Wednesday, December 10, 2008

The How and Why

How do you respond when the people who are supposed to save you from cancer, tell you there's nothing they can do?
How do you react when the day that was supposed to signal the end of the stupid fight you've put up for months, is abruptly cut short and you are sent home?
Why do I continue to get screwed? Who did I fuck over in a former life? in this life?
Why can't shit just be simpler?
How do you move forward when you're not given options?
Why keep going if the outcomes already been set?
How do you tell someone who means well enough that "sending love/prayers/thoughts" really isn't doing a damn thing for me? love/prayers/thoughts apparently aren't winning this battle for me.
Why is it that you can have so many people from all over the globe rooting for you, and yet nothing still goes your way?
How come?
Why bother?


  1. I don't know. I'm sorry.

    I think you're great.


  2. I'm here if you need to chat/vent! xo


  3. I have nothing other to say than I am so very sorry Becca. I wish there was something more I could say or do.

  4. If you are down, I will support you in your downness.

    If you need a hand up (or to the middle, at any rate), I can try to be that for you, too.

    I am nobody, but for you, I want to be something. Let me help. Know that somebody, this nobody, cares about you, Miss Somebody.

    What can I/we faraway folks do? You have sounded the alarm--please let us answer.

  5. You are not an asshole - surgically (or any other way) speaking. You are a whole person, even in your surgically-altered current state. And you are right to scream at the night.

    Many of us, the surviving cancer cohort, live in your world and want you to know that you are not alone. We don't have answers, but we have emotions. You are us.

    I am so sorry that there seem to be more questions than answers, that life is not moving forward according to some unspoken (but expected) simple plan. Your journey is my journey - I no longer count on tomorrow, or next week, or 2015.

    The words are, but they have little meaning. Do not feel alone. We are here.

  6. I'm so sorry Becca! I am in this fight with you and also have no answers...except maybe the next life is better...? Who knows? Sue

  7. I'll always root for you, Becca. Always.

  8. Becca,
    Tell us more...could lack of insurance/finances be the problem? If you can elaborate, some of us might be able to help....You are too young and beautiful to be written off for that reason! I hope I'm not offending you but I don't have the right words, I know, not walking in your shoes.

  9. Just stumbled upon your blog as I too look for options in an option-less world.

    I know how you feel. I was diagnosed with stage IV about 5 months ago . . . thought I was in the emergency room for an appendix - surprise, surprise.

    At the moment I feel like you do - what's the point?

    It is especially hard today as I just finished my first round of Erbitux and I look like a side-show freak (God, I'd like to have pictures that look like yours - you look like a million bucks).

    As bad as this is, I guess the reality is pretty simple - it is what it is, and while I'd like to change that reality, it probably isn't going to happen.

    Once you accept that, things sort of get better in a wierd way. I now spend more of my short time actually noticing how many friends I've got, and how many good things I've been given.

    The situation sucks, but what are you going to do? I hope to be able to use whatever time I've got to say hi to family and friends, and to do whatever I can for them.

    Maybe some of this medical black magic will take . . . they've done a good job of making me feel better, but, like your situation, the end game hasn't appeared to change.

    I know this isn't any help, but it's all I've got. You just keep putting one foot in front of the other and make sure you use your time with those that matter.

    If there is some magic out there I'm hoping it comes your way.