I don’t intend for this to become an all-cancer-all-the-time blog. As a result, I’ve been obsessing for FAR too long over how to balance posts about coping with my mom’s cancer diagnosis with the regularly scheduled posts. (“Hmm…should the post about when I couldn’t wake my mother after her first chemo treatment come BEFORE or AFTER the post about how to refinish a desk in Hollywood Regency style?” #privilegedgirlproblems)
But as it has a tendency to do in real life, this cancer crap will probably dominate the posts at least for the foreseeable future, ESPECIALLY since the recent Susan G. Komen Klusterfuck (For The Kure!™) presses my Magic Soapbox Button. You have all been warned.
Perhaps I’ll kill two birds with one stone and do a follow-up post on “How to Bedazzle Your Own Soapbox Using Scrap Ribbons, Vintage Lace and Miniature Buttons.”
Hmm… <strokes imaginary beard thoughtfully>
Anyway, one of the things I will repeatedly stress is the fact that you can’t let cancer take over your whole life. It is both normal and correct to live your life, albeit with some temporary modifications.
Let me repeat that once more for the cheap seats: It is both normal and correct to live your life. It’s so easy to get steamrolled by the guilt for wanting to, say, meet a friend for a quick cup of coffee when your parent is chilling at home, having cancer. It’s also really easy to inadvertently sever contact with the rest of the world because you’re afraid something bad will happen to your parent if you leave them for longer than 30 seconds. I mean, they have CANCER, dammit! CAAAAAAAANNNCERRRRRR.
But seriously, you guys, neither scenario is emotionally healthy for you or for your parent.
So things may seem a bit disjointed at first. You’ll more than likely see several cancer-y posts followed, inexplicably, by a recipe for steak au poivre or a review of a Vegas show we saw over the weekend, but let that be a reminder that it’s ok to inject some normalcy into a ridiculously abnormal situation. You’re going to be ok, and you can do this.
(am I reassuring the reader, or myself? I don’t even know anymore…)