It occurred to me the other day in the shower – yes, I do some of my best thinking when I’m in there – that I’ve broken down one time about my diagnosis. I didn’t dissolve into body wracking sobs when I learned about this foreign invader, though that would seem like the logical time.

It wasn’t until about three weeks after my diagnosis that I woke up in the middle of the night and just lost it. Brian woke up and while I’m sure he didn’t understand what was going on, he just held me until I calmed down and went back to sleep. When I told him the other day that was the only time that I’d broken down, he was shocked.

Does this make me weird? Let’s face it, I’m weird anyway (a fact that I embrace) but I don’t think this adds to it. I think I’m afraid that if I allow myself to fall into a thousand pieces, I won’t be able to put myself back together. But I also know that having a positive attitude goes a long way, so that’s how I choose to deal with my fight against this disease.

Am I scared? Absolutely. Am I going to let that fear dominate me? Fuck no. The fight goes on.