad and I'm not afraid. I figure everybody has to deal with something and this happens to be my thing right now. I read. I bake. I knit. I have cancer.
So, off I go to the pharmacy to find different soap. I rub down with jojoba oil and organic lotion. I try to get used to chicken skin, mine, not the kind on the chicken.
Like most things in life, I guess, this is a process and it isn't always easy. Like a bear riding a bike.
My daily whoop ass today comes courtesy of the folks at my exercise class: a woman who had a double mastectomy and lost her mother, a 90-year old man with a great sense of humor and a flirtatious way, a man with an oxygen tank and an artificial larynx, and a man who taught his two dogs to walk on the treadmill so his exercise could be a "family" project. If they can soldier on, so can I.