Fair Warning: Pity Party Invitation.

2014 is for the birds. On my birthday in March, I thought oh, it can’t get any worse than my 26th year. 26 is done. Pop died. Our baby died. It can’t get worse. We’ve tapped out on bad news. 27 is going to be great. Fresh start! Well, joke is on my because 27 is sucking it up pretty hard. Another family death, moving classrooms at the last minute, painful ovarian cyst pain, and finding out I have cancer. What a bitch. 

Apparently my body is backwards. I grow the wrong things extremely well: painful cysts check, skin tags check: glamorous is my middle name, extra poundage check, and cancer cells check. Heaven forbid my body spend its energy and nutrients on something awesome and wondrous like a baby. Is that really too much to ask?

Cancer is a real bitch. She rolls up into my body and demands so much. She demands my health. She demands my energy. She demands my sick days, my positive attitude, my motivation, and a lot of other things. She is a selfish and she needs to, “Get over her bad self,” as my mother would say. 

Losing a baby was enough. Truly. I finally got to hold the balloon of pregnancy in my hand. Complications came and I could feel the ribbon slipping between my fingers. Losing the baby pulled the balloon from my hands and as time went on, the balloon faded out of sight. “Allow yourself to feel it,” our counselor said. He was right. Adam and I felt it. We continue to feel it. We started to recover. Then cancer bitch waddled her way into my life. 

She can leave. I am done with her already. Where can I dump this wench? Could we do this speed dating style? Can the bell ring and I move to another table? 

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