I have a date. An actual date. It’s my first. Ever.
So he rang me to check I was real and I ended up telling him about the cancer. Not because I wanted to, or because I’m wearing it as a badge, but we went from ‘not wanting any more children’, to not being able to have any more children’, to ‘hysterectomy’ to ‘cancer treatment’ in the time it takes to unzip a fly. He wasn’t bothered. He still wants to see me.
So that’s hurdle one out of the way. I think I’ll wait til he’s at least had a few drinks to casually throw in ‘Oh, and I was also hospitalised because the medication I was on to help prevent a recurrence made me psychotic’. That’s definitely for dropping in later in the date.
But it got me thinking – did I need to tell him? I’m on medication for the next nine years, I might have a recurrence: You can’t lie about these things and then drop them like a bombshell later if stuff works out. so I figured be up front about it all from the beginning and allow that he might be put off. He wasn’t. Bonus points to him.
I’m also worried that someone new might see my scars. Someone new might notice that my left breast is slightly smaller and perter than my right breast. Someone new might have to go through that ordeal with me again. I don’t mean him, per se, I’m not still nuts don’t worry, just that whoever I end up with will be buying into the cancer lottery along with me. That’s a lot to ask of another human being. So should I stay single forever, pining over my lost self, my lost love and my lost breast tissue?
If there’s one thing I’ve learnt from all this, it’s that life moves pretty fast, if you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.