Each time I've come to this blog to write, I've struggled with how to start and with what to say. This time is no different. I've had major writer's block the last few months, because what can I possibly write about now? What will anyone want to hear about if not cancer? I know that sounds weird to say but it's true. Many people came here to check in on me and to get a glimpse of what life was like having cancer and now I don't have cancer anymore. Where's the fun?!
After coming off a euphoric, triumphant phase over the summer where I took a vacation, went to the beach, and ran a gazillion road races to prove I was strong again, the fun stopped..
Fall's here. Work has grown so busy I want to puke, and my euphoria has gone out the window. I'm left in a major letdown. I want to look around and shake everyone and be like, Wait. Wait! This is a life I poisoned and then saved, don't I need to enjoy the fuck out of it now? Not get reamed out for some piddling nothing-problem or stare at a screen inside on a beautiful sunny day with the blinds drawn because someone a few cubes over doesn't like the glare?
Then there's the elephant in the room: my lady parts. Or lack of working lady parts, I should say. Technically I'm in an induced menopause. I get fire-breathing hot flashes multiple times per day and I still get a shot in the ass once a month to shut down my ovaries and I feel like a freak. A different kind of freak from the kind without eyebrows or hair. Instead I feel it because of where I live, and how old I am, and what's expected of me. As of a year ago, we moved to this bucolic town that's straight out of an Americana painting, with meticulous lawns and kids frolicking everywhere and Power Moms jogging along the water. Then there's me: the butch-haired infertile freak without kids. I have Mike and Lily (I can hear my single friends lamenting, "at least you have that!" and yes I'm very lucky, we all are in our own ways) - but my question is: Who lives in the suburbs without kids? Um, not many, I'm realizing?
So, we've been fleeing pretty much every weekend to see our longstanding friends from home and college, whose kids we don't mind because I consider them like nieces and nephews, and because all these people know our situation. But making new friends with kids when you don't have any of your own? Uhhhhm, creepy.
We live in this nice big-ish house, and we probably would have been starting to think about kids in the next year or so. Now my body's wrecked and it might be like 3-4 years until we're even allowed to try, but what till then? I've been kind of obsessing over this lately.
I mean at least my anxiety is tamed and so are any traces of depression. The shock of what happened is a little more palatable: shit happens, it happened to me and my family, and it could have been far worse. I could be dead. So of course I remember these things and thank God and the Universe and all that. But I’m also 32, and every female my age with a working uterus seems to be pregnant or thinking about getting pregnant. I attended a “Ladies Night Out” as part of a Newcomer’s Club recently (I Know. I can't believe I went to that thing alone.) It was the only non-playgroup/facepainting themed event available and I figured, Okay, Nicole, try to meet some people now that you have hair! Even if it’s weird hair!
I stumbled into that tavern bursting with Louis bags and almost strode right out. Many ladies seemed to already know one another. One woman had a baby strapped to her chest and others seemed to have them strapped to their tongues, because of course that's the first question, "Do you have kids?" and I had to act all cheery, like "No! Not yet!" I did find one childless person. thankfully, but I looked around and just thought, again, What am I doing here? Do I belong back in the city? Ugh, should we move back there? Mike just went into town tonight and he said a rat walked over his foot. Awesome.
Should we move away and live somewhere exotic? Sell our house?
Unfortunately there's this thing called money and other things you need called jobs. A few months ago I really loved my job; it was such a lifesaver and a distraction, but it now feels empty and tiresome and all I can think each day is that it’s taking me away from my writing. And you know what? I really don’t like when people tell me what to do. Like, I really don’t like it. When my team got called out indirectly for taking "too many breaks" I wanted to scream - A) no we don't, at all, and B) should I wear a sign that tells everyone I'm going out to my car for 10 minutes to blast the AC on my steaming body?
This post is rambling and aimless and extremely sassy and brash, but I hadn’t written in a while and it’s what I’ve been feeling. I’ve been so utterly consumed by work I haven’t been able to express it or write it down. I have to say it feels good, to get it out, maybe I should do it more. And maybe I should find some sort of a happy medium. In due time, hopefully, in due time.