Casually in conversation last evening, the husband mentioned it has been 58 hours since his last cigarette.
How could I have not noticed? I reel back to Sunday, his quit day, and review. Was he gnawing on the furniture? Was his speech impaired. Did his eyes bulge from their sockets? Was his words a blurred drooling roll of incomprehensible sounds? NO. wait. That was me when I did my "quit".
Had he not told me, I would never have known and maybe that was the way it was supposed to be. I don't think he wanted much attention. Neither did I. I really wanted to find a cave somewhere and crawl in and die. No, folks, quitting was NOT fun and I have great empathy for anyone traveling that road. I also have great admiration and respect for those that make it and sympathy for those that don't.
Try again. My only answer to someone that doesn't make their quit. "You can always try again." There is no condemning nor 30 lashes. "Quitting" is a personal thing and nothing to be approached lightly. It matters not how committed you are to do this, sometimes it just doesn't work out. I think my third attempt was my final attempt and every day of my life I rejoice that I made it. I feel that proud of my daughter for making it also.
I love my husband and everytime I see him light up a cigarette, it scares me. I'm afraid he is taking time away from our life together. It's a health issue with me now. He smokes outside. We can afford it, much unlike so many others that are addicted. Money doesn't bring back the health he loses with each cigarette he lights up.
I don't say any of these things to him. He is well aware of the costs monetarily and health wise to his body. I wouldn't insult him by having this conversation with him. I will be here to gently cheer him on and offer any support I can.
I know how proud of himself he will be should he make it all the way in this quit. I'm his best fan and cheerleader!
Itchy feet. I have itchy feet. I know I have more rounds of chemo to finish and I want to get this dance done with. For a few days I had a bit of a pity party for me. It was exclusive and no one around knew it was even going on. There was no drama to witness. It was all encased in my brain. I didn't share it with my best friends, nor my family. I wanted to lash out and whine about continuing this treatment. I wanted the wound to heal from this surgery, the drains to be off me and I wanted to dress in a nice pretty sweater and slacks and get out of this house for a while. I'm in a cage, albeit a nice comfortable one. It is filled with all sorts of entertainment, food and drink. It is where I spend every day all day. During my pity party, I could only envision one future. That was filled with more chemo dates, radiation dates and a rigid schedule I would have to follow for an unspecified number of months. With no end in site and no guarantees on the outcome I felt my soul take a nose dive. My sympathy for myself overwhelmed me. I was standing at the top of the worlds steepest slicky slide and one little push would have sent me down that long run, watching as my up to this time life whizzed by in a blur of recognizable better times.
I should be ashamed. I am ashamed but not mentioning it and denying my feelings doesn't negate the fact that I was feeling all this. I didn't take that push from the top of that slide. It would be a long trip back and I know I don't want to approach that trip.
My party was short and only took a little time to get turned around. It happens and it's part of this process of illness and healing. "Nobody is promised tomorrow". Not you nor you nor you. It only takes getting to a certain age, not specified in any "book on living" when this message will be pertinent to each one of us.
It's sweater weather here and I want to put on a sweater and a pair of jeans. It might only last a day and I don't want to miss it. The heat will return as it usually does so we seize the moment and enjoy the nippy weather. Frost was expected but when I finished brewing a cup of coffee and carried it to the front door to step outside and see my breath in the crispness, there was no frost on the ground or the roof tops.
I'm also spending my time searching the web. My keyword is "flat". I have such an aversion to having surgery unless it is something that cannot be avoided. I've been looking at pictures of "small breasted women", "flat chested women" and investigating what they say about what nature didn't give them. I've also read about the many women that did not want reconstructive surgery, and about the problems the ones that did have it and how they felt. I'm looking at this from all angles and viewpoints.
Hopefully, I will be able to make a better judgement on this once I can dress in street clothes. The thought of having something foreign attached to my chest does little to have me looking forward to reconstruction. Is it to early for me to be studying this?
I know I will have to finish chemo and radiation before this can even become something I have to think about. Months before this possibility, I will be dressing in street clothes long before the decision has to be made on "to reconstruct or to not reconstruct."
As of this time, facing surgery times three is not a plan for me.
Will I publish this or keep it in draft?