Cruel dance

This is year three of my attendance at this party, with its energy-sucking dances and unusual refreshments. I must unequivocably state, the third time is not the charm when ovarian cancer is the host. In fact, this repetitive soiree is getting uncomfortable and I'm tired of the frenetic activity required to keep up with the myriad of activities and mental gymnastics.

Currently, I'm locked in my third tango with cancer. This dance partner has a steel-trap grip - no spaghetti arms on him - and the steps have grown more complicated than before. I struggle to keep up, often stumbling, regularly falling and increasingly uncertain I can understand what it's going to take for this malevolent puppetmaster to release his grip and let me rest.

Every day seems to bring some new requirement or complication too. I didn't get enough sleep, my stomach is roiling with nerves, my too-high dance shoes are pinching my toes, the food I tried to eat isn't sustaining me through the rigeurs of the moves or my body collapses in protest. I'm tired and frustrated, both mentally and physically.

Despite all the taxing requirements placed on it, my muscles are starting to atrophy. I've lost a lot of weight, but I've lost a disturbing amount of muscle. I am not toned at all and the cottage-cheese effect severely dimples my arms and legs. It's disgusting and embarassing. I've always been relatively fit and this muscular breakdown depresses my already challenged psyche. Being this weak, also does not make me an equal partner with the demon cancer during his cruel fete.

While the first two turns around the punchbowl in 2009 and 2010 were difficult with the side effects, mental dark-basement excursions and (somewhat) weakening body, this time is completely different. It's much, much harder.

The preparations also started earlier when I received the dreaded invitation to re-join the party in May. The ascities showed up in late June. The attempt at a different dance - the Regorafinib - produced horrific blisters and, possibly, internal damage resulting in my huge abdominal scar and two-week hospitalization. As a result, the date of the actual soiree was postponed until mid-November. Now I feel I'm stumbling, trying to catch up to an event that started months ago, in a compromised position.

I know attending this type of excursion three years in a row will justifiably exact a toll on a person, but I hate it. The first two tangos seemed so much more manageable in comparison. This party seems like it's going to go on for far too long, with horrifically discordant music, too-loud laughing and a sneeringly arrogant dance partner.

I long for a reprieve, where I can pack those torturous dance shoes - or better yet, throw them away - and head home to rest and recover. But I know I have to endure, because as much as I'd like to throw my sickeningly-sweet punch in cancer's face and leave him alone on the dance floor, that will allow him to win. That is just not an option.

Tina