The tumour markers in my blood have fallen again. Not as dramatically as last time—only a little—but they’re still falling. The hormones are doing their job.
The doctor I saw this morning told me that eventually the tumour marker readings level off, which may be why the decrease was so little this time.
Still, in my head I keep bargaining. If I get to the gym at least four times a week; if I always eat healthy and lose weight; if I get enough sleep every night; if…if…if…then can I please not have incurable cancer?
And that’s what I’m going to call it for now—not terminal, but incurable.
I have habitually called it terminal. It’s not that I want to regress to denial about my situation. Despite my good blood readings today, I know there’s no guarantee they’ll stay that way.
But dammit, I’m not dying. Not right now, not in this moment. Therefore I’ve got no business saying I am.
There are lots of incurable but treatable conditions, from type 1 diabetes to Parkinson’s. People live with them. I’ll be living with mine till further notice.
(Hear that, cancer? You are most definitely my bitch.)