SOGP

I was diagnosed with breast cancer a little more than one week ago. I’ve wanted to write about it so many times, to explain the hot and cold terror pumping through my veins as my doctor nonchalantly proclaimed  “I’m sorry to tell you, but you have cancer,” but mostly I’ve been numb. I’ve been going thought the motions of life–work, doctor, work, doctor, another injection, another test–and I haven’t had much time to sit and reflect about what’s happening to me without winding up crumpled on the floor sobbing like jilted lover because that’s how I feel. Earlier this month I felt betrayed by a country who could elect a man like Donald Trump, a man who wants to take away my rights and the rights of so many. Today I feel betrayed by my body, a body that’s relatively young and has never so much as had a broken bone. Sometimes I catch myself staring at what I presume to be healthy people on the train, couples laughing, anyone who looks remotely happy, and I think, “that will no longer be me.” Everyone tells me that I’m strong, that I’m a survivor, and that I need to stay positive. Some have told me that this is all in God’s plan. Well, I’m sick of God’s plans. I had plans of my own. I had a path–tracks that I  meticulously laid out for myself–a shitty, yet respectable NYC apartment, a nascent career, a cat who begrudgingly loves me, even a diet regimen. I had my own plans, and now I have to fight for survival.