Post 91: Not Brave — Just Tired.
Sometimes life is too big.
And sometimes I want to run away from it all.
———
On a good day, we leap from bed with energy and purpose.
Other days, despite our best hopes, that positivity fades — minute by minute — until all that’s left is the quiet ache of anxiety humming under the surface.
Today should have been an easy one.
Just a dentist appointment mid afternoon.
No early alarm. No breakfast, either — not before someone’s had a prod around my molars.
———
I’m pleased to say that even though I’ve been socially distancing with Covid cases on the rise again, I wasn’t panicky about the waiting room. That’s a small but real victory. Early chemo days had me dreading every brush with another person. Now, I sit calmly with my water cup, unflinching at the thought of invisible bugs.
Well done, Mr U.
The anxiety that spoiled today wasn’t about crowds — it was the return of pain.
But curiously, this morning I felt hardly any. No back pain to speak of.
Of course, that’s when the overthinking began. And by the end of the day, I had a working theory — but more on that later.
Let’s start with the laxative I forgot to take yesterday.
That meant my morning was spent with pills and powder and — surprise! — a growling tummy that kept me close to the loo. Usually that powder does precious little, so this result was unexpected. But que sera sera, as Doris Day would advise.
Skipping over the bleedin’ obvious, I eventually settled down with a cold hot cross bun I’d been eyeing for days — toasted or not, it’s a sweet little brunch when slathered with proper buttery butter.
My Darling stayed in bed longer; she’s been dealing with a persistent headache.
She saw the doc and is waiting on prescriptions for newly raised blood pressure and anxiety. Understandably so — these chaotic months have taken their toll, and it’s not lost on me that I’m the cause. Her worry has become a side effect of my disease.
To see it affect her is harder than any diagnosis.
By the time she came downstairs, she found a cheerful me.
I’d already fed Mr Vicious and he’d found his way back inside, curled up behind my shoulder on the big blue sofa.
I was chirpy. I was pain-free. I didn’t even realise it until after I returned from the dentist.
To be fair, I’d pre-dosed for the check-up — that chair is not built for tall spines and long legs — but the meds worked a treat.
He gave me a filling appointment, but otherwise seemed pleased with what’s left of my teeth. Result!
Then came the slide.
At around 3pm, I had a cracking cheese and salad sandwich — extra beetroot, my favourite.
Later, we watched a sad Netflix film about a young woman with ovarian cancer and haute cuisine ambitions. For dinner, we had pasta, followed by a solo-serving treacle sponge with custard. Bliss. Every bit of it.
But…
I hadn’t considered what a full belly might mean.
Not indigestion.
Not the old Christmas dinner discomfort.
No, the dreaded rib-corset tightness and lower back pain flared up something rotten.
I’d like to blame the dentist’s chair or sitting down too long in the big blue sofa, but the pattern pointed clearly to a different culprit: a full stomach.
Which leads me to a working theory — maybe smaller meals more often is the answer.
Except… I don’t fancy that. I like proper meals. And there’s the added worry of losing weight — which I can’t afford right now.
Cue the overthinking. Again.
It’s not really the food or the routine that’s the enemy — it’s my mind.
That endless loop, always scanning for answers, searching for patterns, troubleshooting the pain like a never-ending spreadsheet.
Honestly?
I’m my own worst nightmare.
Tonight, I went to bed cringing in pain after such a bright start.
I wanted to rewind and stay with that hopeful version of me — the one with Mr Vicious asleep by my side, the one who’d made the dentist laugh.
Other things happened today, but all I can think about is pain.
Selfish, perhaps, but this chronic label is heavy.
It looms. It lingers.
All my life, I’ve dealt with acute problems — things that hurt, got fixed, and healed.
But cancer brings with it the long haul — the creeping, constant chronic. It’s a different beast, and it wears you down quietly.
I know I’ve been lucky to have gone this long without chronic pain.
But now that it’s here, I must find a way to manage it. Not just for me — but for My Darling.
She needs me to be steady. To be present. To help her through the fallout too.
I’m still on the bus — but the way is as unclear as ever.
We need a break.
The pills will help.
But what I really want is good news.
Roll on the WB-MRI.
———
Not my quote - but it works:
“Sometimes courage is just getting out of bed and facing the day.”
———
Today, I did that.
Tomorrow, I will again.
Pain may be part of the journey now, but I’m still on the bus.
And for now, I’m still on route.
Mr U.
You’ve done enough today.
