These are some scary pics circa October 2014, about Round 3 of Chemo. Just look at the forced grins, steroidal moon-face and those medication-dulled eyes.
Reminders are everywhere. Scars, of course - hidden and those impossible to conceal.
Lingering depression and the terror of recurrence. For a long time post-acute treatment I'm unable to mount the mere thought of a comeback. Mourning my old life keeps me paralyzed, along with that fucking torn hamstring.
Departing slowly is the sad, stiff, achy, clutzy, obese girl. She can squat, she can move, she can Plank. Her core, formerly rotten and weak, is slowly morphing into something else. She can do things that she used to do before the Terrible Tumor Twins moved in. Things she thought would never be within her abilities again. Ever.
Oh! Also for the first time since the Twins' eviction, she has gainful, full-time employment. It's zero stress, fun and easy, and pays remarkably well with excellent benefits. It fell into her lap like a comforting blanket, unexpected and at the best possible moment.
I'm learning the importance of taking things slow. Savoring the journey vs. the race to the destination. It's fun to feel the fat fall away, along with that depression and fear.
For the first time since my diagnosis, this feels like home.