In a couple of hours, I will be seeing a medical oncologist for the first time. I should be getting answers as to what the plan of attack for my cancer (which I have named Barney) will be. Last night, I was pretty calm about it and slept like I didn't have a worry in the world. Well, things have changed.
I am pretty panicky and full of anxiety right now. Fuck, I have breast cancer. I HAVE MOTHER-FUCKING BREAST CANCER. This isn't a long nightmare I haven't woken up from. I have cancer. Instead of dreaming about marriage and babies, I'm thinking about what are the best odds of me living beyond five years and how can I prevent infertility and early menopause. I have cancer. I'm 30 and I may not make it to 40. I really have cancer.
This doctor is going to say words like: chemo, radiation, mastectomy and hormone therapy, and I'm going to want to crawl into a hole and hide. My anxiety was apparently on vacation and just came back today, like, "Hey, Lara. Did I miss anything? Oh, you have breast cancer? Really? Well, shit. I have got some worrying work to do. PANIC. PANIC. PANIC." I'm shaky and feel like my heart is going to beat out of its chest.
It is some scary shit to face your mortality at the "ripe old" age of 30. I have so much more I want to do. I want to go to Europe, I want to see my nieces and nephews graduate high school, I want to go to the Caribbean.... I want to marry my boyfriend, and I want to have a baby that has my sweetie's eyes. I just want to live.
I really have cancer.