All He Sees Is December

Here is a look into his soul. Chad and I were having dinner tonight and he asked if I had made a post somewhere recently because it seemed several people checked in on him, 'out of the blue'.

I told him 'the usual' but nothing worthy of note. Just that things are 'same ole' with respects to pain. Before I give you the glimpse - let me tell you - those of you who still check in, still send him messages, still ask us how we're doing or if there's anything you can do - thank-you. When this first happened, we got so much love and support and with each piece of positive news, life slowly moved back to 'normal'. But once you get cancer or it becomes a part of your life, nothing is ever normal again. I cannot put into words how much it means to him - both of us - when someone still checks in. So thank-you. It makes a difference.

Now onto that glimpse. As I was reading him the most recent updates from this blog, I started bawling. I don't know why. I don't know why I am sitting here now with tears streaming down my face. We wake up every
day and go through the motions, act strong, take life as it comes but it's still hard. It's still raw.

While discussing his pain; Chad made a comment that he will likely be on pain pills all his life. That it is difficult for him to grasp or accept that he now has limitations that he didn't have before. So in my 'let's try to be positive (even though it's annoying) attitude' - I told him when he gets to feeling down to try and focus - not on how far he has to go - but how far he has already come. That yes, it may be difficult to jump down off your work truck but two months ago, you couldn't even have climbed up there to begin with.

His response? "The only thing I see is December. My next test."

I think everyone who has cancer gets what is affectionately coined "scanxiety".  Every three months, six months, one year, five years - it's time to take those scarey tests that may reveal your cancer has come back. We all hope, wish and pray for those three little letters that mean so much - NED! (No Evidence of Disease) so we can carry on living another 3, 6, 12 months pretending we're not scared.

Even if you're fortunate enough to remove cancer from your body, it never leaves you. It never leaves Chad. It kills me from the inside out to hear that all he can focus on is December. But I get it. I can't focus on December. I take life day by day now, it's all I can do. It's all I WANT to do because each day in itself is a blessing and I don't want to waste one. But that's easy for me because I didn't have an ugly mucus filled tumor removed from my body earlier this year. I didn't stare my mortality in the face. I didn't beat cancer.

Cancer, I hate you. I hate what you do my family and friends who have had/are dealing with you. And I hate you for how you make my husband feel. He is a damn good man and I will continue to pray every day that you never return to his body. That when this scan comes in December - you're still non-existent. I pray that every scan for the next 50 years shows that you're gone for good from his life and that the fear of your returning gets a little less each time he hears those magic words. Fuck you cancer, you're not welcome here.