Darian's Not So Secret Diary

This week has been tough, not physically, but in all the junk in my brain. The last couple of weeks really. So much chatter going on in that brain, so much darkness, it's weighing me down. Pushing me into that dark, murky, danger zone that is hard to crawl out of. Disclaimer, there's going to be some nasty language today, because I'm just going to keep it real with you. Flaws n' all. So as I'm trying to dig myself out of this just massive pile of crap in my head, yesterday I had the appointment with my surgeon to set up the date and talk about my double mastectomy. You know, the part I'm dreading the most. There wasn't any surprises in the conversation, nothing I didn't really already know. But by the end of it I wasn't just depressed, I was full blown pissed off. Just done with all of this, every bit of it. Since then I've been filled with So. Much. Anger. Today, I'm sitting there in chemo, probably looking like a fuming bitch with rag

As I stand here, looking at an empty room, the moment is very real. There's no more talking about "one day" or "soon" or making plans. The day is here. Right now. The day my daughter has moved out. I remember every little decor phase she went through, the colors the walls have been, how excited she was to have such a big room and all the plans she had for it. I remember hearing the giggles fill up the room when she had sleepovers, and the glitter explosion from hell that I'm pretty sure is still embedded in the carpet somewhere. I can still hear her footsteps early on Christmas morning, coming out with her brother to get their stockings. No more will I hear her beautiful singing from down the hall, the blaring music when she took a shower, the "Oh my God, mom, mom, mom, listen..." as she runs out of her room to spill the latest T with me. No more will she come home from work, and sit on me like a giant lap dog because she's had a long day and

It's a mix of feelings I have today, I'm thrilled to say that I am officially halfway through my chemo treatments. No more Red Devil for me, not ever. I felt like they should have been singing "Livin on a Prayer" while administering it. Nurses just belting out "Whoooaaa, we're halfway there. Whooaaaa, livin on a prayer..." Because really, how appropriate is that, but apparently karaoke chemo isn't a thing. I'm thinking that should be a thing, but okay. And now you have that song stuck in your head too. You're welcome. I'm also happy to report that I am in deed less cancery than I was previously. High five chemo for doing your job! I haven't had any recent scans, but I know just from the feel. There's a lot less cancer action going on in there, a lot less of that nasty thing trying to kill me. But being you know, semi-filled with cancer still, you can't help but think about the what if's. What if the doctors can't g

It's not like I didn't know it was coming, like somehow I would be spared the inevitable. Every day, as I run my fingers through the shaved fuzz on my head, I look at my hand wondering, is today the day? Is today the start of another transformation? Is today the day I look like a cancer patient? And as I looked down at an empty hand, I exhaled. Today wasn't the day. Today, people would only still wonder, was I a patient, did I shave my head in support of a patient, was I a feminist trying to prove a point? They could only wonder. The other night while my husband was at his bible study I was sitting on the patio, taking in all the fresh air I can before the air turns too cool to sit outside, forcing me indoors. I took a long breath, ran my hand across my head, and looked down at my palm, covered in hair. Today was the day... I blew the handful of fuzz off my hand, and then pinched a small cluster and pulled. I felt nothing, it didn't hurt, but there between my finger

So much of what is going on feels out of my control, I'm just doing what I'm told because, well, I don't want to die just yet. Mom and I always had a very open, good relationship. She was my best friend, really, and for a long time, my only friend. There wasn't much we wouldn't share with each other, nothing was off limits. But her cancer, was very private for her. I had to text my brother, because I couldn't remember if she shaved her head either time, and something about not being able to remember that made me feel horrible. I know that she would say how disgusted she was, waking up with literal mouthfuls of hair, and how she looked. But she never said much beyond that, and then one day she just didn't have any hair. My brother told me she shaved it. The first time, I didn't think much of it. She still looked like my mom to me, just bald.  She still had her smile, still had her cackley laugh, she still felt like mom when I hugged her. The second ti

So God and me, we have this deal you see. I tell him I'll listen to him and trust his plan, but he just has to be very clear and very loud when telling me what to do. You know, because maybe sometimes I'm a little hard of hearing, have headphones on, am a little stubborn, or I'm not listening and just didn't realize it. So I ask him to be loud. Like, really loud, so his voice is louder than all the crap  fluttering through my brain. Sometimes it takes a hot minute, but usually the message gets through, and then I thank him for the help in scooting me along his path. But lately, I'm just not gettin' the message. The last few weeks, either in quiet times, casual reading, Facebook, everywhere, the same verses keep popping up. 2  Dear brothers and sisters, [ a ]  when troubles of any kind come your way, consider it an opportunity for great joy.   3  For you know that when your faith is tested, your endurance has a chance to grow.   4  So let it grow, for when

You know, I think how we perceive ourselves and how others perceive us are seldom the same. People keep telling me that I got this, that I'm the toughest woman they know, like they envision me strolling into the Cancer Center like a boss, kicking the doors open, wind blowing my hair back, as I stand fierce and ready to kick cancers ass - cancer fighting badass, that's me... Just call me Gemma, Gemma Teller... Then you take a peek at reality, where I've literally spent most of the day sick to my stomach, heart racing, head fuzzy, all because I have to have an hour long surgery tomorrow... Don't mind me, I'm just over here being anything but a badass, the panic attack will be over in a minute, continue about your business folks, nothin' to see here... People keep telling me "You got this!" while I'm sitting there, taking deep breaths, willing myself not to vomit at work. Definitely don't got this. Nope, whole lot of nope there, don't go

I remember when mom had cancer, she signed me and my brother up for this kids support group. "Hi, I'm Darian, my mom has breast cancer." I think that's all I said the entire meeting. By the end of the first meeting we knew it wasn't for us. The kids there were much younger than us, and I don't think either one of us were the type at that time to unload all of our feelings onto complete strangers. Shoot, I think even now we're not that type. We're the smile and nod "Oh I'm doing just fine, thanks, how are you" type of people. Bottle it all up, lay awake at night thinking about it type of people. Then one day your favorite pen runs out of ink and next thing you know, you're sobbing in the office supplies department at Walmart because it was such a good pen, none of these will be the same as my pen. Yeah, that's us. Looking back, I wish I had paid more attention to what the other kids were saying. I wish I had cared about what th

Mom was 36 when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. I remember on her short treatment days she let me come with her, because by that point I did everything with her. Doctors appointments, tests, treatments. Where she went, I went. Whether she wanted me to or not. The oncologist administered the treatments at his office, in this dingy little room in the basement that looked like death row for cancer patients. Ugly pleather recliners lined the walls of the small room, you could hardly breathe through the dense desperation in the air. As if everyone was just waiting. Waiting to die. At that age, I thought that would never happen to me. As I grew older, I feared that would be me. When I turned 36 I was horrified it would be me; thinking that would be the start of my impending doom. My death sentence. The year I would be diagnosed with breast cancer. But that birthday came and went without a diagnosis, and I almost felt victorious, like I had made it. I had beat this thing that had at