I’m terrified to go to the doctor.
Twice, I have made appointments to see my gynecologist, as I have been asked to do, and twice I’ve “forgotten” to go. I am required to see my doctor, because now that I am taking Tamoxifen, I am at greater risk for developing uterine cancer.
I’ve managed to forget these appointments, but I fear that if I keep them, I will hear news I don’t want to hear right now.
I’m getting on with my life. I don’t even like talking about cancer anymore. I’m emotionally spent and looking for ways to create and excited to find new things. I’ve stopped writing about it altogether, opting to treat you to some of my fiction writing instead.
When I was diagnosed, I was in denial about the whole thing. I think I’ve gone back to that place, where I can just pretend all the treatment and doctor’s visits were some kind of crazy passing phase. Sometimes I have to be reminded that I was ill.
For instance, I carried around a letter in my bag for months, which stated that I had been referred to the genetic counseling department at Queens and could go for a blood test to determine if I have the BRCA gene. I made the appointment, after a long time. This test not only determine what’ll go on for me in the near future, but also my daughter.
I look at myself, and I see how I’m handling the aftermath of my illness and treatment, and I wonder if I’m crazy.