By Saturday morning the removal of another 6.5 liters of fluid drain from me like a waterbed by one of three periocentesis experts, whom I’d met just a year prior right on the same date who came in to poke a hole in my right lower abdomen and guided by an ultrasound and his body of knowledge he said, I swear, “let’s drain you dry.” And drain I did to 15 lbs of relief.
Ah, we meet again. You ugly, humorless, blood draining, fanged daemon from hell. You were born from a mother whose name started with Cancer. You picked up the baton and since the beginning of man-time you beat people to death, and remain uncured of the evil you’ve successfully spread. Not one holiday goes by unscathed […]
This is what metastatic breast cancer looks like. Not on the days when I am trying to make everyone believe I’m okay. It’s not that I mind looking like I don’t have cancer for the most part. But I don’t put my makeup on every day to prove a thing to anyone but myself. I push too hard most days. Never will I learn to take it easy.
Exhausted by breath excused for the whispers “How does she do it? What does it look like?” Talk of cures and tinctures and dragons tails.