How I'm Really Doing

A year ago September 1, my friend Mindy died.  Cancer kicked her ass.  I remember when she called in late January 2009 to tell me she had stage 4 melanoma.  I knew something was wrong by the tone in her voice.  She sounded far away and as if someone had unexpectedly slapped the shit out of her.  That is what cancer does.  It unexpectedly slaps the shit out of you.  She called and I cried and we talked and we cried and she told me the general plan and we cried some more.  When we hung up, I called a dear friend and sobbed for what felt like hours.

It turns out I was the last one she told.  I was the first of her friends to hear she was pregnant with her third baby and the last one to hear she had cancer.  I guess she really loved me.  How does one go about telling her friends and loved ones she has cancer, anyway?  "Check it out, I have cancer!" seems rather callous.  "The chick with cancer gets the first turn, that's me."  "Back up bitch, I have cancer and you're in my light."  "Hey, how about we spend the next untold amount of time doing fundraisers for me? Why?  Oh.  Uh, turns out I have cancer."

Yeah.  Not so much.

I miss her.  Of all the things I miss about her, the one thing that overshadows it all is her brain.  She was one of the few people who could keep up and contribute to my wildly inappropriate sardonic diatribes.  We would laugh until our sides hurt.  She could also "go there" in conversation and not back down when the subject got too sensitive or personal.  We really talked.  We talked.  I always felt better after talking to Mindy.  Well, "always" with the exception of the whole "I have cancer" phone call.  Talking to Mindy was cathartic.  Even when the conversation was full of tears and emotions, hanging up the phone always felt like something had been exercised or fulfilled in me, like some very important moment occurred.  I miss that.

September 1 came and I was in the hospital (general anesthesia kicked my ass).  Over the past couple of weeks, Mindy has been on my mind a lot.  Mindy did all the right things before her diagnosis. She ate healthy food.  She exercised - she even ran a marathon.  Still, cancer.  She had a cough she ignored and ignored until finally one of her friends beleaguered her into seeing the doctor.  Many tests later they had a diagnosis.

One of the things we talked about was there is no excuse for putting off taking care of yourself.  She would rail at me to take care of whatever issue I might have.  For the past two years I have had one thing after another wrong with me.  Mindy was the one who started the ball rolling and wailed on me to get my protesting self to the doctor.  She would say, "you have a man to grow old with and children to raise, you have no excuse to not take care of yourself."  Yes, ma'am.

Since Spring 2010, I have had: a colonoscopy which yielded a pre-cancerous polyp, a badly sprained right ankle, a CT which showed Pelvic Congestion Syndrome, pelvic angioplasty to correct the PCS which turned into going to the ER on Christmas and spending four nights in the hospital, a sore left foot which yielded several x-rays, a CT, a bone scan, and an MRI all leading to a diagnosis of it's-not-a-big-deal-after-all-this-testing melorheostosis in my second left metatarsal, and then finally, more surgery to ligate and strip some pelvic veins - which, by the way, are huge thanks to PCS + multiple pregnancies. Oh, and I'm not done with the poking and prodding, because I am due for another colonoscopy in a few months and, hey, while I'm visiting with my colo-rectal surgeon I need to mention some lingering vein issues.  Fan-freaking-tastic.

I am over being examined, poked, prodded, scanned, scoped, sedated, medicated, and observed.  I am over seeing specialists. I am over being stuck in a chair, on the couch, or on my bed.  I am over not being able to exercise the way I want, when I want.  I am over having to ask for help from my parents and friends.  I am over having to lay down my control issues to let others do for me and mine.  I am over my kids asking when I'll be back to normal.

And then I think about Mindy.

And then I think about all those conversations about how she was really doing.

And then I think I might have a smidge of a better idea of how she was really doing.

And then I cry.

And I know I will get back to normal.

And that only makes me cry harder.