I find it hard to stop crying. My eyelashes adher in salty clumps from all the tears. And it’s always for the same reason: I’m just so fucking overwhelmed.
Overwhelmed by my exhaustion. Overwhelmed by all the effort. Overwhelmed by my body’s reactions. Overwhelmed that this isn’t over. Overwhelmed to be so far from home. Overwhelmed that responsibility and hunger and housekeeping don’t stop even when I so desperately want them to all go away and not come back for at least three months, maybe four.
I don’t know if it’s the chemotherapy drugs having an effect on my mood, or if it’s simply my mood. I don’t know if it’s my diagnosis, or the never-ending worry, or the uncertainty that clouds my future like some ugly fog threatening in the distance, rolling toward my fucking life. My livelihood. My life.
So I cry. What else is there to do? I cry and cry and find some relief in the act.
One day things will be better and this will stop. I know that because sometimes there are moments – glimpses of normal – like Frisbee in the park, tea with friends, chatting at work, Sundays in bed. Sooner than later I’ll stop crying.
Sometimes it’s so hard to look forward. But forward is the only place to go, the only way I can survive. Forward is inevitable, though getting there has been a struggle.
Two months left of chemotherapy, maybe a little bit more. One month of radio-therapy. Five years of medication. Cancer had better stay away from me, because I’m tired of its company.
And in the meanwhile I’ll just cry a little, because it helps. Because I can’t stop. Sooner than later this will be over. I look forward, when I can look forward, to that time.