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I think attitude makes all the difference in how people survive cancer treatment. Albeit, my treatment was short in the grand scheme of life, but it was still disruptive, scary, sad, painful, and a mind f*ck, to put it bluntly. I write now because I feel I was extra positive with my blog in order to make up for and hide the fear and frustration I felt on a personal level with the man I wanted to marry. He was not the good, supportive man I apparently have painted him to be. I couldn’t face cancer and the failing of my relationship so I wrote about the life and relationship I wanted, and not necessarily my reality. I was convinced our relationship was going to get better because I couldn’t have cancer AND have my relationship fall apart at the same time, could I? Nobody stops loving someone just because they are sick, right?

So basically, I’ve been a big fat liar throughout much of my blog. I mean, I DO actually have breast cancer (well, I used to have breast cancer!), but by omission, I left out one of the most difficult parts of my treatment – my relationship with my former “fiance,” Bing. I put fiance in quotes because hindsight is 20/20, and I realized the day I read his email telling me that we were over, as I sat alone in my mom’s spare bedroom on a twin-sized daybed littered with my T passes and medical papers, slathering my burned boob with natural ointments and whatever gave me some temporary pain relief, that he was never going to marry me, nor will he ever marry anyone (at least that is what he always told me, and in my opinion, if he does get married, there will be an eventual divorce). Incredibly sad, both for me and for him.

I immediately called him and tried to convince him with every bone in my body, tear in my eye, and compromise I had left in my heart, that we could make it. That this was our new beginning we had been waiting for since June. But he said “No Kitten, I’m done. You’ve shown your true colors. You don’t want to work, you will make someone a good trophy wife. We are two different people.” Or something to that extent. My body felt split like firewood. I wailed from the pit of my stomach, that primal cry that is nearly throwing up, and that which a box of Kleenex can’t sop up. I wailed like this on the phone to him. He told me he had to go, that he couldn’t understand what I was saying and that I was making him feel guilty.

I had about a week left of radiation and I had no idea how to console myself in Boston. I couldn’t jet home to see him and hug him, although I doubt he would’ve made himself available (I mean, what’s two years of your life with someone afterall). I couldn’t cuddle with my dogs, or touch my horse’s silken coat. I couldn’t distract myself with cleaning the chicken coop, or even, God forbid, with packing up my life.

So instead I rabidly called and texted Bing a million times. He had to change his mind by text #132, right? Especially when I told him he was the love of my life, right? That I would live in a shack with him if it meant I could sleep next to him every night? Just months ago it seemed, we were “seeing what happened” in terms of getting pregnant until the time I was diagnosed with cancer. We had just settled down in a new, beautiful, wild place that I was excited to call home. I was meeting some wonderful friends who I know now will be friends long into the future. We had a whole fun life ahead of us – together – how could cancer destroy these plans? I have read lots of writing on cancer, and the writing that stuck with me the most was that “Cancer cannot destroy love.” If cancer hadn’t just destroyed love, then what hell had happened?

So what follows in my next post is my version of the story. I know it may infuriate him that I am putting this story out there, both from a privacy perspective and because my perspective will be vastly different than his. Well Bing, you can start your own blog about being a scared cancer kitten pseudo-fiance if you’d like. I’ll even subscribe to it and share it with my friends. I’d actually love to hear your side of the story.

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