Kick It To The Curb

In spite of my best intentions, I lost my cock-eyed optimist attitude this week. 

I went to Nashville again to spend time with my friend, Terri. Other than a restless night brought on by killing thirteen (THIRTEEN!) spiders in and around my room in my mom and dad's lake house the night before we left, we had a great trip. We ate at some of my favorite places, listened to some live music, sat up late every night talking, reconnected with some old friends, and laughed until we cried numerous times. I walked miles on the greenway (although it felt more like swimming, the combination of humidity and heat being what they were).

But Tuesday night, I cracked. And by cracked, I mean 24 hours of melting into a puddle of tears that would come on suddenly and that I couldn't seem to control. Of feeling sorry for myself, of wanting backsies. Because sometimes, I want to hide, curl up in a little ball and pull my blankie over my head. And sometimes, I want to run, run fast and far, and leave that bitch cancer behind.

I have worked hard to be the family cheerleader, so that they don't worry about me, and that can be a burden. I'm taking chemo drugs that jack with my hormones, the job I love is about to be cut back to only three mornings a week, it's hotter than hell and shows no sign of relenting, and I have cancer.

My wise friend Terri, who knows me so well and who also knows all about sadness and grief, reminded me that it's okay to fall apart sometimes. That I don't have to be so freaking positive ALL the time.   

But get past it, I will. I can't be kept down for long. Just going to kick it to the curb....