I kept a blog for many years before it was really a thing. I mean, we still called it "weblog" back then. I started a new one as a young teacher striking out on my own. I needed it then. I wrote all the time, mostly vents and rants when I just couldn't take it anymore, but there were good posts too. I never thought about an audience; this was just me, writing for me. When I met my husband, he became a part of it because he was a part of my life. Unfortunately, at that point, my blog was getting ported over to social media and a lot of people were reading it. You know how autistics don't always "get" the social thing? Yeah. I nearly destroyed my relationship with my future in-laws, at least twice. I pretty much quit writing then. I finally understood how hurtful my words could be, even if I never said anything outright negative. We've been married almost eleven years now, so it's been awhile. I actually started this blog over a year ago, but could never really sit down and make it happen. I've thought often about why this might be. Writing comes from somewhere deep within me; somewhere I haven't connected to in quite a long time. You see, six years ago I was diagnosed with cancer. Stage IV cancer. Cancer so bad that "if you do all your chemo, you might get to live 3-6 months more". I was 31. I was mama to a 2-year-old and wife to the most amazing man on the planet. We had recently lost a pregnancy, which led me to seek further medical care when I couldn't get pregnant again. February 8, 2012. By February 23, I was in a hospital less a spleen, a gall bladder, an appendix, all of my female organs, and a 30 x 18 x 10 tumor. It took a week and a "Rare Disease Panel" for the doctors even to tell me the name of my cancer. I remember very little of that time, but I do remember the doctor handing me the slip of paper with the name of my cancer on it. I also remember waking up a few days later and my mother begging me not to look it up on the internet.
To say I was traumatized would be an understatement. Cancer destroyed me. And I've been picking up the pieces ever since. I tried for years on my own. It's how I'd always done things. I took whatever came my way and I pulled myself up by my bootstraps and I dealt with it. I tried. I really did. But it was just too much. I have been a Christian for many years, but God and I just weren't on good terms. I was angry, yes, but I was also lost. The me I was before was gone. Shattered. Blown apart. Who was I now? Am I still a woman if I have no more female parts? Am I a believer if I do not speak to my Creator? Am I a mother if everyone else is having to raise my kid because I'm so sick? Every single piece of my identity was taken from me. I used to be a teacher. I can no longer be around kids for extended periods because my immune system is shot. I used to be smart. Chemo destroyed my brain. I used to be healthy. Before cancer, I had thrown up three times in my life. I worked with kids - it took something really nasty to get me sick. I used to be active. Now I can barely leave the house. I can't even grocery shop now, y'all. It's too much. No more masking for this autie!
I've been in therapy for 2.5 years now and have apparently been making progress, in spite of more and more diagnoses getting thrown at me. Two days ago my friend died. She was 36, mama to 2 amazing kiddos, and had a different form of the same cancer I did. It broke me. Her prognosis was so good. There was a 94% five-year survival rate for her cancer. There is no five-year survival rate for my cancer. I knew it was coming. I knew when hospice had been called in. I still fell apart. But yesterday my therapist said something that really hit home with me. I have been massively struggling with survivor's guilt. It hits me every single time someone I know dies from cancer. Why did they die and I survive? Why? She was all her kids had. She was their world. Why was she taken? Why am I still here when I'm not supposed to be? Every single stat shows that I shouldn't be here; every single deck was stacked against me medically. To be clear, I don't want to die. I'm grateful that I am still here. But yesterday my therapist, while agreeing with me that it was not fair that my friend was gone, said, "Yes, she should still be here. But so should you." Y'all. Have I been walking around for six years thinking that I shouldn't still be here? Am I unable to engage because I don't believe I should be around to do so? Over the past six months, I've seen a few glimpses of what it looks like to live, not just survive. I've been in survival mode for six and a half years. My child is about to be nine. Have I just skated by in survival mode for most of his life? And suddenly, I wanted to write again. Writing is where I hash out these thoughts. Where I find my center. Maybe, just maybe, I'll find myself again.
