It has been a tough af week.
Tough. As. Fuck.
Somehow I’m still here, despite wanting to give up. Despite wondering just how much more I could bear. And I feel so weak – both mentally and physically – for all the ways I just couldn’t deal; couldn’t function.
I had to dig deep and accept a lot of help this week. It doesn’t come naturally to me, but I’m learning that I just can’t do this alone. I very much do not “have this” as people like to tell me. The cancer has the advantage here. Big time.
Each day gets a little easier the further I get out from that last dose of Xeloda. Still, I know that on Monday morning my oncologist will try to convince me to give it another go, and I just don’t think I can do it. I think it might kill me if I do, and it will def kill me if I don’t. I am just straight up fucked. All the good options are gone. It’s time for the big time baddies – the meds that leave you making the really tough choices.
But, for now, I’m pleased to no longer be vomiting, to have eaten for the first time since Monday, and to have a lot of love and support in my corner.
My goal remains the same: make it through the rest of 2022 feeling good enough to enjoy all the things with my nearest and dearest. Birthdays. Rollercoasters. The pool. Cancun. The motherfucking Mediterranean. Celebrating five years of marriage. One more really beautiful Christmas.