When this “journey” started, I honestly thought the toughest part would be coming to terms with the fact that I have cancer. I thought the doctor’s terrible way of giving me the news would be the most difficult. The tears in his office. The breakdowns afterward telling family and close friends.

In all seriousness, that was the easy part. I had all these messed up expectations for this process. At first, I thought I’d get chemo and bounce right back. Like I mean, going back to work the day of and just feeling generally fine. I had these high hopes my hair would stay put. I’d look the same. I’d be the same person. I was not going to let this cancer diagnosis change me.

But it has. It’s changed me. It’s made me vulnerable. It’s made me fucking sick. God damn sick. I’ve been sick before. I’ve had the flu. I’ve had constantly reoccurring tonsillitis. I’ve had the flu and tonsillitis at the same time, probably. I’ve had strep throat over and over and over again. I had H1N1 and I remember being afraid to go to sleep in case I didn’t wake up. But it passed. I survived. And now I barely remember any of it.

This is different, because every time I get over it I can only have a half sigh of relief. Half because I know it will be back. I know that a few days after finally completing the 10-pills-and-an-injection per day, the constant nausea and exhaustion and headaches I have to go back for more of the shit that makes it all start again.

It’s tough. I hate admitting that I’m not as strong as I thought I was. I had so many expectations and most of them were wrong. I’m trying to adjust to just living in the moment, because I never really know how I’ll feel. But the fact is, I don’t feel like myself and that’s the worst part. I’m not one to feel sorry for myself, and I don’t particularly like people who do. It frustrates me when people have a poor me attitude. So I’m mad at myself because I feel like I have that, at least when I’m feeling particularly sick or I forget I have no hair left and then I see it and it whomps me from behind.

Five months is doable though. I can do five months. I know I can do this.

I’m not depressed, I’m just frustrated. Frustrated that I don’t feel like I can go running out for lunch with a friend. Frustrated that I can’t focus on getting our budget under control because I can’t even think about anything other than how shitty I feel. Frustrated that I want to feel better and can’t seem to do anything to speed up the process. Frustration is my main feeling right now.

I’m not patient, but I need to adjust and become patient. Five months. That’s all. I’m already almost a month in. I can do this. I need to let go of any expectations and live in the moment. If I’m sick, I’m sick. If I’m not, enjoy it.

I feel like I can’t even manage full sentences right now. Like everything that comes out is in fragments, which is a frightening parallel to my life. I crave stability.
I know, life happens. It’s no ones fault I have cancer. It’s no ones fault that even though I took the job I’m at right now to do someone I didn’t even know a favour, that job has suddenly ceased to exist.

I took this job against my better judgement. Initially, I thought of it as settling. But I quickly got past that mindset, especially in light of the ridiculous health problems I’ve racked up lately. I began to realize that it would function as a port of calm, a drop of normalcy in an otherwise screwed up life. It was the perfect setting – somewhere that would keep me busy and provide a paycheque so I could contribute to climbing out of our massive pile of debt, while remaining relatively stress free. I could do this job while I was sick – sick from cancer, sick from treatments. I had the ability to wiggle the schedule around last minute if I ended up needing a doctors appointment or a day to stay in bed.
I had a plan. I could work at this job during the duration of my treatment, then, once I was strong and clear headed again I could continue to climb the mountain of career-oriented life goals I had set for myself. It would be a welcome break, a flat plain amidst the rocky uphill battles I was facing. A place to breathe, take a drink of water and remind myself that I was still me, that cancer wouldn’t define me and that there was a light at the end of the tunnel.

Two days ago, my entire plan went up in smoke.

“Lease is up. We’ve decided to close the doors.”

“We hope to come back in a while.”

“The last day open will be January 25.”

Excellent. In two and a half weeks I’ll be one treatment in, the real shit side effects won’t even have shown up yet, and my only distraction has disappeared as fast as the mirrors steam up while I shower.

There’s a key difference of course: I can wipe the mirrors and be able to see into them again. I can’t see a way to fix this.

Diagnosis. Confirmation. Yes, you have Hodgkin’s. “Good.” GOOD? I said good? What?

I suppose now we know what it is. Though we already did and this felt like such an unnecessary, time-wasting step. There are rapidly dividing cells in my body right now, trying to kill me.

Well maybe it’s not that bad. “Looks localized.” CT scan. Bone marrow aspiration. Bones pierced with a needle. Sore. Waiting for more results. Chemo. It’ll be chemo we’ll use to treat this.

Run away for a holiday. Manage to forget, most of the time. Have one or two break downs, when no one can see. Cry about everything you’ll lose. Wipe the snot and buck up. It’s just hair. Even if I don’t really believe that bald is beautiful, and I have a roadmap of scars on my head.

But what if I want to have babies? Maybe it’s not meant to be.

It’s not just me that I’m taking it from. I know my husband wants babies one day. He wants to see if they look like him or me. He wants to play hockey with them, teach them to skate and throw a ball. Be the parent who’s at every sporting event.

He says he’s okay if we can’t. He has to be, really. It’s that or we just let the cancer win. But it’s just not fair. Chemo attacks everything that rapidly divides. It can’t tell the difference between eggs and cancer.

What can I do?

IVF. They’ll take your eggs and your husband’s sperm and freeze them until you’re ready to have a baby.

“It’s about 10 thousand dollars.”

Are you fucking kidding me?! I can barely afford to pay the bills I have now. Big rig cheques, big debt. We don’t have a spare 10 thousand dollars. That option is not an option at all.

“We can try Lupron. It will put you into medical menopause. But you won’t know if your period stopped because of the Lupron (good) or the chemo. (bad).”

One more shot to take with the chemo. Then when the chemo is done, so is the Lupron. Hold your breath and pray everything goes back to normal afterwards.

Pray so hard. My husband deserves better than this.

CT says cancer is in the neck and the chest. Need a PET scan to confirm. But the bone marrow is clean. Thank you Jesus.

“We’ll start you on chemo this week.”

What? I’m not ready. I am not ready.  Chemo side effects. Menopause at 25. So what if it’s not forever — I still have to deal with it.

Ready or not. Here we go.