Thoughts from the ugly recliner, part 1

Since the surgery a couple of months ago, I've spent a lot of time in this crazy-comfortable-yet-equally-ugly reclining tilt chair feeling weirdly isolated. I say weirdly because I have so much love and support  -- I mean holy smokes! – from all around the world -- but the isolated feeling is not about not having support or being loved.  It's about being camped in this chair for most of the day watching, hearing, imagining the world happening without me. Neighbors walk their dogs. Cars go by. My husband goes to work. 

I can't remember the last time I felt normal in that innocent, pre-cancery way, where my biggest concern was the mean girls at work or my lack of career direction or wondering if we were going to rent a vacation place this summer or what? Those questions seem luxurious to me now or rather, having just those questions seems luxurious. Now I wonder if I'm going to spend the rest of my life (which is – how long, exactly? No one knows, no one will even give a ballpark guess because, doctors, statistics, precision, insurance, uncertainty) taking every moment so seriously.  Like, hey Universe, did I not take myself seriously enough before? Was I too carefree, hedonistic, lighthearted? hahahahahahahaha. I can't laugh enough at that. 

I was the worrier, the anxious one, not always fearful, but always too serious. And so now there's something to be very serious about, every day. Every effing second. And so now should I add to my immediate life goals not being serious, because I don't know how much time on earth I have left? What the actual fuck.

While camped in said chair, I am trying to read something that both makes me feel better and keeps me alert. I search a lot for cancer blogs and while some of them say meaningful things, I am not a rainbow-gifty-florally kind of reader (or writer). I don't know that I will ever say, cancer is a gift. Or was a gift. A gift? Cancer is more like a mail bomb, in my opinion. Maybe it will detonate, maybe not. Can't really say.

I remember when depression and anxiety were my big things to deal, my daily struggle, my quote unquote crosses to bear. They were the most serious things I managed on a daily basis, and while I did not always manage them well, I had at least gotten to a place (after so much therapy and medication and trying and trying) of stability with them. They were in my life but they were not my life. 

I want to say that all the above-mentioned therapy, et al prepared me even one iota for this, but I'd be lying. Once one gets diagnosed with The Big C, once I did anyway, it is back to Square 1-- that is, blindsided, devastated, completely and utterly unprepared, flailing. 

I may get to a similar place with cancer, where it is in my life but not my life – but wow, that is hard to imagine right now. Now, however distorted it may be, I have the feeling that cancer will be part of my life from hereon in. Every day, for all my days, and how many days will that be?

I miss coloring my hair. I miss having hair. I miss boxing and kayaking and working, using that somewhat-intelligent part of my brain to make an actual living. I miss caring about the small, innocuous, wonderful things.