I Like My Humor like I like my Coffee

Dear Mom,

As you know, my cancer treatment was tough. Even harder than yours, and I’m not trying to be competitive. Though, I can hear you joke about it. Maybe saying something to the effect of ‘mirar, You might have had the tougher treatment, but I beat cancer long before you!’ Touche. That may be true, but which one of us is writing letters on the internet?

I only have my husband and my two best friends who genuinely understand my sense of humor. Me and Nikki often imagine scenarios where you’re out sassying us. The world truly does not know who it had lost those twenty years ago. It has taken me some time to find the sunshine after you passed. Everyday felt like that last night with you. I don’t like sitting in the dark anymore…

Do you know how daunting it was to go from drinking several pills a day to nothing? I’m surprised I didn’t get whiplashed by all the changes happening around me. It didn’t come as a surprise that my period was late. The stress, plus the mess that chemo made of my health most likely added to the delay. I hated figuring out how to measure my flow. There was nobody to ask those embarrassing questions to and I feared bothering the people looking after me.

I know I should have spoken to someone about my health. I would have maintained the visits to my doctors had I kept the paperwork safe. When Rose tossed everything in our apartment out in those dumpsters, my records and the phone numbers I needed were in the rubble. By the time I found myself settled somewhere enough to realize that what I was enduring was not normal, I had other problems to contend with. Problems I wasn’t sure how to address.

While I lived with Belle, I was forced to see a side of her that I had never experienced from anyone before. Not even you. I’ve seen you angry, I’ve been chewed out by you before, but your temperament did not prepare me for hers. I went from a quiet, peaceful home where I was the only child to a household with five other girls, and a complicated marriage. I don’t blame Belle for the heightened anxiety her home had given me. Not everyone can control their environment, and I, more than anyone, should know that. Unfortunately, the situation led to me being uncomfortable with disturbing Belle with my problems. And let’s face it, I had grown weary of hospitals.

It would have probably worked out better if I had at least gotten some medical help in New York before arriving in Puerto Rico. As you know, the island isn’t equipped to handle a case like mine. Anyone who gets cancer on the island is either forced to receive the minimal amount of help from what is available, or they have to fly into the states. Money was tight. I don’t have a number to give you, but I’m sure it wasn’t enough to be able to send me to New York for medical treatments. The doctors on the island did what they could, and I don’t blame them. The lack of resources is not a reflection of them, as they all expressed their concerns. There was nothing serious happening besides my constant nausea, and the occasional weakness, so I opted against doing anything extra. I had enough to worry about with school, and trying to keep up with the curriculum in Spanish, that I didn’t want to continue to worry over my health anymore.

I guess you can call it one of those stupid teenager decisions. I should have known better.

I’ve been accused of having an eating disorder before because of the extent of my nausea. I hated those days. There was a very small list of things I could eat that would settle well in my stomach, so I tended to overindulge in these options, but that did leave me a bit malnourished. Not enough to be unhealthily thin, but then again, the shape I was in was unfamiliar to me. After having spent my childhood obese and relentlessly bullied because of it, I wore very baggy clothing to hide my figure. Thinking back on it now, I guess you can say I suffered through body dysmorphia, but I didn’t have an eating disorder. I just couldn’t eat.

To this day, I still struggle to enjoy food. This condition has no name, and has simply been neatly tucked away in the file ‘Things brought on by chemotherapy’. While I dislike the category, even I can’t argue against that observation as I’ve been tested for dozens of things over the years. Most, if not all, of my symptoms are all closely related to the kind of treatment I had to get in order to survive. Essentially you can’t cure your cancer without some kind of aftermath.

I’ve since been desensitized by what is happening to me, but that often leads me to becoming a touch insecure when I’m around strangers. You can call it paranoia, and you can convince me that it is understandable to feel the way that I do – however none of that has helped comfort me. I’m anxious about what they’ll say about me, about their assumptions and I’m often overwhelmed with feeling as though they’ll think I’m overexaggerating. It comes with the territory.

Yet it still breaks my heart whenever I’m hit with accusations, especially when they’re coming from people I had assumed were friends.

You would be surprised by how many people are under the impression that you can’t possibly have health problems after treatment for cancer. Actually, maybe you wouldn’t. Someone bullied me for having cancer in front of you, so clearly you have seen some of the struggles I have had to face over the years. As if feeling shitty 75% of the time isn’t bad enough.

That said, imagine dealing with that AND everything that came after your death. I’m sure you have heard me asking you to take me with you. I’m still waiting.

In the meantime, I’ll keep fighting this because I can’t exactly play video games while sick, now can I? It would be nice if you can send me a little bit of strength. Anyhow, I think that’s enough venting for today.