Moving on.

So, I haven't posted in nearly two months. Why? Because after seven months of hell, I've moved on. I'm back to work. Feeling great. Sprouting a 'do that allows me to pass for a healthy, even hip young'n. I'm not yet ready to look back and reflect. I want to pretend the nightmare never happened. That I didn't lose months of my life to pain, appointments, hospital stays, cancer. One day I will be able to articulate all that changed in me, all the experience means. But not yet. I'm enjoying normal too much. And normal, healthy 29-year-olds don't blog about cancer.

But I will keep you updated.

Side effects do remain. At morning and at night, my saliva is still missing in action. Makes for dry, nasty mornings, greeting co-workers with a tongue that sticks to the roof of my mouth, to my teeth. I've taken to carrying a bottle of water to help, but the radiation did a number on my glands that I don't know will ever heal. Nerve damage in my thigh also persists. About half-a-dozen times a day, hot needle pain startles me in that palm-sized area on the outside of my left thigh. The pain lasts a few seconds, teasing me, reminding me of it all, then fades away. Why this patch of nerves? All we know is chemo is to thank. 

I also still have my port, which was left in to make clot-monitoring blood draws easier, but I'll soon have surgery to have it removed. After that, only the two-inch horizontal scar will remain, the scar that will forever identify me as One Who Had Cancer. 

One who heard the diagnosis over the phone at work. 

One whose husband shaved her head outside on the deck. 

One who practiced tying bandanas with tear-filled eyes before going out in public. 

One who withdrew from friends to avoid feeling even more awkward, sick, and helpless. 

One who gripped the steering wheel and screamed senseless noise on the way home from appointments. 

One who lived a nightmare.

One who still lives.