The Fake-Out: Rebuilding My Body One (Very Slow) Step at a Time

    The warm steam from the kitchen sink. It was a beautiful, sneaky trap. Three months since my last round of chemo for Stage 2b Serous Carcinoma, and my mind decided today was the day we conquer the world. I woke up, drank my coffee, and actually felt... good. Better than good. I felt almost normal. But it was a FAKE OUT. A total, cruel tease.

    I decided to put last night's dishes into the dishwasher. Just a simple chore. Simple, right? I even started hand-washing the big pots. My brain was cheering. My new peach fuzz was practically tingling with accomplishment. Then, out of nowhere, my body slammed the brakes. Hard.

    Woah there nelly. What do you think you are doing?

    It hit me like a mac truck. A massive wave of exhaustion rolled over me. My back flared with intense, angry pain. My legs turned to absolute jelly—wobbly and weak—and my feet... oh, my feet. The neuropathy kicked in, and suddenly it felt like I was walking on hot coals. My feet were on fire. Just from loading the damn dishwasher.

    NOPE. No more dishes. Not today.

    I stood there looking at the rest of the mess. The floors need sweeping. They need mopping. I need to figure out what we are having for dinner. (Spoilers... looks like we are thawing out leftovers again. Sorry, not sorry.) A tiny ten-minute chore required a thirty-minute recovery session, and even after sitting, I wasn't even halfway back to baseline. It is a total sh*t show trying to navigate this healing pace.

    My Hubby, bless his absolute heart, saw the whole thing happen. He is such a trooper. He looked at me, took the sponge out of my hand, and told me to "sit down and relax, I Got This!"

    I sat down on the couch, nearly in tears. Frustrated. Angry. I looked at him and said, "It has been almost three months. I should be doing better than this by now."

    He looked right at me and said, "No. No, you shouldn't. I've read the reports, love. It takes a year or two to get back to full health. And let's be real... you weren't at full health to begin with. You still have other things to work around."

    He started listing them. The scoliosis. The ADHD. The OCD. Menopause. The whole glorious cocktail of my daily life.

    "Okay, stop," I told him, half-laughing, half-crying. "That is definitely not the person I was hoping to be after all of this."

    The unfiltered truth is that I am harder on myself than anyone else could ever be. My chemo brain wants to run a marathon, but my survival skin is still thin, and my body is still rebuilding from the ground up. I want my old life back, but this new normal is a stubborn, slow-moving beast.

    My mind lies to me constantly. It tells me I'm lazy. It tells me I should be stronger. But my body? My body always tells the absolute, raw truth. It forces me to slow down. It forces me to accept God's timing, not my own impatient schedule.

    So, I did what my husband said. I sat my tuckus back down. I let him handle the rest. He is a good man, and God knew exactly what He was doing when He put him in my life.

    If you are fighting this same battle, please stop listening to the "shoulds." The "I should be able to do this" or "I need to get this done" thoughts are absolute Bull Sh*t. The world will not crash if the dishes sit in the sink. You cannot be any good to anyone else if you aren't good first. Be kind to yourself. Sit your tuckus down, rest, and let it go.

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