It is hard to believe my last treatment was three months ago.  I have been frustrated by what I thought was a slow road to recovery.  I expected to improve quickly after my last round of chemo, but last week one of the nurses explained that it will take a full twelve months to recover from the effects of chemotherapy, including the fatigue and pain I feel.  Wherever I am next August will be my “new normal.”

The frustration, fatigue, and pain are just a few of the continuing effects of cancer.  The most difficult to address may be how cancer makes me – or should I say, us – feel.

Curtis:  Cancer makes me feel possessive.  Cancer is trying to take someone that was given to me.  Melissa:  Cancer makes me feel urgency.  I need to give the most I can to him, in case I am no longer here.

Curtis:  Uneasy.  It causes me to second guess most of what I do.  Did I cook the food right?  Did I hug her too hard?  Am I asking the right questions?  Did I wash my hands?  Melissa:  Less judgmental.  Not everything has to be perfect.  Nothing is perfect and never will be again.  It is not worth sweating the small stuff.  Well, at least not all of the time.

Curtis:  Anxious.  And not in a good, Christmas Eve kind of way.  Anxious, as in a haunted house with the normal terrifying things associated with a haunted house – plus a trap door.  And you don’t know where it is.  Did you pass it?  Is it around the corner?  Are you on it now?  Melissa:  Certain and uncertain all at the same time.  Though life is never certain, I feel like mine is.  I am certain that my cancer is still here and will rear its ugly head again.  I do not know when or how.  Or how I can prepare (either myself or others).

Curtis:  Sad.  The only tears, the only pain, worse than my own are the tears and pain of someone I love.  Melissa:  Worried.  My pain is relatively minor compared to the idea of leaving my loved ones behind or becoming even more of a burden than I have been in the last several months.

Curtis:  Inadequate.  Not only can I not do a solitary thing against it, I cannot even fully do what I normally do because cancer demands full attention.  I, therefore, am seemingly trapped in a room of “good enoughs” that never truly are.  Melissa:  Thankful.  I am very thankful for all of the support.  And the effort.  Even when things are not “right.”  And it is actually pretty amazing how good things are considering how much he has had to do by himself for almost a year now.

Curtis:  Tired.  How can I rest when she doesn’t?  Melissa:  Relieved.  He has done everything possible to support me.  But I want him to rest.  He needs and deserves rest.

Curtis:  Drained.  Cancer pokes a small hole in the back of my head and dares me to take care of it.  Cancer knows my hands and heart are full taking care of my loved one.  I cannot cover the hole.  So energy slowly drips out.  Melissa:  Worried.  See above.  I want him to take care of himself, too.  He needs that.

Cancer makes us feel . . . too much.