Riddle me this: If sex is the stuff of life, and cancer is incremental death, what am I?
Because it's not about how I look (which is pretty awesome). It's not as simple as how I feel in any given moment (generally, less awesome). Complications are deep, twisted, malformed. Side effects from treatment, sexual dysfunction, diminished self-worth, a sense that my body is betraying me.
And it's the viscera, the stuff of excrement and bile, the dirty side of living, writ large.
Pretty. Bubbly. Sparkly. Um…cancery? One of these things just doesn't belong.
So we put some spin on incurable and call it chronic. And even though more and more women are dying with, instead of from, this disease (and of course I hope and plan to be one of them) that still means living in its shadow for the rest of my life.