The rollercoaster called CANCER

Picture this. Your hair is long and thick, growing longer every day. Then suddenly all twelve inches of it are gone, off in the mail to some unknown place in Florida and the little half-inch fuzz on your head becomes your new normal...for a bit. Then you start to lose the fuzz, in patches, so you shave it all off, only your hair is still growing, in patches, so now you have little tufts of tiny little hairs in odd groups around your head. You go to a treatment and within a few days, you start to see little black specks on your pillow, in the sink, on your neck, on your chest and your head becomes more and more bald. Then the little black specks stop falling out. After a few days, they start to grow again. Your fuzz becomes longer. Scarves and hats become itchy. Then you have a treatment. The specks begin to fall again. Your head becomes smoother and smoother. Then it stops, and you notice a more sandpaper feel to your head. Your hair is growing back. You know it will grow for the next week or so and then... suddenly, you are very, very aware of the roller coaster ride called Cancer.
Imagine this. You walk three to four miles a day. Walking makes life make sense. Walking makes you feel strong, and powerful and in control. Then you have surgery. You can't walk anymore. You're barely awake most of the time. After a few weeks, you realize you can walk again, not long distances, but some, and then it's time for surgery number two and your walking comes to another sudden stop. Surgery number 3 follows closely behind, and then chemo begins and before you know it, you've put on five pounds and feel fat and fatigued. You decide to take matters in your own hands, change up your diet and start walking again. 2.5 miles the first day. It feels good, SO good to be in control again. So good, in fact, that you ignore the searing chest pains two miles in. Your heart rate must have gotten too high. You'll go slower next time. Day two, you're sore, but you feel powerful, and strong, so you head out again. 2.6 miles this time. No chest pains, but the fatigue is starting to set in. SO tired. Day 3. You notice your heart beating rapidly as you enter the shower and you wonder why. The fatigue is overwhelming, but you're stubborn. You know you should listen to your body, but...but...but...So you walk. You realize soon into the walk that this is just not a good idea, but you decide to push it, just a little. About a mile in, you notice chest pains again. DRAT! So you stop to take your pulse. Only 130. Why the chest pains? You cut the walk short. 1.6 miles this time. So tired. The laundry calls. The dishes call. The library calls (well, emails, to inform you that you forgot to include the dvd in the case when you returned it. DRAT again!). SO tired. You hate this roller coaster called Cancer. Hate it with every fiber of your being. The stubborn streak in you rears its head and roars, but you know that if you listen to it, it could silence you...forever. Your body isn't this invincible thing anymore. It's fragile, and weak and no longer in your control.
Envision this. You are plugged in to a group of people that you love, a family. Some of them decide you are no longer welcome there and at exactly that time, you get your ticket to the roller coaster ride named Cancer. You leave. Surgery. Surgery. Surgery. Chemo. Chemo. No time to process. No energy to deal. Then your energy returns, in spurts. You think about going back, at times, but you know you're in a better place now. Then you hear through the rumor mill. "They're saying you are better now because they cut you off." Say what?!! The pride in you rises up! The anger is so strong you can taste it and you decide to take your cancerous little butt down there and prove to them that they do not dictate your life! How DARE they?! You plot and plan and scheme about how you are going to prove your point, who will watch the kids, what time you will go down there, and you try to deaden the words of the oncologist. "I'm sorry, but you really need to stay away from working with the homeless right now. There is nothing wrong with them, but it is too many germs for your body to handle in one place." DRAT! DRAT! DRAT! Your pride rears its ugly head and roars, but you know that if you listen to it, it could be the end of you...forever. The roller coaster called CANCER. You'd like to give your ticket back, but you can't. You're strapped in, rolling around and around and around, and until the ride is finish, there is no getting off. You're trapped.