It is with me. Always.

I bump my elbow and scream out in pain.
I have an incessant itch on a patch of skin.
I feel tension in my lower back.
I see more hair in my brush today than yesterday.

It is with me. Always.

I don’t think it’s all in my head.
I don’t believe it’s simply mind-over-matter.
I don’t think it’s dysfunction.
I don’t believe I’m lacking faith.

It is with me. Always.

I have been to the very end of myself.
I have hoped that when I open my eyes, I see Jesus; and if not, a dose of supernatural resilience.
I have intimate knowledge of the poison of cancer and still wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.
I have seen the inside of vulnerability at its most intense.

It is with me. Always.

I intentionally grow in faith. And perseverance. And grit.
I daily practice the expanse of gratitude.
I purposely choose to live short. And deep.
I trust the intrinsic value in the constancy of cancer.

It is with me. Always.

*Post 920

Ugh :: 10/11/17 :: Post 44

I woke up very emotional… sitting in the place of “wondering what is coming when I know something is coming but I don’t know what it is.” I have sat around all day waiting….waiting for what? Waiting for ??? to hit? It’s such an odd place to be where I am told to expect something but there were no details on just what that something is. It’s like I’m sitting on the edge of a cliff and I’m just waiting for the push from behind into the depths below. The fear. The anticipation. The anxiety. The unknown.

As I look back on the day as a whole, I have felt awful…but not in the traditional way. I’m not nauseous or throwing up or anything like that (must be the anti-nausea meds), but man, I have been so foggy all day. I have not felt myself, I have felt tight from head to toe (my chest wall is so tight I can hardly breathe), I have not been able to think very straight and I have been so sleepy. …..I’ve also been super edgy and agitated all day. I’ve just struggled so much to pin-point what I am feeling…what I do know is that I feel like a prickly cactus and anything and everything is uncomfortable. Anything touching my skin is like sandpaper…scratch that, being in my own skin is like sandpaper. (*eye roll…pun not intended)

I also look back on my day and wonder where it went? It took a crap-ton of energy just to get up and shower…then I ate…then Chris and I went on a walk….then I ate…then I napped…then I ate again…then I sent a work email…then I had a visit from a friend…then I had dinner…and now I’m trying to write about my day without really knowing what to write about my day.

UGH.

I just feel off. And I DO NOT like it. I wonder if it’s the meds? Are they worth this feeling? I don’t know what is what or what I’m supposed to be feeling so I have no gauge of “normal” or “not-so-normal.” This unknown is really tripping me up. Oh, and nothing tastes good. That’s a nice effect…

Ugh, cancer sucks. Chemo sucks. Losing my boobs and hair sucks.

I’ve got nothing fancy to say tonight…I’m wired but I’m tired, I’m fried but I’m antsy to be productive, I’m sick of sitting but I have no energy to do anything else, I’m so tired but if I sleep now I’ll be up at 3am, I want to write but I can’t think straight, I have to drink water but water tastes disgusting, I’m hungry but nervous to eat, and I am uncertain of even the next moment.

This sucks.

My Big Toe :: 10/11/18 :: Post 393

I’m sitting here trying to come up with something to write.

And if I’m being honest, I’m actually trying to come up with something ‘good’ to write. Like, positive and gratitude-filled and you’re-on-the-other-side-of-chemo happiness.

But, what I’m really feeling – low.

My stomach hurts. My head hurts. My heart hurts. My body hurts. The void in my abdomen hurts. My port site hurts. My big toe hurts (literally and figuratively).

There is so much that is misunderstood about this journey……

October 11 of 31 :: 10/11/19 :: Post 756

I think I’m starting to better understand and find words as to why survivorship is so hard.  

Throughout treatment, there is forced acceptance. “Amber, you have cancer. And it’s advanced enough that we need to discuss the reality of having a double mastectomy…” “Uh, okay.” “Amber, unfortunately, the pathology shows Stage 3 and therefore, chemo and radiation are your best chances for living.” “Uh, okay.” Turns out, I didn’t really have a choice. If I wanted to live, I had to say yes to these things no matter the consequences. No matter the long-term effects. At the time those big life-saving decisions had to be made, the surviving was simply surviving…it didn’t matter how it would feel 2, 3, 10 years later.

But now, 2 years later, the devastation of those decisions (sure, life-saving as they were) are hitting hard. I have no feeling on 70% of my skin. Literally. The only sensation that I can feel is my head, my forearms and hands, the skin down my spine, a little on my thighs and everything below my knees…my entire core from neck to knees has so much nerve damage that there is no feeling left. That sucks. And even though I cannot feel my skin, the inside of my body, the muscles under my fat-transplanted-man-made-boobs hurt, my joints and bones ache and throb all day every day and my teeth and eyes ache constantly. Literally. It hurts to sit. It hurts to stand. It hurts to lay down. It hurts to be awake…

And emotionally….well, as I sit here living out the consequences of choosing to stay alive, my heart is tired. The reality of the evil of cancer is woven into my every minute even though treatment is over. There are moments sometimes, in this survivorship phase, where I am overwhelmed by anger that cancer took my body away from me. Yes, I am still here and yes, my body continues to be resilient in this battle, yet it is forever altered and every (yes E V E R Y) step I take, I am forced to remember what cancer has done. And these realities are far harder to accept.

Breast Cancer Awareness Month…

…Day eleven – Losing taste buds is incredibly difficult.