I’ve spent a lot of time over the last several months reminding myself that things could always be worse. That I’ve actually survived much worse. That the cancer and the surgery and the chemo are not the worst things that have ever happened to me.

Infertility was harder. Miscarrying was harder. Burying five babies was harder.

There are many, many parallels between how I feel now and how I felt then.

As any woman who has struggled with infertility knows, the only thing you can see when you’re in the thick of temperature taking and injectable drugs and disappointing single lined pregnancy tests is pregnant women. And babies. And pregnant women with babies. It seems that every week the mailman brings at least one birth announcement or baby shower invitation. Babies are everywhere. Pictures of them are shown off at work, Facebook is a minefield of baby-related status updates and suddenly your best group of girlfriends can’t make it for Sunday brunch anymore because they all have babies that kept them up all night long.

And no matter how you try to fawn over the pictures and like the Facebook statuses and remind yourself that it will eventually happen for you, too, the overwhelming feeling is envy. Green-eyed, soul-eating jealousy that makes you hate every woman who calls herself “Fertile Myrtle” or falls accidentally with child. Your baby, if ever you are to conceive him or her, will not be the result of forgetting to put in your diaphragm because you were overcome by the passion of the moment and instead will be conceived in a doctor’s office, with a syringe and a catheter while your husband runs an errand at Home Depot.

What did I do to deserve the pain of trying and failing, month after month? What did those women do that was so right in this life that  made it so easy for them? Was I being punished for somehow not being a good enough person? Did it mean that I was going to be a crappy mom and infertility was just the way to keep me from ruining members of the next generation?

My infertility struggle had a happy ending. I acknowledge that I am incredibly blessed and lucky, because I know that not everyone gets to know my joy. But the scars remain. They’re faded and not noticeable to anyone but me, but they’re there.

I figured that going through something so tragic meant that I was safe from further harm. I remember a conversation with someone who was struggling after the Newtown school shooting, worrying that her kids would never be safe and wondering how you go on in a world so f’d up. I remember very plainly saying that I chose to believe that the worst thing that could ever possibly happened to me had indeed already happened and that nothing else that was thrown at me could ever be that bad.

Enter the cancer.

And again, I say, carrying quintuplets and losing them after five months is the absolute worst thing I can imagine. But this cancer thing isn’t easy. And my old green-eyed friend has been visiting me a lot lately.

You know what a 44 year old breast cancer patient has in common with a 12 year old boy? All we think about are boobs. Our endgame is probably different (at least I hope so), but I’ve become obsessed with breasts. And given that it’s summertime, there are a lot on display. But unlike the average 12 year old boy, my thoughts are again full of envy and resentment.

What did I ever do to deserve this? What did I ever do to deserve this lopsided freak show that I hate so much I can’t even look at myself in the mirror?

What did those women – the small-breasted, the well-endowed, the saggy, the perky, the nursing, the silicone-enhanced – do that was so right in this life that they get to keep both of their breasts?

Am I being punished for not being a good enough person?

Now I know that I am not being punished. And I know that the cancer is likely just a random fluke of cells not doing what they’re supposed to do. And I know that just because a person looks like they have it all together and their life is perfect does not mean that they don’t have their own struggles.

Turns out that logic and envy are entirely different animals and never the twain shall meet.

I am going to be fine and healthy again. I have finished chemotherapy and have radiation and hormone therapy to look forward to, as well as my reconstruction surgery probably next spring. Perky boobs are most assuredly in my future.

But I will never be the same as I was before cancer in the same way that I am not the same person I was before infertility and loss. The body heals and the heart learns to continue on despite the pain, but the scars remain.

And that green-eyed bitch is always just over my shoulder.