I Promise You That It Will Be Okay

It’s been a year since I posted. Yikes. In my defense, a reminder of what I closed with, “…I ask that when you impatiently check to see if there’s a new blog up (as I’m sure thousands of you do, daily), please remember that I am living. For every blog I don’t post, there has been a sunset viewing on the beach with my mom and dad, a dinner out with a friend, a movie date with my husband, a concert mini-reunion with friends, a buddy tattoo to commemorate a truly great weekend, a giggly grown-up slumber party, or a quiet evening at home with my man catching up on a cool new show (Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, if you must know). I’m sure there are people out there doing much more interesting things with their lives, and wringing every last moment out of every last second – but for me, I am exactly where I want to be, doing exactly what I want to be doing. And that, dear reader, is what I call living. Until next time, boys and girls.”

I guess it’s now officially next time. I’ve been doing all of the above. Probably the only change would be the last cool new show we watched, which was ‘Stranger Things’ on Netflix. If you haven’t watched it, you should. We also had a lot of concert mini-reunions, another awesome girls only cruise with my mom and sis-in-law, another incredible music cruise, more tattoos, and some trips to London just for funsies. It’s been a good year. Scratch that, it’s been a great year. A year that makes me wonder how I got so damn lucky to have so many incredible friends and family all over this planet. Oh, I almost forgot! I got promoted in the last year, as well. I still don’t know who thought THAT was a good idea. So the job is still good, but I’m starting to look towards the next year or two, and retirement. Been doing this military thing for coming up on 24 years now – and I’ve never felt more like this is a young person’s game. I’m about done. Weird.

So here we are, 4 years post-cancer. It really is more and more like something that happened, and less like something that I deal with. Having my follow-ups with my oncologist finally move to every 6 months helped. A lot. Being reminded every 3-4 months for 3 years makes it hard to forget. So imagine my surprise when I realize I have spent the last 2 days being angry and snarly (more so than usual, thank you very much) and realizing that it’s because of my non-cancery doctor’s appointment this week.

For those of you not following along with my daily life, I’ve had some issues with my bladder ever since ‘the cancer.’ CT and PET scans showed everything was still non-cancery, so I chalked it up to damage from the surgery. Finally, after having pain so bad that Rudy almost called 911 one night, I went to the doctor. Again. I got referred to a civilian doc who thought it was something called interstitial cystitis (IC) based on my symptoms. It’s a non-curable, possibly auto-immune, disorder that no one really knows much about. Yippee! He recommended a cystoscopy to have a look around, and hydrodistention to possibly treat it. A possible cure? Yes, please! I finally had that procedure on Tuesday this week.

Everything went swimmingly. After reading accounts of people waking up worse off than they were before, or in ungodly amounts of pain, I was pleasantly surprised to wake up from surgery feeling a-ok. The doc had some words with Rudy and said they’d make a follow-up appointment soon to go over the results. At some point, I saw the copies of the pictures he’d taken of my innards, and asked Rudy to get a copy. He took a stellar pic with his cell phone like a good husband. (He may or may not seriously regret that decision, by the way.) After we got home, and the drugs wore off, I took a look at the pics. First reaction – meh. They look exactly like what IC is supposed to look like. Then I asked Rudy why half of the pictures were of a weird lumpy spot, since they were nothing like what IC looks like. He then said the words that I’m pretty sure have turned me into a nutcase this week: Those are spots he took a biopsy of, but he said he’s pretty sure they’re not cancer.

Fuck.

If you think I haven’t googled the ever-loving shit out of bladder cancer, you don’t know me very well. Because the first and only time doctors said those words to me (3 doctors, as a matter of fact), it WAS cancer. So sure, I know the odds are in my favor. It’s really highly unlikely that it’s cancer. I know that. I do. But for the first time in a few years, the asshole voice in the back of my head is back. I hate that voice.

That being said, apologies in advance if, in the next week or two, I am more distant/bitchy/forgetful/snarly than usual. I’m trying. I really am. And as usual, fuck cancer.