I’m not ok. Should I write when I’m not ok?
I’m feeling confused, tired, vulnerable, insecure, tired, misunderstood, abandoned, forgotten, self-doubting, defensive, unloved. Feeling sorry for myself. Did I say tired? I want a mother and father to dote over me, to treasure and cherish me, to marvel at my fingers and toes.
I feel alone. Like I have to go it alone, carry this load by myself. Be brave. Be strong. I’ve been at this so long people no longer ask how I’m doing. They tell me I look good, that I’m positive or inspirational or something.
The trouble is, I’m not up to it anymore. I’m tired.
Things are going ok, I suppose. There is still the myriad of doctors and testing and scanning and poking and probing. Chemo every 3rd Monday. On Tuesday I have to have yet another surgery to replace the port that was put in my chest in 2012 to facilitate the endless chemo infusions. I don’t remember anything about the original procedure when the port was put in, that’s how out of it I was back then. The port no longer functions so another one will be put in, and threaded up into my jugular vein.
I guess it’s no big deal, but somehow I’m not ok. I have to go under anesthesia again. More cutting on my body. I think it’s the cutting part that is bothering me. I want to curl up into a ball and protect my body. Defend myself. I’m tired of the knives and needles and radioactive rays that are bombarding me. Weekly, it seems.
I want to be swaddled. Carried. Cared for. Protected. Loved.