Fuck Cancer

At the end of July, my mum died from cancer – the same kind I had in spring, endometrial adenoma, but where mine was early days and not very aggressive, hers was faster-growing and already in the last stage. It’s currently still being investigated whether there’s a genetic link behind the two of us getting or it was just coincidence. I had some factors that made the development of endometrial cancer more likely, like PCOS and nulliparity, but my mum’s lifetime risk was not elevated. And I already had symptoms in the very beginning, while my mum’s only showed up during her last month and were so unspecific that we all believed she had a stomach bug. There were only eight days between her cancer diagnosis and death, and I don’t want to go into details about her rapid decline because I’ve relived it often enough as it is.
I miss my mum every day. I wish we had more photos together from recent years, or any videos and voice recordings. I wish we’d had more time to say goodbye. More time in general.
Even though I’m doing ok, I wonder if I’ll ever be able to be carefree again. Even the most beautiful days are tinted with melancholia now – an underlying sadness which sometimes morphs into anger. Anger that the world just keeps turning, so oblivious about the fact that my mum’s not here anymore.
What helped me most was that the psychiatrist increased my daily dosage of escitalopram to the therapeutic maximum; by November I’m supposed to go back to my usual dosage. Any other medication I’ve been offered to help me sleep or keep me calm came with too many side effects and wasn’t worth taking. You can’t medicate away grief anyway.

Apart from that, I’m doing well. My own body has recovered and I’m back to pre-surgery levels of fitness now, even though it was only four weeks ago that I last felt the stabbing pain at the surgical sites inside my lower abdomen. They say a hysterectomy takes six to nine months to heal completely, which seems about right to me: surgery was in early March and the last time I felt anything was in early September.
I don’t miss my uterus at all, especially considering I went through over half a year of constant cramping and bleeding in the end. It’s a great relief to not have any of that anymore, and I don’t miss my periods either. For the first weeks post-OP that general region (bladder, intestines etc.) felt somewhat alien, but now I can’t tell any difference compared to before surgery whatsoever. I actually “forget” I had a hysterectomy until something reminds me of it.

I’m still attending aquafit classes, which deserve at least half of the credit for getting me fit again after surgery. (The other half goes to regular walks; without them I wouldn’t have gotten well enough to attend aquafit classes in the first place.) They are also really helpful for my mental health.
My weight is around 93.5 kg or 206 lbs right now. The week my mum died, I was actually down to 92.2 kg, but anything I lost due to grief came back on later. This month marks the first anniversary of my diabetes diagnosis, and during the past year I lost 10.5 kg (23 lbs) of fat and gained 4 kg (8.8 lbs) of muscle, so I’m a lot healthier now.
My milestone-targets are still in place: first get under 200 lbs, then get under 90 kg, then get to a bmi under 30, which for me would be at a weight lower than 88 kg.
Bloodsugar management is going ok. In fact, I think it’s the metformin which allows me to slowly lose weight. I have to be careful to not stray from my eating schedule too much or the metformin will give me the worst diarrhea imaginable. Seriously, my lactose intolerance problems, while more painful, appear like a joke compared to metformin shits. Which is the reason why my biggest weightloss goal is not reaching a certain number on the scale, but being able to at least reduce my metformin dosage if I can’t get off it completely.

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