Beggar Walking

I wish I wish I wish I wish I wish I wish I wish I wish I wish I didn't have cancer. I do. I wish I didn't have cancer.

I felt like a healthy woman when I finished radiation three years and four months ago. I felt pretty good... celebratory, even. I'd recovered from surgery, and I'd been a brave little chemo soldier who rarely complained or missed a day of work. I had a radiation burn, a good half inch of hair, and no evidence of disease in my body.

I knew that even if "cured" wasn't a word that could (or should) be applied to people who'd had breast cancer, that it could still be physical reality. I stood a fair chance of dying of something other than breast cancer, hopefully at an advanced age.

I finished radiation today, but I'm sick and tired and not the slightest bit celebratory. My collar bone hurts, and doesn't seem to be getting better. I still can't raise my arm. The radiation oncologist tells me that there's absolutely no way to assess if the radiation was effective in killing the cancer cells in my clavicle, which has now had its lifetime maximum exposure to radiation.

These weeks of worry feel like months, and there are no scenarios that will allow me to live out a long life with Eric, and grow old with him, and anything short of that sucks.

I guess it's nice to not have to drive to Hayward for the treatments. I guess it's good that it's over. I don't know. It's not like it was before -- nothing is like what it was before.

I wish I wish I wish I wish I wish I didn't have cancer. This wish is worth absolutely nothing. This wish and three dollars will buy you a venti nonfat latte. Wishes aren't horses, and there's no going back, and all I can do is appreciate what I have. I wish I didn't have cancer. I wish I didn't have cancer. I wish.