Two down, twenty-eight to go
The thing that bothers me most, during treatment is the thought that long after these treatments are over, I’m still not in the clear. The danger of another cancer (Sarcoma, a cancer of the connective tissues, possibly in a blood vessel) is down the road. In other words, I won’t know until I get it. Ten, twenty years won’t put me in the clear.
Sure, the risk is low, but, as I told the radiation oncologist today—it’s as if you have a pistol that can fire 100 rounds, just because there’s one to five bullets in the cylinder, doesn’t mean I still don’t worry about spinning it and putting it to my head. How bad is angiosarcoma? Let me put it this way—once they find it, it’s too late, and it’s spread to other parts. That’s the beauty of it—it’s right on the blood vessels, so spreading to other parts of the body is super easy… Why did I do this?
I kept hearing how it was the right choice, but…I don’t know. Maybe I’d have been happier lopping off both breasts and being done with all this shit. I’m so angry, that I want to just cry. It’s beyond when you want to punch a wall, or yell, or throw a frigging tantrum. Nothing helps, nothing, nothing, nothing. I just want my life back for crying out loud!!! I don’t want to be thinking about god-damned cancer for the rest of my life, and metastasis, and the like. I’m really angry right now. I’m done with two treatments, and it hurts. I don’t want to do this anymore, and I don’t know what to do—there are no options.
