Fright Factor & Living Dead

Rated PG-13, mainly for the "Fright Factor" photo below. 

     April 1, 2006, after 24 hours in the hospital, with regular nurse pokes and the overnight roomie-from-hell (moaning and flinging fluids, with just a meager curtain dangling between us), I survived my surgery and that scary night. I awoke with two less body parts intact (not to mention lots of pain). That was merely the continuation of a myriad of terror.

     "If this type of cancer returns, it will be voracious and most likely take your life" (frightening words from my oncologist).

     Keeping one of "the girls" was an option (I still miss them, to this day), but why not be balanced? It was only later I discovered, when meeting with the oncologist, it was the best decision of my life. Fortunately, "the girls" were expendable, and my sentinel node was cancer-free. Eight years later, April Fool, I'm still alive.

Frightening!!

     Forgive me for over-emphasizing my experiences, eons afterward. "Get over it," you might say. But, I spent 6 long years distancing myself as a breast cancer survivor and from the fright factor. 

     Maybe I was terrorized by the ominous, potentially boomeranging (HR2 Neu -positive) -effect. Maybe my childhood nighttime terrors were returning (PTSD). Rather than being a helpless, 6-year-young bystander, overhearing Dad's loud door-bangs and slurred accusations at Mom, I was the star and active participant of this 2006 scary movie. Maybe that is why nighttime was most frightening, especially pre-surgery.

    Just as in childhood, quietness was my ploy... not denial, but maybe, possibly, it was avoidance (a/k/a repression or muteness, spelled mildly different than denial). Quietness somewhat separated me from the "Big C." Like closing my eyes during a frightening, 24/7 movie scene. I was experiencing the movie, but invisibly.

     Terror didn't immobilize me. Being an active participant in decision-making was empowering. Physical activities like chopping off my own disintegrating hair, continuing moderate power-walks, as well as keeping my part-time job were all positive for me.

Bejeweled flusher! Today, no plunger needed

   
     Mentally visiting my
funeral was a divergent activity. Seeing my adult children's sorrow and pain caused literal heart palpitations. Yet, it was amazingly freeing to face physical mortality. I had one less fear to unsuccessfully plunge into the overflowing sewer of terror. 

     So, what about my voice? 
I was physically active and journaled cancer events, but few feelings were verbalized. Delving into slimy depths was rare. So, I now conclude this blog with these thought-provoking questions:

• Was I living dead?
• Was it safer for me to wait 8 years to openly share and fully embrace my fright?
• Are my current emotion-embracing writings distancing me from living dead?
• Why not label this blog LivingDead  8+8 -8? [No fright, only I will take the time to figure out that scary math and other confusing ideas].
• Did only doctors (and "warrior-dom") stand between me and Caspar the ghost, OR was Savior Jesus, for some undeserved reason, actually calling the shots (Acts 10:42)?
• Why is this unemployed empty-nester alive, kicking, and still a divergent rambler about alcoholism, cancer, grandchildren, and current events?
• Tres Bon?