Jan. 1 – Spent alone while my significant other fucked with my head.

February – My birthday. Same significant other showed up at my house to return everything I had given her. Gave me a birthday card with the words “Love Ya” whited out. Other offenses too numerous to mention.

March – Diagnosed with breast cancer

April – Lumpectomy surgery and the beginning of the breast cancer conveyor belt.

May – Trying to make some decisions about treatment. What to do? Am I making the right choice? Start the chemo dance. Begin becoming a chemo warrior.

I watch the people walk through the doors in the morning at the cancer care center. Most eyes forward: head held high, armor fully engaged. Time to battle another day. IVs started; premeds followed by the poisons. Poisons that will hopefully find the enemy and destroy. As in any battle, you always lose part of yourself. Treatment room full of laughter full of support; also part of the armor.

At the end of this day’s battle, the warriors shuffle home, armor slightly leaning off one shoulder or the other. Striving just to make it home—shed the armor—sit in the nude for a brief second and shiver. The only place the scared one inside the warrior feels safe to come out. There are only a few people in the world whom the warrior allows to see this space.

The warrior knows that most people in their life are unable (no – I think it is too uncomfortable) to see the warrior struggle. To see the warrior stumble. To see the warrior cry.  So we, the warriors, awake the next morning, put the armor on again, and head back to the battlefield.  Some of us only to get shots to stimulate the white blood cell count; others to face the poison for another round.

The second day is hard, even for those of us only getting the shots.  I watch as others walk past the injection room and back for another round of chemo.  One warrior in particular caught my eye yesterday.  An older female with short gray hair—I assume short because of previous battles with chemo.  Yesterday, she entered with two female friends, but it was clear who was there for battle.  There is something that gives it away. No, it is not the hair; it is the way she enters the clinic—head high, eyes forward—and mentions to the lady behind the desk that she’s glad to see her back from vacation.  She walked in owning that place.  I was blown away.

We were called back at about the same time to have blood drawn and vitals recorded.  We smiled and laughed because the techs were having trouble getting enough blood from us. She smiled at me and said, “I am surprised I have any left.”  That is the thing about warriors: we have a connection just because—we know.  We know what it is like to hear the words.  To have a doctor call you at work and say, “Is this a good time?” Hell no—it is not a good time because I now know what you are going to say.  I have had skin cancer so I have heard the C word before but this time—this time you are going to say breast cancer. So hell no; now is not a good time.  I am having a life over here.  This was not in the plan.  That is what the scared one inside is thinking but the warrior says, “Now would be just fine.”

So the older warrior and I are sent to our battle stations.  She goes to the group treatment room but since it is my first time I go to a private room.  They hook her up and she gets started while I must be visited by the doctor and nurses.  They try to shake the armor, listing the reactions that might occur during the infusion process, but the warrior is ready: Bring it. Through the door of my room, open just a crack, it sounds like a wild party in the group room.  Nurses running from IV to IV.  Warriors talking and laughing.  I cannot see my new warrior hero because the door blocks my view.

During the treatment, warriors must find a way to tow the new sword that is now attached to their body (through an IV or through a port that was installed to make it easier to get the treatment).  We might look silly to you, trying to get in and out of the bathroom or up and down the hall rolling that thing around. But that, my friend, is now an important part of our battle paraphernalia. And goddamn it—we earned it.

My infusion last a little over three hours and before I am done I hear the nurse say to a warrior, “You are done! You slept through the whole treatment.” I see the warrior stand. Yeah, you guessed it: my new chemo hero.

Second day for me.  I walk in, sit down, look to my left and there she is, this time with a younger man—I am guessing her son.  My night was not too bad.  A little uncomfortable, but okay.  Another warrior sits down beside me.  An older woman who looks like a sweet farm wife.  She looks at me sideways and says, “Are you here with somebody or here for yourself?”  I tell her for myself.  She looks at my long blond hair and says, “You ain’t lost your hair yet.” I tell her I had my first treatment yesterday.  She had her second yesterday and her hair fell out the second week after the first treatment.  Great!  Two more weeks.  All the non-warriors are telling me what I should do with my hair.  Cut it now. Cut it a little at a time so it will not be such a big shock. Hello . . . I have breast cancer. Now there is a shocker.  I am ready to shave it already but some non-warriors say, maybe you will be one of the ones that does not have that side effect.  People: I seriously made a decision about whether or not to cut my breast off. My fucking hair will grow back.