My nerves are frazzled.

To open, everything is fine, so I'm not trying to freak anyone out by this post.

But I'm completely frazzled.

After the long week plus of Tessa's illness, I'm just ready to be relaxed and stop worrying. I arranged childcare for Tessa this morning, and then headed to my Herceptin appointment.

First thing at my appointment, I ran into my oncologist, who said, "I need to talk to you. It's probably nothing, but the MRI showed a 2.2cm spot on your lung and we need to check it out; since you're here I'd like you to get an X-ray today after your Herceptin appointment."

Spot on my lung? This falls into the category of Very, Very Bad Things and scared me to death. Sure, she said it was probably nothing, but I've been told "it's probably nothing before" and then I got breast cancer and all that came with it. "It's probably nothing" is only very slightly reassuring, but not nearly enough to stop my stomach from somersaulting. Breast cancer often metastasizes to the lungs (as well as bone, liver, and brain) and so this is exactly the kind of news I'm frightened of getting.

So I went to my Herceptin appointment and tried to will myself to stay calm. Then, I went to the radiology department, stripped into one of those horrible blue backless gowns, and got my chest X-rayed, front and side. After the appointment, I asked the tech (who is forbidden from interpreting my results) how soon my doctor would have the results, and she said, "Well, I've already got them entered into the computer but I wouldn't bug your doc until Monday at the earliest." I smiled and thanked her, then ignored that advice completely (there was NO way I was going to sit on pins and needles wondering if the cancer had returned, worse than ever) and marched straight to Dr. Rinn's office.

Dr. Rinn, lovely woman that she is, understood completely, and looked up the X-rays on the spot. "I've never seen lungs so lovely," she told me, and all is clear. Nothing to be concerned about.

And yet, I'm so freakin' exhausted. This whole process wears me out.

Today I put on a cute dress and flip-flops to go to Herceptin. I was determined to look as non-cancer-ish as possible. The dress is slightly low-cut, to reveal cleavage. It has a saucy band of bright color, but is otherwise a hip black color. In it, I feel good - girly, feminine, and pretty. It's the kind of dress that cancer patients do not wear; breast cancer patients, I've noticed, tend to wear things up to their necks; they tend to wear sweats to treatment. (I did - it was comfortable and I didn't exactly feel like drawing attention to my fat, bald self. I didn't feel pretty; I didn't dress to draw attention to my non-existant breasts.)

I realize now that the dress was meant to ward off my own bad feelings about cancer, to prove to myself that I'd come so far. To walk into the waiting room at the treatment center and have eyes turn toward me, the same look on every face, "What is SHE doing here? She looks so healthy! She doesn't look like a cancer patient!"

But the dress is only a disguise, and I'm horrified to remember that no matter what I wear, no matter how long I put this behind me, no matter how long my hair gets, now matter how healthy I look, I am still a cancer patient. I still get MRIs and X-rays and scans and I'm still covered in scars and I still have no guarantees. The cancer isn't fooled by my outfits, or my lip gloss. It's not afraid of my kick-ass attitude, and it only smiles slyly when I put on my PollyAnna mood and tell everyone, "I believe that the cancer is gone, never to return. Just look at how hard I fought to keep it away! Look how much treatment I did, above and beyond the standard!" Cancer knows what cancer knows. It might not come back. But it might.

I hate this simple fact. I hate that the little lurking thought - which was not just lurking, but shouting at me today - that the cancer might come back never completely disappears. I can run, I can mother, I can write, I can volunteer, I can fundraise, I can walk, but I can't earn a guarantee.

I do believe that the cancer is gone. But today, my fear was real, and justified. I got another reprieve: all is well. But it will take a while for my heart to stop beating so fast. It will take a while to recover from the fact that I have, once again, been faced with my fears head on. I can't describe this feeling to anyone who hasn't been there him/herself. If you don't know this kind of fear, I don't want to let you in on it. It's bone chilling, gut wrenching, mind blowing. It comes and it goes, but when it comes, it takes my breath away.

Breathe in, breathe out. I'm recovering from the day, but it saps my energy more than I can describe.

Now off to care for my daughter, who is yelling at me to get a new string for her beading project. Despite my mental collapse (ha!), life goes on, and duty calls.

Love,
Kristina