You might think after seven years I would have adjusted by now to having an oncologist, but I have not. Not entirely anyway. It still seems strange to have need of such a person in my life. As I’ve written about before, I’ve switched oncologists five times. Yes, five.
Every now and then I am reminded about the magnitude of my cancer diagnosis. I mean really reminded. Despite the way breast cancer is too often (ad nauseum) portrayed, I understand the seriousness of this potentially deadly disease all too well. I’ve seen the horror of it up close. I understand what my diagnosis means. […]
It’s been nine months since my dad died. Judging by societal expectations, something we shouldn’t do of course, things should be back to normal. I should be back to normal. But I am not. I am still limping along through grief.
April is National Poetry Month, so last week I invited newsletter subscribers (What, you haven’t signed up yet? See what you’re missing out on!) to share poems they’ve written. Most of us have written poems somewhere along the line, probably in elementary school, perhaps in high school or possibly in a creative writing course in college.
The losses from metastatic breast cancer continue, as does the heartache, the frustration, the anger, the disbelief and the agony. The numbers are staggering. Too many, just too many. When will the numbers start going down, we ask? When will the dying stop? How many times can our hearts break?