The week before my PET scan, my brain slid into overdrive. I was no longer cautiously optimistic and casting furtive glances at my future. My thoughts perfected an uroboros, eating me alive. I was sure my cancer was back. I couldn't sleep. I cried a lot. I told myself all signs were positive, but it did little good. When people would ask how I was coping, I'd answer "Stressed, but okay". "Okay" was a type of prayer. "Okay" was what I hoped to achieve.
Long story short: My cancer is still gone. I found out Thursday on camera with Dr. Y. and almost burst into tears. He said I seemed surprised. It was an understatement. Relief flooded my body.
I thought I'd spend the next few days in euphoria, cascading into rainbow puddles. Except, I'm not. Yesterday, I had one of the most complicated days of my life. It was almost like I didn't know what to do with the information after receiving bad news for so long. Relief, joy, guilt, and futility rushed towards me.
Why am I still alive when truly incredible people die every day?
I want to hurt myself.
Even if I live to be 100 years old, I'll never be useful and worthy. Giving me extra time to live is probably a waste.
Am I suffering from clinical depression?
Dr. Y. said he'll know I'm in trouble when I stop making jokes. He has yet to figure out humor is my sword and shield. It keeps people from peeking beneath my mask. It disarms them and changes their minds about me.
Where is my head at today? I'm not entirely sure. Perhaps I'm just going to have blender-brain for awhile—everything swirled together and processing... processing.
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