Typically I scoff at Hollywood’s portrayal of cancer. Particularly chemotherapy. Only because I have personal experience. I don’t know. Maybe it’s me. Maybe not. But, in any case I feel that it doesn’t do it any justice. And of course it wouldn’t and it shouldn’t. They’re acting, after all and I wouldn’t want them and by “them,” I mean the actors, to feel even a fraction of what a cancer patient has to go through. However, I will say, this chemo round, chemo 3.3 we’ll call it, has been pretty on par with the Hollywood script of what cancer looks like.
Keep in mind, my head is now buzzed. So from a physicality standpoint, I look a little more like a cancer patient these days, whatever that is supposed to mean. I guess once again I am referring to what Hollywood depicts. Picture a standard, five star type of white robe on a once meaty body that is slowly getting less and less thick by the day. Each Doctor’s visit, the scale becoming less and less, something most women dream for under normal circumstances. Pale, weak and hanging over the cold porcelain toilet. Imagine your worst hangover times a squillion, headache and all. Textbook chemotherapy, textbook Hollywood script.
Last weekend, my best friend, Crystal was in town. My sister from another mister. Seriously. We grew up together. My brother’s and sister didn’t come into the picture until I was eleven, so Crystal and I grew up like sister’s. We met on Halloween. One of my favorite holidays, next to New Years, where I met my other best friend Allison. I meet all the greats on holidays. Even meeting Steve the day before the 4th of July — so I count that. I digress. Crystal was in town and what I love about our friendship group is that we’re all inclusive. We all gathered together and celebrated being alive, young, happy and the wonderful things that each of us have going on in our lives and the friendship we share. There was a big group of us. And a rare occasion these days, as I have become such a homebody since treatment has picked back up.
When we got home from the Irish pub that we regularly attend when we actually do make it out of the house, Steve and I sat outside on the chaise lounge on the terrace of our condo. It was far past closing time, so it must have been three in the morning. I nestled my head into his chest and we both put our feet up on the table that was before us.
With so many serious conversations under our belt, we looked up at the stars and Steve whispered, “You’re not allowed to leave me.”
I of course knew what he meant. He didn’t mean leave him, as in pack up my belongings and move out and onward. He meant leave him as in from earth — leave him alone in this big world. I tenderly squeezed his hand knowing it was a promise I couldn’t make. Tears began streaming down my face as my heart began to ache for him and selfishly, myself.
We sat in silence both knowing what the outcome would eventually be. Without words it was as though we both realized our love and resiliency was bigger than any Hollywood movie script could ever depict with regards to both love and cancer. We kissed under the stars like it was our first kiss almost seven lucky years ago. Sometimes life doesn’t make sense, but I can’t think of anyone I’d rather figure it out with than my man-bun, Ben Sherman wearing, House of Cards obsessed, hubby. xx