I worked out at the gym again this morning with my trainer, Lance or, Lancelot, as I call him. Showered. Went to a coffee shop. Wrote for an hour and a half. Came home. Slept for three and a half hours.
Getting my physical strength and stamina back is a longer road than I thought and I get both down and pissed off about it then feel guilty because I’m alive and healthy while so many people who get cancer die. But there are times, today is one, when a small amount of exertion leads to major fatigue. And our workouts are very methodical. We go very slowly. We focus on breathing and rarely even use weights at this point. I feel a lot better than I did six weeks ago.
At this moment, though, I want to fucking scream. I’m tired of this shit. Chemo finished 14 months ago but the effects linger like a bad habit. I hate cancer. I despise cancer. It is a scourge. To kill cancer, physicians practically have to kill the patient. The treatment is barbaric.
The physicians I have talked to in the last several years have said cancer is “complicated.” Oh, wow. What a revelation. I was lucky. I had B cell lymphoma. They can actually cure that one. But most cancers, no. It’s “complicated.”
Hitler declared war on the United States on 11 December 1941. Roughly three and a half years later, American GIs pissed into the Rhine. Is cancer more complicated than that? Than winning World War Two?