The Trick is to Keep Breathing

I am still awake (but barely), up late keeping a vigil over my totally uncertain, unpredictable, undependable guts. There's no sense in going to sleep if I'm going to be rudely yanked out of it by The Call.

So, I stay up and watch decent TV for the first time in nearly a week and catch the last half of Run Lola Run.

I watch the following scene and am completely overwhelmed with emotion...

...because it dawns on me that that is how I have felt since my diagnosis. I have put all of my chips on my doctors and treatment plan and then proceeded to SCREAM for a solid 10 months straight.

That look on her face at the end? That is what I am feeling now. Relief. But instead of cashing out my chips to save my semi-criminal boyfriend from a bunch of murderous thugs, I have to try to reboot my life and keep the topic of cancer crammed to the dusty corners of my brain.

...Until it's time for the next test or scan or scope, that is, and when I get enough negative results--which are a good thing, I always have to remind myself of that--under my belt, that ever-present, constantly hammering thought might actually retreat on its own, fade, and disappear.

This is where I trade denial for hope, and a punishing routine for an utterly, deliciously mundane one. This is where I play pretend at a normal life until it goes back to being one.