Flashbacks

This year, in a few more months, I'll mark 10 years since my original diagnosis.  Since then my cancer has sometimes been the gift that keeps on giving.  Some existential anguish of the "why am I still here" variety caused a stress-induced autoimmune disease that took a year for any of the many medical professionals I see to take seriously.  Thank you to the observant and thoughtful nurse who encouraged me to say something at a routine appointment in early 2020; within a couple of weeks, Graves' Disease was confirmed.  I'm happy to say that I'm in remission, having ceased medication over a year ago now, .  Around the same time I could say I'm truly done with Graves', I had another bone density scan, the results of which indicated I could no longer put off more serious treatment of the osteoporosis in my spine.  Thank you to the cancer treatment that has kept disease from coming back.  Also, eff you, treatment, for requiring more and more treatment.  Anyway.  After scheduling an infusion of Reclast for early this year, and then rescheduling and then rescheduling again, because health insurance in America is about profits and not people, I finally had the infusion last Thursday.  First flashback: I'm getting an infusion.  I will be steeped in chemicals.  Second flashback: I hate IVs (only a mild vasovagal response, rejoice).  Third flashback: this chair is lovely and comfortable and all the loveliest art on the walls and the friendliest and most compassionate medical staff cannot hide the fact that I'm here because something is wrong with me.  Fourth flashback: side effects are a bitch.  My knee is still, three days later, the size of a cantaloupe, its excess fluid showing no signs of being resorbed by my body.  Fifth flashback: I cannot do the simplest things on my own, because I am betrayed by my physical self, let alone help anyone else with the things I could normally help with.

Other than that, though, things are quite fine, and I woke up this morning, in almost no pain.  This is a gift.  I do not take it for granted.  The past few days were not fun and I expect the next few will not be either.  After that I'm sure all will be well.  I haven't been on this blog for a couple of years.  All it takes is a couple of very lousy days.  Writing is therapy.  Pity party now over.

Everything is so fragile.  It takes almost nothing to tip the scales.  We know because, shit, look around.  If you woke up in America this morning too you probably know what I mean.

Well, at the very least -- here's to waking up.