It sounds like a cliche to say a lot has happened in the last six months. A cliche and a lie. I got the news. I wept. I raged. I laid awake at night, contemplating my mortality. I went into surgery, I came out of surgery, seven pounds of colon lighter. I recovered, gradually. Once, in a morphine haze, I advised my child who was dealing with a schoolyard bully to "just hit her."
Parenting while on heavy painkillers is interesting, to say the least.
My tumor is currently still making the rounds somewhere in Utah, as geneticists search for the underlying cause as to why a 33-year-old woman would end up with colon cancer.
It was a great day when I heard the words "Stage One."
I got off the pain meds. I started eating regular food again. Mostly, anyway. Some foods are less forgiving than they once were. I went back to work.
I still worry. A little part of me dreads September, when I will go in for my one-year scope. By the way, I feel like the most popular girl at the ball, since it seems every doctor I've spoken with wants to get up in my junk with that sigmoidoscope.
Over half a year since my life changed, and yet, not much feels different.