Back from the Atmosphere: 🌏 

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Real talk, I’ve been a tad on the emosh lately — for so many reasons.  The teeniest, tiniest things have the power to set me off in an array of passions and personalities that I didn’t know exist.  Lets face it, it’s been a long time since I’ve lived, instead of existing to survive.  Naturally overwhelmed by my affections, I’ve realized I’ve been covering up my scars with paint and I’m finally ready to wash away its taint. The very same taint that tortured me for the past three, almost four years.  Yet, in its wonder I have continuously been learning that my most painful trials can be rewarded with the most salient growth.

I have failed to balance my writing, or, rather share my writing because I felt stuck on a road with no end. No end to the endless days of pain, but keeping hope in my mind that life could once again be kind.  It seemed like a dream, a place far away from my reality, as I was encased in flesh and bones, yet desperate for life in my veins.

Month after month following my HIPEC surgery were spent under the covers. Forgetting all of the faces and all the different places I have been. It made no sense in my mind that I should feel lucky to be alive, while dealing with such agony.  In my dreams my tears were chilled to the bone, I couldn’t remember what it was to feel alive.

The brilliant medical team at Mayo would remind me that patience is a virtue and that my body has been sliced, diced and poisoned to the nth degree.  It seemed as though  I was walking alone, and no one was following. It wasn’t just pain from the recovery — my body was telling me something wasn’t right.  Just like every other instance, my body was insistent on a pain so severe that it made me call for the man in the sky.

Friends would ask, “How are you?”

Great, fine. Just not healing as fast as I’d hope,” I’d reply practically lying through my teeth because I didn’t have any answers.  The fib would then be followed by an exclaiming, happy heart face emoji.  This all in an effort to indicate that I wasn’t hiding inside a cage, but was instead a warrior. The way so many seem to view me.

Meanwhile I hated leaving the house, much less get out of my infamous monogrammed, “B.K.O.”, black robe. I only wanted to be home, where I belonged, where I could put sorrow on the record player and smoke until I found a heavenly place to fall from grace.

.It was now March and by this point I had a decent amount of post op appointments with “da team.”

“Doc, I literally feel World War III erupting in my insides.”

I wasn’t saying that loosely, or to be insensitive given the current political climate, but quite frankly I felt that after months of bitching and getting nowhere, it was an obligatory analogy.  Even if my example was a bit crass, it turns out that I got my point across and at last the Doc’s realized I wasn’t complaining because it was good for my health. Okay, bad pun.  Yet, they actually began to understand and realize the severity of my pangs. I was no longer drowning under their belief that my body was behaving “normally,“

I digress — off to the Urologist. Let me tell you, I’ve never met a man more in love with his job. Urine banter and all that it entails to “void,” is his pride and joy and I had a feeling that just maybe, just maybe, he’d magic up the culprit to my evils.

Sure enough, he did. I was having issues doing one of the most basic human bodily functions, i.e. wee, wee-wee, number one, pee, piss, U-R-I-N-A-T-E — g*ddamnit.

“I mean, WTF is wrong with me now?”, I would scream to myself.

Nevertheless and lucky for me, after months of complaining, it only took two appointments with, Dr.Piddle for him to solve the current mystery this body of mine riddled.

A Magician, perhaps — or just a man so passionate about liquid body waste that he becomes golden, baby. Of course it took several uncomfortable and down right miserable tests that forced me into a state of meditation that my mere existence relied upon.

Once the worse was over, the mystery was revealed. My abdomen/pelvic region had been so invaded over the course of the past few years that my muscles, including my bladder, is in a constant spasm state. Suddenly the hell I had been enduring made perfect sense — I was practically having constant f*cking contractions.

The real rabbit out of the hat was that there is no magic cure — except six months of physical therapy. Annoyed by the lack of instant gratification, I made the offering and obliged under his respective Doctor order.

Right after my first session of “PT”, as the cool kids call it, I decided that my body deserved physical therapy. It was time to let go of all the marks that have settled in my skin. Knead out the all of the suffering, trauma to my guts and the scar tissue both mentally and physically.

Since then I have returned to yoga, wake up during daylight, clean the house without paying for it later and come together with my mains for cocktails and a good old fashion gossip sesh’. Best of all, I have released the pause button on feeling secure enough in my health to make future life plans with my loving and endlessly supportive husband.

When you look at me, you wouldn’t know that I am lucky to be alive. You’d think I was the picture of perfect health. The long and short of it is that each day brings its own sets of challenges and I am privy to the fact that healing is a life long endeavor.  Even so, maybe this time it worked.

Updates to follow…

Love,
Britt x

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Fraudulently Inspiring:

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I wish I could tell you where I go when I go quiet. It’s often when I feel my walls crumbling down around me. Lately I have been struggling to find purpose in my life, but I know my weaknesses and I know my voice and writing happens to be just that. I know I shouldn’t abandon the one thing that gives me purposefulness and solace in my lowest of low. When I feel weak it builds the walls around me up , strengthening the world that I live in.

