It's a marathon, not a sprint.

Sometime early in my treatment for breast cancer, I saw an M.D. Anderson oncologist who had been diagnosed himself with a rare type of cancer.  He said, "Cancer is a marathon, not a sprint."  "Oh yeah," I thought.  "Of course it is."  I knew I'd be having a mastectomy, several months of chemotherapy and a course of radiation treatment.  Seemed like a marathon to me, but a marathon I was steeling myself to get through.  I thought I had gotten through it.

It wasn't until the reconstruction surgery that I really hit the wall in the marathon.  Forcing myself to go on requires more strength than I think I have on any given day.  I just sort of wander through life in a daze, focused on pain.  I sit on the sofa.  I lie down on the bed.  I sit on the sofa some more.  This takes stamina.  It takes stamina to continue to feel the pain and not be able to crawl out of your own skin.  If I could just take a break from my body, I could get back to the suffering with renewed spirit.  

The people in my life tell me that it's no surprise to them that I'm feeling this way.  I guess what I'd truly like is for someone to say something that will make this all more bearable.  Telling me they're not surprised isn't it.  I'm surprised.  I thought I had endless stores of patience and stamina to call upon.  I've been practicing for this all of my life, really.  Unfortunately, it turns out that I didn't have quite enough practice, after all.

The sun is shining here today.  That's something good. I still have hair.  That's pretty good, too.  Ditto the new breast stump.  Every day I look for things to be grateful for and every day I can find quite a few.  Sadly, after I've counted them and ruminated on them, I find myself back where I started.  I've hit the wall and there's at least another ten miles to go.