Well, not really. Cancer sucks. It really, really, “insert your favorite expletive here” sucks. But, for me, it hasn’t been entirely bad. The proof? 
1. Everyone keeps telling me how young I am. I’m 43, going on 44 and no one has called me young in about 15 years. However, apparently I’m almost an infant in breast cancer terms. Every doctor, every nurse, every random person I meet who knows about the cancer tells me how young I am. If I could get them to tell me how pretty I am, I’d need for nothing else.
2. Yeah, yeah, chemo makes your hair fall out. But it’s not just the hair on the top of your head. It includes leg hair, arm hair and those horrible straggly things that crop up on your chin. I hereby declare 2014 the Year I Don’t Have to Shave or Wax All Summer. Thank you, poisonous chemicals floating around in my body.
3. I can take naps whenever I want. No one questions me. No one criticizes me. No one blames me. In fact, my naps are encouraged. I love naps.
4. I haven’t had to cook for a month. People have brought lasagnas and fajitas and meatloaves and then some more lasagnas. Anything that gets me out of having to figure out what to make for dinner is A-OK in my book.
5. As I believe I’ve mentioned in previous blog posts, I am not an optimist. I am not a glass-half-full kind of girl. I’m pessimistic and snarky and sarcastic and proud to be so. But the positive reinforcement engendered by a cancer diagnosis may have me changing at least the pessimistic-side of my personality. People have been saying such nice things about me, and I’m embarrassed to even write them here. But when people are telling you how wonderful you are, can you really stay negative? (My sarcasm and snarkiness shall remain firmly in place, however. I can’t let the cancer completely change who I am.)
6. I didn’t have a lot of friends growing up. High school was horribly lonely and isolating. That experience used to bother me, but now I think I was just saving up for now. I have more friends supporting me and making me laugh and offering help than I could ever possibly thank or pay back, including some from my high school days. The people in my life are awesome. And while I knew that I had good people in my life before the cancer diagnosis, I probably didn’t have the level of appreciation for them that I do now. (Especially the ones who have brought me alcohol and/or cupcakes.)
7. A foam breast prosthesis is a party waiting to happen. My children have worn it on their heads, my daughter has used it pretending to be pregnant and I’m becoming quite adept at adjusting it mid-conversation without calling attention to myself. My incision is still tender so I don’t wear it when I’m at home, and this has given rise to my children’s favorite new game, “Find Mom’s Boob.” I’m thinking of a photo study, a la Flat Stanley, with my fake boob as the star. Someone get me an agent!
8. Oh, but isn’t my cancer and it’s subsequent treatment just comedy gold? Forgetting to put on my boob before I run errands? Posting on Facebook that I’m radioactive? It’s just funny, man. I mean, it sucks. And it’s scary. And if I had my way, I would not be lopsided. Or about to be bald. Or having to write this at all. But it’s got to be funny. It has to be or how the hell would I get through it?
I love your posts, your humor and your courage. The last paragraph sums it up. Your sense of humor will get you (and your family) through this awfulness. Keep laughing (while allowing yourself to cry and scream too if you need to)