My knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel.
It’s time to go in, but I just want to sit here.
You know, it’s funny—
it’s been four years now, but it all seems like a weird dream.
I look at the old photos and don’t even recognize that bald head.
Was it all just a bad dream?
It must’ve been.
But then why am I sitting in the parking lot of an oncology office?
But really, it doesn’t matter what doctor I’m seeing.
It’s all of them.
Every time I pull into their parking lots, I feel it.
It’s the dread.
It’s the uncertainty.
And sometimes, I’m just home—
the pain,
the soreness,
the fluctuating weight.
Weight loss is celebrated by most,
but for me, it’s a sign I missed.
A throbbing pain in my left arm?
Another sign that I missed.
Every sharp pain,
another sign.
Trauma.
PTSD.
Grief.
Those three happen more often than we think,
in ways we don’t understand.
I’ve experienced them all.
And there is no linear movement through them.
They come and go in unexpected ways.
It’s a relief when they’re gone,
but so surprising when they resurface.
One of my doctors, a survivor herself, says it’s taken her 20 years—
20 years to trust her body again,
20 years to process those emotions.
So I only have 16 more to go—
16 more years, and then I will trust my body again.
16 more years, and I won’t be so full of emotions that
burst open like a failing dam.
I loosen my grip on the steering wheel.
Take a deep breath.
Time to face my reality.
I throw open the door.
The bright sunlight bathes my face.
I take steps toward my future self.
This was so deep, real, and inspiring. Thank you for your vulnerability!
Thank you Betty. 🙂