Angelina Jolie is Pissing Me Off

Everyone is falling all over themselves, congratulating her for her flowery talk of prophylactic oophorectomies and preventing cancer. Basically, she’s a fucking saint, and I’m a terrible person. I’m just going to say it: Fuck Angelina Jolie: mother of 7, married to Brad Pitt, movie star. No longer in a position where she needs to use her breasts and her ovaries, her hair and her face as currency, to communicate her worth to prospective partners, employers, agents, consumers. At the leisurely age of 39, she decided to do this. She wasn’t ready at age 37, either. I had definitive plans for my ovaries, too. I realize I’m committing a cardinal sin here: judging her struggle like this. I’m sure it must have been so very, very hard for her. Fuck Angelina Jolie. I’m not in the mood to psychoanalyze myself right now, either. Maybe later. Maybe you should read this:

http://mobile.nytimes.com/blogs/well/2015/03/16/lost-in-transition-after-cancer/

It doesn’t all ring true for me, but a lot of it does. I had what could only have been described as the opposite of post-treatment depression. More like post-treatment elation. I was so thrilled to be done, and finally feeling human again. I wanted to drop the mic and never look back. I haven’t spent a single second missing chemo, wishing I could have some more. The part about looking for your old self and being unable to find her, though, feels heart-achingly familiar. The part about living in a netherworld between “sick” and “well”. Especially when I just spent my spring break running back and forth to the hospital, having scan after scan and test after test.

Speaking of tests, my PET/CT came back “perfect”. It’s the best news ever. My doc wants my CA125 measured every 4 weeks for the foreseeable future, and I’m slated for another scan in 3 months; not 4. Awesome. Now I get to be anxious every 4 weeks about the goddamn ca125. It never ends. I sound ungrateful. I am the opposite of that.

I’ve felt “off” all day. Today, I’ve been angry about having cancer, and I’ve been having a pity party. I want to lay on my couch and pull the blankets over my head and just stay there. I don’t have anybody to talk to about it, really. My family doesn’t get it. My friends are too busy being “optimistic”. I can’t even talk to my “cancer friends”. So many are in far worse shape than I am, and nobody knows better than me,, the difference between my current problems and REAL, ACTUAL Problems.

Everybody can fuck themselves.

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