Things I Want You Guys to Know

I am doing well. Really, surprisingly well. I don't think about The Troubles or The Troubles II (aka the whole waste of time known as the exercise in futility fertility) much at all, and when I do, I only break down in tears about 10% of the time.

The latest and greatest in Brigita's Busted Body is that I'm seeing a physical therapist to address relatively recent knee pain that may be a result of radiation damage to my pelvis--the knee joint's connected to the hip joint and all that. I'm hoping to get that all tuned up in order to train for a 10K that's taking place in October, as I really, truely aspire to becoming a I-Beat-Cancer-So-Now-I-Run cliché.

In the meantime, I'm taking a rowing class with a local club and am loving the prospect of joining--and racing with--their novice group once I complete the intro class.

There's other physical stuff that's still a work in progress, but I'm learning more about my triggers and becoming more proficient in working around and through other obstacles.

I think I'm finally in a place where I can exist without the cancer cloud following me around everywhere. It no longer colors every action, thought, or breath that I take. It'll be two years ago this August that I finished chemo. It's hard to believe that it's been that long since my recovery is still ongoing, but with this much perspective, I can finally appreciate just how far I've come.

So, yeah. I wanted you guys to know all of that. Because so many of you have been a huge part of my support, survival, and rebuilding team, I didn't think it was fair to leave that huge "Ohhh, I'm BARREN" meatball hanging out there without any sort of follow-up. I mean yeah, I'm still barren and still pretty heartbroken over it, but shit, I'm HERE to be heartbroken, and I should not take that too much for granted.

Okay, fuck, now I just made myself cry. But I'm smiling too. Yeah, I'm complex like that. ;)

Pulling off a Bandaid or Ripping off a Scab?

More than six months later, here's the deal: I am officially barren.

After several months of talks, tests, and the requisite ramp-up hormones, my ovaries refused to play ball. My fertility doctor was even baffled by the fact that I am (was?) still having my monthlies.

While this isn't exactly news, I am still incredibly disappointed, and possibly even depressed. I desperately wanted to be the exception to the rule. I had consciously put a lot of my get-over-it-and-move-on eggs into a procreative basket. I genuinely thought that it was going to work, as shown by the vast number of people with whom I had shared the news.

Most of all, I thought that getting pregnant would give me the final word in my two and a half year screaming match with cancer. I thought it would fast track my battle for physical autonomy. I thought the birth of a child would be a rebirth for myself.

Clearly, I did way too much thinking and too much hoping and now I'm stuck back in my head, which is still attached to this achy, broken, uncooperative body. God, this blows.