Day after tomorrow is #11. After that, only one more to go.
You would think I would be ecstatic, but I'm not. I am fretting the worst month of my life, which starts 48 hours from now.
You may think I am being pessimistic or negative. I'm not...it's reality.
Each one of these treatments has been worse than the previous. This is the hardest thing I have ever had to do. Nothing tells me that #11 won't be nastier than #10. It will be nastier, and then there will be #12.
This week, I have found myself absolutely exhausted and sick of the fight. Getting dressed in the morning is an effort. I have stopped dealing with my hair...hats are so much easier. I am sick of putting up the front of a "not sick" person.
In my head, I put up the front so people won't worry about me. This is unrealistic. If people love me, they will worry, even if I look well. They know I am going through hell.
I can't do the front thing anymore. What you see is how I feel.
Between now and the end of the year, I have to take it day by day. I have a small amount of energy that I decide what it gets spent on. It will be like rationing food during a crisis...I have to use it wisely and not waste it on fronts or petty bullshit.
One more day, and the claw to the top begins.
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