Searching for my flower from the ash of my life

Wow, in two weeks, life has changed, but I am still not sure if it is a good thing.

I am back to work.  I have done two weeks now, working full days but the holidays gave me a shorter week.  Being back to work has drastically increased the stress.  It has drastically increased the exhaustion and frustration at my limitations.

Typing and writing hurt, which is trouble-some as my job requires a lot of it.  Typing is also difficult when one can’t feel the keys.  More time is spent hitting the back space then actual intended keys.  I am so frustrated with not being able to do buttons, I struggle separating pages of paper.  Finding things in my purse by feel is almost impossible and time consuming. I JUST WANT MY HANDS BACK!  I am so horribly frustrated with this.  It brings me to tears frequently. So many every day activities are just impossible.  Absolutely and terribly impossible, plus it HURTS!

Being so exhausted doesn’t help anything.  Going from doing nothing, to working full time might have been a mistake  but one I really didn’t have a choice on.  I would have lost so much money going back part-time, lost more then staying on disability.  So back full time it is.  But by the time I get home I am almost a zombie. My house is in complete disarray which is demoralizing.  I do not have the energy or will power to change it.  All I can do is stare at it and be frustrated.

Plus the PTSD still is being randomly triggered.  And the flash backs are happening more frequently and at the most inconvient times.  The thought of how the needles would go into my chest to get into my port, inch long huge needles, has been running through my brain.  Where a month ago it was something I just accepted, now it runs through my brain with agony and sadness.  Having a needle stuck in my chest for 50 hours every two weeks delivering poison to my heart and body makes me want to sob. I fear and dread going back in a week and half to have my port flushed.  It brings a primal fear to my mind.  I literally start shaking at the though of it.

On New Year’s Eve my brain decided to rehash hearing that I might have cancer.  My mind decided to replay waking up from the colonoscopy to be drowsily directed into a private room.  And then to hear the doctor look at me sadly and tell me they found a significant mass and that it was very possibly cancer, but even if it wasn’t, it would need to be removed.  I remembered the shock and falling into my Knight’s arms in tears, just crumbling at the fact that the world just changed so drastically and horribly.  I remembered seeing my dreams of buying a house that summer pop like a bubble and the same with the vacation plans I was starting to work on.  I just remember sitting there watching my world disappear into a destroyed, fire claimed landscape.  And honestly, I do not know if my view of my world has changed much.

All of that happened while I wanted to be celebrating getting through this horrible year.  I wanted to be laughing and rejoicing that I was starting a new year with new prospects.  All I could do was try and hide so my friends didn’t have to deal with my sadness at a party.  I am tired of being Debbie Downer, but my brain and body just seem to refuse to let me be anything else.

I try so hard to look at the positives through all this.  I am still living in the scorched world that refuses to regrow and become something beautiful.  I have all these loving and wonderful people around me, but my soul is in shreds right now. I love my wonderful support team so much.  However I seem to be incapable of stopping this.

Add onto everything else, going back to work has showed me how much my body has atrophied during treatment.  My muscles are so weak. My stamina is so far gone.  My body is in constant pain and stiffness as a result of me trying to be back to my active self.  I hate what I see in the mirror. I hate how I look and the weight I have gained.  I hate that my clothes don’t fit me right.

Basically inside and out, I feel like a ugly slug, not even a pretty slug, but an ugly one.

The nursing staff wasn’t wrong when they said the months after treatment are the roughest.  I thought going through the previous nine months were the hardest of my life, now I think this is.  I wish I was doing it with more dignity.  I wish I was doing it with pisazze and flare.  But I am afraid I am barely shuffling each step forward.  It is the trudge of someone that is so far beyond exhausted and lack of will that the body is pretending to walk because it doesn’t know what else to do.

I am ready for flowers to start to appear from this fire claimed landscape.  Some of the most beautiful flowers come from land ravished by fire.  I am ready for mine to grow.  I am ready for nature and hope to reclaim the desolation from around me.  I am ready to not see this devistation any more.

flower from ash


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