I’m so particular about words. They must be just right, and when wielded correctly can be quite powerful. They can help people feel not so alone, more understood, and give people the words they need to express how they really feel.
Today, I’m waiting on more scan results. I wait as still as I can while reels play in my head of past circumstances. I hear the voices, smell the smells, see the scenes as if I were inside the act itself.
Act II, scene 3, the doctor says, “You probably won’t ever be cancer-free.” Knock it off, Pham. You’ve already said that once.
Act III, scene 4, the doctor says the word, “decades.” I heard that loud and clear, Shide. Speak up.
I’ve not written in a long time. I’ve been creating in other ways, working on the app. Writing for that. You all know, my dad died, too, and I haven’t written much since then. But, as I’ve said before, sometimes I have to write feelings out of my skin. They come straight from my rumpled soul this morning.
Safe to say I’m having some perpetual existential crisis. I’m continually wondering about the purpose of life, contemplating and fearing what death must be like, and confused about the stagnant pattern that seemingly goes on before me. As I circle the track, looking for someone to hand this freaking baton to, I wonder what the next step will bring.
Scan results should be in today or tomorrow. I click my patient portal, refresh, forget it, feel peace, panic again, click, refresh. Baton in hand, running sweaty ovals around my day.
I have a lump under my right armpit, where lymph nodes still reside. Where they radiated my neck is also a bit swollen and tender. Of course, with my history, I’m scared. How could I not be? I’m hoping it’s this raunchy med I have to take. Funny how the medicine meant to keep cancer away has got bad side effects, too. I get achy quite often. I’m swollen. I’ve gained weight. My face is round and puffy. What little vanity I have gets slapped in the face every day. But that’s fine as long as it stays away.
So, we all sit and wait today. Nervously dusting the same spot on the cabinet in our minds. I deeply appreciate all the dusters who are dusting for me. Thank you all while we wait.
This is for all you people who know what it’s like to wait for a scan. For that girl in my ENT’s office who had cancer before and confessed to me that she’s so scared. I understand.
I was talking to Kristin at church the other day. Breast cancer is like my disease. It just never seems to leave. Maybe I’ll be an enigma. One of those people whose cancer decides to leave her alone for a while.
In the meantime, we wait. We run dusty, sweaty ovals. All together.
Much love to you all.
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