Perhaps I spoke too soon when I boasted that I was able to switch the channel from the all-cancer-all-the-time station. On Thursday I began training to become a volunteer for an organization that provides support for women diagnosed with breast cancer. I thought I was ready. Now I'm unsure. Of about a dozen women who showed up, at least half had metastatic disease or recurrences, some even after taking Herceptin (my miracle drug). I know it was a skewed population, because several of the women with more advanced disease indicated that they had been personally recruited (whereas I had raised my hand when I saw the training notice in a newsletter). That makes sense since women with direr prognoses have the greatest need for support. But being in the room with all these smart, beautiful, healthy-looking and very sick women freaked me out. I've been coasting along (more or less) on the false assurance that my wholesome lifestyle has locked the door on cancer, but obviously the door can swing open at any time. I have two more training sessions, and I'll attend them. But I'm worried about exacerbating my anxiety level by talking to women with worse diagnoses than mine. I was lucky, but I can't count on the luck lasting. Already I've lost the ability to read. Just can't focus.
Stress is a big issue right now. Iggy's back in the pet hospital with a urinary-tract blockage. I was told he was hours from death when I brought him in yesterday, his bladder the size of a grapefruit. Seventeen-hundred dollars later, he's O.K., but apparently male cats who have an episode of this condition tend to relapse. Other and I are wondering how many relapses we can afford. It seems hardhearted to put a price on a life, even a cat's life—especially since I owe my own life to the hundreds of thousands of dollars' worth of treatment I've received over the past three years—but there has to be a limit, no?
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