Getting a "Fucking Break" and Brimming with Gratitude

Thank you so very much to each of you for your support.

When my friend, Anne (with an "e," different from the Ann of a post ago) said she'd put together a fundraiser for me, I was relieved. I've been fretting about money since my diagnosis on St. Patrick's Day of Stage One uterine cancer.

You Can't Always Get What You Want

My friend, Anne (with an "e) and I have known each
other since this photo was taken. She's in the second
row, far left. I'm in the same row, far right. We met
as members of the UW-Stout Swimteam. Love ya, A2!

At first, I said I wanted all of you to just treat me "normal." To not make "The Cancuh" the first thing we talked about and to let me set the tone for how much we talk about this. My reasoning was that I didn't want to be stuck in a never-ending tape loop of the same story, a tale of woe, a telling that inevitably would lead to waves of pity rippling across the faces of all those whom I know, love, like, and with whom I interact.

But about three weeks ago, as I was lying in bed waiting to conk out, I found myself pleading for a break. I was saying, over and over in my head: "I just need a fucking break. I just need a fucking break. I just need a fucking break." Over and over.

After just a couple of minutes, a tenor voice boomed in my head: "You did get a fucking break. It's Stage One."

You Just Might Find You Get What You Need

I sat up at attention. I looked around the room. Just the dogs looking back at me. No owner of a big booming voice to be seen.

The voice was true and right. I did get a break.

I'd been exhausted from, as I've mentioned before, the past couple of years of life. It seems that I didn't get used to one semi- to surely-rotten experience before another was upon me. So many, I can't even remember them. But they include my former partner's prostate cancer. My dog dying. Getting my stuff ripped off from my garage.

My break was catching cancer's tiny, elusive ass before it escaped my uterus into the wilds of my torso to attach it's mathematically skilled self to my bowels. Liver. Kidneys. Cancer has multiplication down and knows those tables better than most.

So, the early catch is a big break.

50 Amp Fuse

When that voice thundered through my body, I realized another break. You. Each of you. All of you. All y'all.

You respected my plea to not make The Cancuh the center of our relationships and the fat middle of my life. We talked about you. Your family. Your work.

But I could see the questions just behind your tongue. And the bite marks upon it.

Your grace has been a gift beyond compare.

And I know, thanks to that voice, that I asked too much. I'm sorry. You want to ask because you care. I get that now. I was afraid I'd become unmoored in the pity I might see in your face for a fate that I didn't know and for which I'm not really afraid. I was protecting myself from your face. Your eyes. Your generosity of spirit.

But I humbly retract that demand. Ask what you will. I'll answer. I get it now. I fucking get it and I'm tickled you give a shit enough to ask. And I'm coarse, of course, but it allows me to soldier.

Cherry Red

Self explanatory, no?

I'm brimming with gratitude today for that voice that set me straight. For you and your imploring looks and for questions that didn't break me. For the laughter you generously offered when I showed you my "fuck cancer" tattoo.

I'm brimming with gratitude for your generous ways. For supporting the fundraiser that Anne generously kicked off. For, through your kindness, I'm not fretting about money. I can focus on getting my insides back to a mathematical equation that supports a long life.

Thank you, Anne, for what you started.

I'm brimming with gratitude because my shitty situation is actually a damn good shitty situation. I have all of you in my corner. I have a way to move through the financial uncertainty.

I have friends who text me and leave me voicemail that says "Seriously. Fuck Cancer." And then we laugh because we are naughty.

Try Sometimes

Thanks for being with me on this trip. My hope is that it will be short, as predicted by my oncologist. No need for chemo right now. A trip to the hospital for the disconnection and removal of my plumbing. Recovery. "Regular" life afterward.

And if things change, I'll let you know. Because I want you with me. I'll answer your questions. All of them.