The differences between us are so big, that I catch myself wanting to "admit"
"I only had DCIS."
Even this morning, I want to quote somebody else's writing on how I feel or speak on this.
When I'm caught in that nonsense, sometimes someone else's reality gives me an elbow in the ribs. For instance, right now I follow a woman on social media who had DCIS decades ago. Perhaps she thought she was just fine afterward. Then less than a decade ago, she found herself with metastatic BC.
We've learned a helluva lot about cancer since I was diagnosed. A helluva lot about DCIS, and the sense to ask probing questions about it. And it's still not enough info. And a lot of the info is not a comfort. And some of the info is still almost guesswork. At least, now I know DCIS is not an "only." DCIS is not nothing. Now I know that nobody really knows all that is going on in my body at any time.
Right about here, I'm expected to say: You never know what tomorrow brings, or Cherish every day, or some other cheery writing. But let's be honest.
When I was diagnosed, someone said only "remember it's caught early and easily treated." I wanted to say: "Try it some time." I wanted to say, "Have you every heard the voice on the phone say, 'There's cancer.' " I want to tell them about the Recurrance decision aids on what I must do to keep it from coming back during the next five years! Or ten.
If it's gone for good, I don't need a fistful of recent lab orders and mammo orders and research printouts. Yet here they are in this fat red folder. Right next to the fat bottle of Tamoxifen.
Inside me, Hope says: The results so far show probably today I don't have BC.
What I will stop saying in that apologetic, diminished tone is: I only had DCIS.
I wish you health.