You left me speechless.

The proverbial hamster on the wheel has been sabotaging my brain and cognitive abilities.  Some days it has narcolepsy and falls off the wheel entirely, leaving me in a lurch mid-sentence, allowing me to hem and haw and…what was I saying again?

I’d like to create a flow chart describing my newfound thought process, but I’ve decided it would have about as much “flow” as tossing confetti on paper.

In many ways, it feels like I have thrown a ceramic plate on the floor and I’m scrambling to pick up the pieces each time I try to construct a thought.  In the past, the connections to my thoughts were a bit obtuse.  Now, it’s a rollercoaster at break-neck speed for me to keep up with myself.  Added to this hellacious ride is the uncertainty if I am communicating correctly or at all. 

I have this fear that one day I will get a CT scan or MRI of my brain and it will look like Swiss cheese.

There is nothing like post-cancer paranoia to add cheer to one’s day.

Did I mention the frustration?

The transition from working part time and living in the doctor’s office at least 3 times a week has been replaced with my return to the library, in conjunction with my bookselling gig, and living in my car.

I am beginning to feel like an international woman of mystery.  My car is in the shop getting the dents, caused by hail and someone backing into me, finally repaired.  Thus, for the past week or so, I’ve been jetting around in a red Mitsubishi Gallant rental, with an assortment of my life’s possessions thrown in the passenger seat and back seats for good measure. 

I feel like I’m living out of a suitcase and surviving on coffee.  I feel like I’m living someone else’s life.

When I explain my post-cancer situation to people, I begin to feel more and more pathetic.  I am distracting myself from my reality, trying to prevent thoughts of cancer relapse and uncertainty from eating me alive. 

In some instances, the words “sad” and “lonely” have been thrown in my direction, which makes me nauseous and on the verge of tears.

Don’t get me wrong, I am utterly grateful that I have had tremendous support during my cancer crisis and that I’m returning to a former sense of normalcy. 

However, even at my doctor’s office, my little routine over the past 6 months has disappeared into seemingly sporadic appointments of blood tests and PET scans.  I feel unceremoniously dumped into the real world again, which is a bit of a shock after all the handholding that has transpired. 

I suppose the focus from “fight cancer” to “do whatever you want” goes from quite narrow to extremely broad and I can barely catch my breath on the changes that have occurred within this past year.

Sure the trick could be to keep breathing as I strive to find my inner Zen.  Easier said than done.

I’m still processing it all and it will take some time to sort it all out.