The first week post diagnosis was hell. It seems like ages ago but in reality only a little more than two short weeks have past. I have moved through many stages of mourning; sadness and depression, anger and flat out denial (I actually imagined that my first doctor was really the Sweeney Todd of breast surgeons and that I didn’t have cancer, he just wanted to chop of my breasts. This was not actually the case). There were days that I couldn’t get myself out of bed or pick myself up off the floor. I am a dramatic person by nature but this was real. I couldn’t move.
Now that some time has passed, I’ve had all of my biopsies, scans, blood work and meetings, I’m in a waiting place. Instead of watching the clock tick by until my mastectomy, which I thought I would be, I’m leading life normally. I often forget now that I have cancer and that in less than three weeks my body will be changed forever. I’m cooking dinner, going to the grocery store, doing laundry, changing diapers…normal, normal, normal. Too normal, maybe.
I say, “too normal” because I’m afraid that when I actually get to the hospital on September 5, it’s all going to come flooding back at once and I’ll be completely blindsided. “What am I doing here? What are you going to do with that scalpel?” I’m nervous that my fear will be so crippling, that I won’t be able to do it. I know I’ll have to. But what if I can’t?
Normal is great for right now. But what am I going to do next?