It's a funny thing, this cancer thing. It dominates your life, even when you don't want it to. It controls your conversations, dictates your schedule and messes with your mind.
People keep telling me how strong I am and it makes me wonder, what is strength? I think about the friend who lost her son to cancer, just a wee boy who would never get to have a first kiss, play sports, dance at his wedding. Or my friend whose nephew has been in and out of hospital for leukaemia and probably only remembers a life of blood tests, transplants and doctors. Or the little girl with cancer who won a pony for a year, only to get sick again. Those mothers, fathers and families trying to pull their children through, doing what needs to be done even when it's beyond what they can bear, that to me is strength.
Last year, I cried an ocean of tears. During my hubby's twisted path towards the light, my eyes watered and voice cracked at almost every turn. During this cancer crapshow, I've barely shed a tear. Sure, there have been tears at each disappointment, but they are a drop in the bucket to the tears shed last year. It feels easier to consent to scars to ward off cancer, to deal with discomfort, to (hopefully) cope with a treatment that sounds ... horrifyingly unpleasant.
Easier because the choices are mine to make. Advocate for a neck dissection or don't. My choice. Consent to the recommendation to do radiation, my choice. There is uncertainty, but it pales to the uncertainty of witnessing harm happening to someone that you care for and feeling powerless to fix them.