Dream a little dream (of cancer)

The first week after my diagnosis I woke up feeling great - unaware of my cancer, free from worry. I'd reach for Gus, his stinky little old dog body sleeping next to me, and start to consider all of the fun things we could do on a summer vacation day. And in thirty seconds or fewer, I'd hit the brick wall. I have cancer. The first morning after my diagnosis, the shock was the worst. Though the day before, I'd held it together, pretty remarkably in fact. That morning, the sadness overtook me. To the point that I found it hard to breathe. My whole life had changed, and now I'd be forever linked with cancer. If not a cancer patient, then (hopefully) a cancer survivor. What if I didn't want to be known as a cancer patient or a cancer survivor? What if I just wanted to be me?

My dreams for that first week or so were cancer-free. In my dreams, I was healthy and happy and that was why it was such a shock to wake up and face the truth. And even though my dreams were as vivid and bizarre as usual, I never had a nightmare about my disease. This may have been my subconscious denying that I was sick, but it made my conscious wake-up call really tough.

I've read a few interviews with people that have lost the use of their legs, and they said that in their dreams they can walk and dance. That wake-up call has to be an even bigger bitch than mine. But I get it. Part of it is refreshing, I guess. In theory, it sounds pretty nice to be able to get a break from cancer while I sleep.

This morning, I realized that I've recently been dreaming that I have cancer. Not every dream is about cancer, but, while in my dream, I'm aware of it. It's now a part of me, mentally as well as physically. I guess that's what is called acceptance.

When I think of this, I'm reminded of when I suffered from amnesia as a result of a concussion from an accident when I was fourteen. I fell while walking on the ice of a frozen stream near my house and smashed the side of my head. When I woke up and felt lucid for the first time since the fall, I had lost three years. I thought someone else was President and was convinced that I was three years younger. I also thought that my dog, Jenna, who was recently put down, was still alive. When my mom told me she was dead, the shock felt the same as hearing the news for the first time. It was the same as that morning after my diagnosis.

I guess when it comes down to it I think I'd choose to be aware rather than be ignorant, no matter what my consciousness may be. Anyway, the important part is simply the waking up, right?