The Play that is My Life
I haven’t cried since December. I’m assuming I cried sometime in December, though I can’t be sure. What I do know, I have not cried since my diagnosis a few days before Christmas, 2017. I am by no means in denial. I know my diagnosis. I know my odds. Yet somehow, I have detached myself and feel as if I am watching what I call the play that is my life. I hear and comprehend what the doctors and nurses tell me. I follow instructions. And even now, in remission, I dutifully go have my bloodwork done every other week and receive clinical trial maintenance treatment. I am even hesitant to go out of town for fear of missing a treatment or screwing up the schedule. For a long time I thought this all was positive. It kept me rational, objective. I would read about other women in similar situations who found themselves sobbing uncontrollably and I thought, I’m so glad that’s not me. I am facing this thing clear-eyed and forcefully. Crying and becoming emotional would keep me from focusing.