Trust the journey. Trust yourself, Dianne. Trust. I kept telling myself this. I needed to trust. And to draw from everything I’ve learned so far when I was in a funk this past fall. When I was depressed. Yes, I’ll say the word that people sometimes have a hard time saying: I was “depressed.” 2022 was a really hard year for me with initial Lynch Syndrome screenings and related surgeries; a long bout of Covid; continuing, successive and confusing joint issues and pain constantly interfering with my hopes of finding physical strength and fitness again; and a persnickety digestive system
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I’ve been on such an emotional roller-coaster the last several months since discovering I have Lynch Syndrome, and these last several days have been no exception. After undergoing bladder surgery (TURBT, or transurethral resection of a bladder tumor) last week for a mass presumed to be cancer (because most bladder tumors are, apparently) and getting a round of chemo washed into my bladder at the same time to help prevent recurrence, I opened my pathology results a day later to read this: “Urothelial papilloma with no evidence of malignancy.” What? WHAT? I don’t have cancer? Am I reading that right?
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We have a saying in our family: You gotta show up at the trailhead. Essentially that means “showing up” is half the battle. Before today, I hadn’t swum since December because I had an injury and was in PT. Then I got my Lynch Syndrome diagnosis (see previous post) and several weeks ago had a total hysterectomy (removal of the uterus and cervix) with bilaterial salpingo-oophorectomy (removal of the ovaries and fallopian tubes) to prevent cancer-development. I’ve been walking as part of my surgery recovery, but am just up to 2.5 miles, and overall I’m terribly out of shape and
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I’m currently living on railroad tracks, and I don’t know if a train is going to come and eventually crash into me. Are the tracks deserted or active? Heck if I know! If you were on these tracks, what would you do? Stay on the tracks and let that possible train come tomorrow or next month or next year or when you’re 60? 65? 70? (Or, not me, but 40?) Well, it’s been a little scary for me lately coming to the acceptance that my home was built over railroad tracks. I’ve worked really hard to take care of my
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