The long emotional side.

I have known for a long time that life is short. That we need to embrace each day and be as connected and involved as we can.

Mainly, now that I'm faced with cancer, I'm just pissed. I'm angry that I seem to be the exception to the norm on most medical things. I am angry that my body is so damn sensitive to most everything it encounters. I'm angry that my own body is killing itself. I'm so, so angry.

I know that anger can ignite motivation and feed courage. But, honestly, how much anger motivation do I have to convert in my life? Hasn't it been enough already?

I'm in this body that has been racked by chronic pain for a decade, which has left my reserves and healthy body half of what it was. My brain is often a mire of thoughts which sometimes make it to the right place at the right time. I often feel as if life continues to go on while I try so hard just to hold on and interact with what is passing by.

I'm pissed that my husband, who has played the health provider for so long, is facing the reality of trying to help me through the marathon that lies ahead. I'm pissed, so pissed. It is not the life he thought he was going to live. It's not his personal fight to fight. And here, when he is also exhausted, he is faced with more intense care giving. He never asked for any of this. He's been my rock. Part of the reason I've fought so hard. But our dreams and plans have had to change. Our thoughts and pictures of each other and ourselves has had to be altered, and adjusted, and changed.  Where is the light at the end of his tunnel? How can I help my man when I can't fully help myself? How can I ask him to watch me go through this?

I'm angry.

I'm angry that I have to tell my kids I have cancer. That I have to levy such a heavy burden on them when they are just beginning to learn what their wings can do. When I want my focus to be on them, their needs, and their dreams. I know they are strong. I know they are amazing. I know they will get through this. And I believe they have the strength, courage, and ability to rise above my health and my issues. But I already have asked them, for the majority of their lives, to bear with me and my pain. Their focus shouldn't be split between their dreams and helping care for me.

I'm angry.

I'm angry that I have fought to be healthy for so long. That I did everything I have known how to do to heal and be healthy. Where is my lower statistic of having breast cancer...I nursed for over 5 years. That should have been a great big boon for the health of the tatas.  How is it possible that I have nurtured myself in mind and in spirit, and still I can't catch a break.

I am angry.

I am not afraid of having pain. But I do fear being consumed by it. I know that my body does fight back. And I know I have a massive stubborn streak. I know I will fight the good fight. And I know I can't have, nor are there, definitive answers as to how RSD will react to chemo, radiation, or surgery. All those will poke at the RSD beast, and the beast is very likely to have a reaction.

In 2010, I started having an extended time of remission from the RSD. For 18 months, I was burn free. I still had sensations, but was burn free. I felt like I had my whole life back. The dreams were becoming realities. I was slowly getting my leg and foot back into shape; was able to walk for distances and jog for a bit. I started the couch to 5k...and was on a high with the thought of running again. Then, suddenly, I hit the brick wall of searing pain at full speed and without warning. Pain the like your brain forgets the intensity of. I was on the couch, balled up, crying for long periods of time, and begging for the pain to let up just enough to get to breathe. For more time than I wish to think about, I fought for brain clarity enough to engage in life. If I was able to etch out 15 minutes a day, I could face the next day. I believed that the burning had to let up sometime. It just had to. The spoon theory is a great way to explain how people with chronic pain live. Some days I was blessed with many spoons. Other days I just didn't do anything. And I always payed for doing things. Sometimes I rebounded quickly. Other times it took weeks. I mention this because I've had my conversation with death. There was more than one time when I couldn't imagine 2 more minutes. When I plotted what it would take to die. I have no fear of death. None.

That being said, there are so many things I still wish to do. That bucket list is still in my consciousness, waiting to be experienced. I know that I will hold on as best I can to make those a reality.

The RSD also made me let go of my attachment to my body. I can't overcome all the challenges that present themselves when I have no control over when the pain comes, or for how long. Even with western medicine allowing me to move around, I can't overcome the side effects that make it practically impossible to govern how my body looks, to change its shape or lessen the impact the drugs have on me. I've had to consider me as the soul within...and hope that others could see that, too. I know many women faced with loosing their breasts, do have a powerful connection to them and that it is devastating for them to loose them. I can completely appreciate their reality and their bodies. Yet I am ok with my own breasts being taken. I'll need to figure out how to keep the car seatbelt in place, if they take just one. There is always a way to find humor in situations. A male family member asked, "What are you going to do with your bras?", to which I replied, "Do you want them?"

My point in these last three paragraphs is, I define myself through my soul and how it interacts with everything around me. I am not this body. I am the essence inside of it.

My anger vacillates and takes me to tears. Tears of frustration. Tears of anger. Tears that scream of challenges to come. Tears that need answers to help them ebb away. And yet, here I am without all of those answers. Feeling my way one step at a time.

I try not to stay with the tears too long. It does no long term good. There is cleansing each time they fall, but I need to breathe and live in the now.

I need to express my love to those around me. I need to experience the moments of interaction and life around me. And I need to be part of my own strength and perseverance.

So anger has to fade. And action or rest take its place.