Pain has been something I’ve been dealing with lately, a lot of cracks in my everyday life that darkness seems to have been setting in much more than light. I’ve needed to find my way back to my latest disgrace. Feeling as though I am a fraud in the light of inspiration that so many find me to be. How can one be inspiring when I can’t even feel my feet below me? I feel lost and sleep the hours away under the spell of depression.

My Doctor gave me a month break from chemo as he sees how tired I have become from all of my treatments. After the month is over I will resume back on chemo as well as begin a clinic trial, which is not approved by the FDA. Of course all of this makes me nervous. It’s a constant reminder that my life is in the hands of medicine, in poison. However, I am going to take full advantage of this month and get plenty of rest, per Doctors orders.

I feel stifled by the air in my chest and the anxiety that I am currently enduring. My heart is flooded with emotion, not with haste but an understanding that I am what I am and my life is how it is. All I can hope is that one-day my scars will be healed and all of this pain will be far away. That I can learn to live with what I am, full-fill my dreams and that this fickle flesh will not go to waste.

The reality is that I have no time to spare, I have to put up a fight and rise to the occasion. Find my purpose in what I love most, which is writing. Get back in touch with my one true love. Find consolation in the people that believe in me, so I can still believe in myself. Coming out of the woods by choice and be sure that I can see a new start.

Thank you for bringing me out of the cold. Let’s hope the darkness in my head is tamed  and the sunshine beams through instead.

Love,

Britt x

My Crystal Baller: 🔮

Happy Birthday

It’s been said a time or two that opposites attract. Crystal and I are the mere definition of that saying. However, our relationship has been fierce from the start. Nearly three decades of one million memories, ten thousand jokes, one hundred shared secrets, all for one reason: best friends. Today is my number ones 30th Birthday and I couldn’t have enough lovely things to say about my unbiological sister and how happy I am that I found her in this big, wide world.

Crystal, there’s not many things that our friendship hasn’t endured. From the time we were little you were a sweet cupcake in a world full of muffins. We’ve been through crazy times, weddings, funerals, good times and bad, but we’ve never turned our backs on one another — even when we did a little soul searching of our own we were still imprinted on one another’s hearts and souls. May the next thirty years be just the same.

My wish for your coming year is that it’s filled with a little magic and madness, but the good kind of folly. Travel to your hearts desire, see the world and share your many adventures. While you’re at it, read some fine books along the way and get lost in the words and your imagination. Sing at the top of your lungs, Mariah Carey style. Relax and let the world spin madly on, whilst you sip on a fine glass of wine. Do something to surprise yourself. Treat yourself and splurge on something without feeling the slightest bit guilty. Live only as you can. And most importantly, come visit your best friend. Just remember, in an mmmbop it’s gone. Happy 30th my beautiful forever friend. I love you more than any word I could ever write.

Love your best friend for eternity,

Britt x

Saturday: Self Reflection ✌

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For as long as I can recall I have been a very expressive person. Unable to shield how I feel and hide my true feelings was both a blessing and a curse, that seemingly got me into many sticky situations as I was growing up.

As I have aged and grown the wiser, learned and evolved, I have realized that peace is a much happier and healthier place to be. Although a huge process, a large part of cultivating that peace has been looking inward, tapping into my roots, my core and writing my ebbs and flows through means of words and language.  Tying sentences and stringing them together to develop a sense of how I was feeling in that very moment, leaving me with a feeling, not just a memory, but an actual sensation of that moment in time was something that I found to be very helpful in my process of my personal journey to healing.

One of my greatest grievances with having cancer has been staying sharp with my Britt wit, but falling short in the memory department.  Although I have not been the most consistent with blogging, I have pages upon pages of writings from the past three years that have preceded me through some of my highest highs and lowest lows.

In a recent study performed by Duke University, they found that writing, particularly personal narratives after traumatic events helps to reshape your life, make sense of it, and ultimately lead to improved behavioral changes as well as additive benefits to your health.

Engaging and investing in your own story, understanding your fears, dreams and the world around you, while being able to express it in any medium is the most liberating form of art and happiness any one could ask for.  This being a personal testament of my very own through my experiences of my disease and writing, amongst other opportunities.

My point is, at the end of the day you chose your own narrative, you can chose to edit, delete and add pieces to your story at any point but the most important thing is to constantly self reflect.  It is both a humbling process and essential to becoming your higher and better self.

Peace and love my friends and happy weekend!

Do what you love and stay true.

Love,

Britt x

#BSMHB Carpool Karaoke: Holiday Singalong

“Yes, Thelma.”

“Yes, Louise.”

#BSMHB Carpool Karaoke: Holiday Singalong from Britt Ochoa

Love,

Britt x