I spend a lot of time these days reflecting on the process of being ill. There are days, far too many days, where the simple act of walking across a flat, even surface leaves me exhausted and gasping to catch my breath. 

I have cancer again. Like the grandest fuck you from the universe to ever exist, I have cancer again. Again, again. 

I had some really good cancer free months. And I had some really bad ones too. But damn if all of this didn’t catch me off guard. 

As with everything there is good news and there is bad. The cancer is confined to my breast again, which means things aren’t as dire as they could be. I had to have my breast removed in November. 

As silly as it may seem I cannot wrap my head around the shock of it. The visual reminder of all I have lost and all that has been taken from me and all I have had to endure without hope for relief. To lose my breasts once was shocking but to have my breast taken a second time has damaged my spirit in ways I cannot describe. It shames me to be so broken over something so physical. I never would have imagined I would be the type to be so affected by this. 

I will tell you the deepest secret in the recesses of my mind: I would take the cancer back if it meant I could have my breast back as well. I sit here unable to join the leagues of women proudly proclaiming that  it’s better than having cancer. I disagree. 

Here I am once again subjected to a world where I have seen too much, have born through too much. 

I hate every single second of this.