Ice Cream Hurts Like a Bitch

"How are you doing?"

I get that question a lot and I, honestly, I have no idea how to respond to it anymore. I am never sure if the person asking wants a polite answer ("Good...good.") or a real answer (My hands are numb, I taste metal, and some days I experience highs and lows at breakneck speeds.) It is tricky social waters I try to deftly navigate.

How am I really? Honestly, I am in a weird in-between sort of purgatory. The doctor tells me my symptoms are on the milder end of the spectrum. This kicks my empathy into gear, as I imagine what the deeper rings of hell must look like and the souls lost wherein. And really, these symptoms do feel like bizarre punishments you would find in Dante's Inferno.

"At the 7th circle, your hands and feet will be on fire, ice cream will hurt your mouth (but still be delicious), and ants will fly out of your rectum! Muahaha!"

Which, if I can take a detour, dear reader, I will let you know that ice cream, physically, literally, hurts me. And I still can't stop eating it. I love Drumsticks - so imagine - I have someone remove it from the fridge, wrap it in a protective paper towel so I can hold it, and I take tiny bites. You know the intense sting of super strong minty mouthmash? Imagine a chocolate version of that feeling. How do dieters stand a chance?!

Where was I? Oh yes. Purgatory...

Aside from the hands, the bag, the ever-present discomfort...I am happy. I love my family, friends, my husband. I feel intense and real love. I feel supported. Lucky even. I realize that people go their entire lives with health and wealth, and still yearn to have what I have. But sometimes, I waiver...

This next month I get a second scan. It is a milestone and it kicks up a lot of anxiety and fear into my world. It is both hope and the dancing of hell flames on my door. If it goes well, it opens up other options for me, such as chemo-embolization. This is where they run a catheter from a vein in your leg up to your liver and then pump in some chemo. Fun, no?

Now, if the scan doesn't show great progress...I have options of maintenance. The word terrifies me because the possibility of remission slides away from the landscape. Like in those time travel movies, you see yourself fade from photographs that haven't been taken yet.

I have days where I worry, I break down and cry at small, insignificant things. Your optimism and fear collide and swirl into strange beasts. How can I feel so lucky and so damned at the same time? I laugh at death, I deny it, defy it, but I cannot pretend that it doesn't ever sting. I don't want to imagine my husband coming home to an empty house, an empty bed, and being alone. It breaks my heart.

It is surreal. It is complex...trying to express the weird slice of life I am in. Trying to express what I go through and still avoid pity, avoid being consumed or consuming others. That is why this blog helps me. It helps me avoid the awkward conversation, but lets me get all of it out.

As I think about it- maybe life is like ice cream, regardless of how painful it can be - I'm always happy to have it. So, I guess, I can say I'm pretty good.

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Bonus: A Real Conversation Between My Mother and I

Mom: How did you sleep?
Me: Ok, I had a weird dream that I shit myself.
Mom: Oh, when you dream about poop it means you will come into money!
Me: No, I'm pretty sure it just means I want to shit out of my butt again.