I’m sick and tired of feeling sick. And tired. This makes me angry. A lot. And I realized that most of my posts have some tidbit of newfound perspective or uplifting something in them. And while those are genuine sentiments, they aren’t the whole story. If I want to be authentic to describing this experience, I also need to talk about my anger, devoid of any balancing emotion. Because lots of times, I have no balancing emotion. I’m just mad. So here’s your informed consent: if you need something happy or uplifting today, read no further. This isn’t the post for you.
I’m angry that I got this in the first place, in the time that I did. (See Mike if you aren’t familiar with the timing thing). I’m angry that it affects the relationships I have, and robs me of spending time with some of the people I care about. I’m angry that I waited out the five-year Montana Winter for Missoula’s glorious summer, only to be reduced to enjoying it vicariously through facebook and other means of visual sharing, since the chemo makes me so sun-sensitive. In my less gracious moments, I’m angry that others still get theirs, only apparently not enough to stop looking at the pictures.
I’m angry that Miko’s biggest problem this summer isn’t that her friends probably get to go to Splash Montana more than she does, or that I don’t let her have sleepovers until she has cleaned her room. Instead, it’s worry that I’ll get worse, or die like her oldest friend’s mom did a few years ago, or her uncle did a few months ago. I’m so angry she has to even think about that. And that my parents have to split their grief over losing their oldest child with worry over the life of their youngest. I repeat that anger for my sister and my other brother and my nieces and nephews and cousins and aunts and uncles and…. you get it.
I’m angry when people in the store do a double take on my bald head. The kids I try to smile at, knowing it might be shocking or even scary to them. But the adults? Come on. We all know someone who has cancer by now, due to poor health choices, bad genetics, dumb luck, or some combination thereof. Get over it, adults, and stop acting like a woman with a bald head is something to have your world rocked by. It’s not.
And about the genetics. I’m angry at this whole conversation going on about the BRCA 1 and 2 gene mutations that can dramatically increase your chances for breast cancer. This is the whole Angelina Jolie thing. She had a preventative double mastectomy because her mother died of ovarian cancer, and she tested positive for the gene mutation, putting her at an approximately 87% chance of developing breast cancer and about 50% chance of developing ovarian cancer. Her mastectomy dropped her risk of breast cancer to below five percent. She has also considered having her ovaries removed. Why am I angry about this? It’s an important conversation to have, and I’m all about having it. I also support her choice, and any other woman who makes her own personal choice thoughtfully. Just, have a full conversation. Jolie glosses over what could have been a full conversation by saying, “I don’t feel any less of a woman.” Ok, so she’s just a celebrity, I can’t really expect too much of her, since her job is to act in movies that sell. So I’m really angry at the medical community at large who don’t give women all of the facts up front, or act like other pieces of the story are important. Let me give you a little bit of context. When genetic testing was proposed to me, I was told, “If positive, some women choose to be proactive and have their breasts and ovaries removed so they can maximize the chances of being around for their families. Other women decide to wait for the cancer to come to them, and just screen more aggressively with six-month pelvic ultrasounds and breast MRIs.” Think about that wording for a minute. If I am selfless, I will put my family first, and have a good portion of what makes me physically female removed. If I am reckless, I’ll keep on top of it with imaging. Now consider if the same scenario were given to a man. What if there were a genetic mutation that put men at higher risk of developing testicular cancer (maybe there is, I didn’t check). Do you think for a moment the medical community would be so cavalier about the removal of testicles as the prudent and responsible choice? I don’t. I think there would be complete conversation, careful to consider the emotional toll of losing one’s “manhood.” So why is that dude’s manhood more important than my womanhood? Because that’s what removal of my ovaries essentially is: castration. I’m not saying anyone’s decision should be called into question, but there is value to being woman, autonomously, just as there is value to being man, and that warrants the respect of a damned discussion. (On a side note, this anger is more theoretical than actually personal. I tested negative for the BRCA 1 and 2 genetic mutation, which is wonderful news for me and my family. On a side-side-note, my options were to test positive, negative, or undetermined. I just *knew* my results would be undetermined. My immediate thought was, “Oh of course. Even my genes are going to prove to be indecisive.”).
I’m also angry for a pile of other reasons I don’t really want to talk about publicly, but still color my experience, adding to my anger, threatening to decrease my enjoyment of life.
Some of this, I know, is an expectable and rational response to a serious illness. I get it. And sometimes it’s not so rational. Like when someone tells me to have a good day, and inside I rage, “Have a good day? You f*#@ing try and have a good day feeling like this, you clueless jerk!” Instead, I smile, bottle my missplaced anger, and say something like, “Thanks, you too,” to show that I understand how to play the manners game, and that I can forgive the unsuspecting grocery store clerk who dared to wish me well.
nopinkribbonsplease 