Now that I'm back to working full-time and I'm not all cancer, all the time, my life is beginning to resemble that of a real life. However, every time I have felt that way, something has come along to pull the rug from underneath me (see: double-freaking-mastectomy). I've been back to work for a month now, and I'm probably a month away from my last surgery to finish off the reconstruction, which I will call....
The Boob Finale.
I really hope this surgery is the last one for awhile because frankly, I'm sick of the hospital, dealing with anesthesia and becoming a "regular" at the hospital. Next month will mark my second cancer-versary, and I'll probably have The Boob Finale before then. That will be five, FIVE, surgeries within two years, and lord, I am tired.
I'm so tired.
My body is just so unrecognizable from my neck down to my belly button. From my five surgeries, I have 11 new scars on my body. The double mastectomy added six to the Scar Count. My chest looks like a road map to hell, with my boobs the Mountains of Pain. I go through periods, and I'm apparently in one of them now, where I just don't recognize my own body on the inside and out. I consider times like this mourning periods where I miss what I used to look and feel like.
I miss happy, care-free Lara, who occasionally had to deal with anxiety attacks and no drive to succeed. Now, I feel like I should constantly be doing something, anything. I feel extremely driven to finish my cancer memoir so I will have put something out into the universe, a legacy of some kind. What if something bad happens to me again - will anyone know I have existed if the Big Bad C word comes back and I'm done for? I have to get my mind off things and concentrated on something.
Depression is a helluva beast to try to live with and hopefully conquer. I'm naive enough to think I can overcome this depression and try to regain some of that sense of wellness I had before the cancer hammer came smashing down. When I think too much about what's happened to me in the last two years, I could cry for days and not get off the couch. (Poor Boomer will lay next to me whenever I get this way, like, "It's okay, Mom. No need to be sad when I'm here.")
I'm hoping that after the Boob Finale that a lot of this fear and anxiety about my mortality will subside, and I can just live. I don't want to live a life, fearing death. Nobody should live like that.