I was turned down for the genetic testing by our insurance. Again. For the third time in three years. I don't understand it at all. If I test positive for the BRCA 1 & 2, then I have an increased risk for ovarian cancer. I guess they would rather take that risk and have to pay for more cancer treatments than pay for the damn test and be able to do preventative surgery. I am frustrated, angry, sad, scared, and tired of all of this crap. I guess I am going to have to go the route of removing my ovaries, just to not take the chance. Ovarian cancer scares me way more than breast cancer. Anyway.....
We spent last weekend at Dion's parents house. We had a nice time and Saturday night played "Catch Phrase" for 6 hours. We laughed as hard in the first hour, as we did in the last. It is a fun game, and we might have to invest in it.
This past Saturday was also my Cancerversary. 3 years. Dion and I agreed that for future Cancerversaries, we will try to not have to be somewhere. It was a rough start, I thought the whole day would be rough, but it evened out. Dion and I snuggled in bed with the girls and talked a bit. I told him that it seemed like yesterday I was diagnosed. But the odd thing is that it feels like I have been fearing my death for much longer than 3 years. On one hand, time has flown by, on the other, it seems like every day is an eternity.
We have made a life changing decision. Well, I guess it's not that dramatic, but we have decided to move. Not out of town, just into a different home. I love our home, I like our big yard, I have put a lot of blood sweat and tears into it, but I need to live in a home that doesn't contain the cancer memories this home does. I can see myself in our main floor bathroom, pulling chunks of hair off of my head. I can see Dion coming down the stairs holding the phone in his hand after talking to my 1st oncologist when she said there was nothing else that could be done for me. I can see Dion and I holding each other on the couch, sobbing, trying to grasp everything that was happening. I can see me standing in the doorway from the kitchen into the dining room having to tell my mom that her youngest daughter had cancer. I can see myself pacing in our living room, trying to decide the best route, mastectomy or lumpectomy. I can see myself spending hours in our bedroom, trying not to throw up. I can see myself sobbing in the shower for no particular reason because that was the only really safe place to do so.
It's time for a new start. A fresh start. And we have begun that process.