I disappeared for awhile.
I’m entitled. Excuse the
language, Mom and Dad, but depression is a bitch. I never truly understood what depression was
until it attacked me sometime between my third and fourth rounds of chemo. I walked around Mom’s house crying,
daily. I didn’t believe I’d get well,
and more to the point, I wasn’t sure I was worthy of being healed. Even if I did go into remission, I’d turned
into such damaged goods, who’d want to take me on? What was I doing with my life that made me
worthy to be healed? Thankfully, I wear
my heart on my sleeve, and my oncologist could see how unhappy I was. (Crying
in the middle of an appointment might have been a tip-off.) Her compassion and lack of judgment made it
easier to explain how badly I needed help.
And I found a cancer survival group geared towards young adults. I found a shrink. Chemicals helped alter my personality into
depression; I now take an anti-depressant to recalibrate.
I suppose I should feel more ashamed of all these medical
issues. But I have enough narcissism and
altruism to think people need to hear what I have to say. Not necessarily because I’m the one who’s
having them, but because I can’t be the only one who’s having them. I created this blog as a way for people to
realize they weren’t alone. Infertility
issues, mental health issues, cancer issues, face-mortality-at-a-young-age
issues—I wanted people to know they weren’t alone. But there are days I worry this kind of
honesty is going to come back and bite me.
At the risk of sounding shallow, how am I going to attract a man when I
come with what must be the human equivalent of a Carfax report that says “Rachel
Boyd is a lemon”?
In spite of all this, I begin to have tenuous steps towards
remission. You guys missed my story of radiation. Twenty-eightish days of basically being
microwaved while being strapped down to a table while wearing a plastic mask
that promotes claustrophobia… The stuff fetish magazines are made of. But I celebrated my last radiation treatment
by going to the DC/Virginia area for a much-needed visit to one of my bff’s,
Liz, and her newish boyfriend (whom I got to give the Friend Judgment to) and a
beloved cousin’s wedding. In all
honesty, my health and energy levels would have been better served by staying
home and watching Good Eats and One Tree Hill. But seeing my friends and my family was my
reward and my treat. Liz and the Minicks
had been so supportive from Minute One of my diagnosis that I wanted them to
see their prayers didn’t go unanswered.
And now I begin healing.
I’m back at work daily, though often interrupted for doctors’
appointments. I finally moved in with my
long-suffering roommate. I’m meeting people:
nice girls my own age to make friends with, cute boys. I’m baby-sitting again. I got to sing “The Wheels on the Bus” with my
favorite charge, complete with hand motions.
It was the healthiest I’d felt in months. The gods’ honest truth is I have a good
chance to beat cancer. But my age and
gender and the severity of my particular cancer mean there’s also a very good
chance I’ll relapse. If don’t relapse,
side effects from the radiation like breast or lung cancer might get me.
I might also die of a stroke, hit by a car, or poisoned in a
trendy restaurant. If I don’t enjoy
living a bit more, what was the point of getting well in the first place?
