Editor’s Note: Melissa is a contributor to BohoMamma’s The Female Voice (a Featured Section highlighting the words and wisdom of women). We’ve asked Melissa to write about anything that is on her mind. As a survivor of Stage 3 Ovarian Cancer, the Big “C” has been in her thoughts and moved us in the process. In Melissa 5.0, The Three Probing Stooges and a Jill O’Lantern, Melissa writes about her quest to get off of antidepressants and how she instead leaves the doctor’s office with new samples and prescriptions; her need to redefine herself for herself; and, her ability to laugh (even if others don’t share the humor).

Melissa 5.0, The Three Probing Stooges and a Jill O’Lantern

I thought I was going to feel different – a variant version of me – a new me. When I think of “new”, I think of an upgrade; a Melissa 5.0!

Granted, my hair is not as full, my skin not as vibrant, my memory…well, it’s either age, or as a woman I used to work with reminded me, anesthesia can also be blamed for momentary lapses in memory.

Before the new me started my most recent life, I thought I would feel altered. I don’t. The only indication of the previous version of me is the scar from my navel to the top of my pubic bone.

I joke with my friends and family, “I’m a Jill O’Lantern. Jack sounds too manly.”

Most of those nearest me know my sense of humor is how I cope. I get concerned glances and nods from some; while others ignore me completely.

Some friends and family offer remedies and scar treatments that are too good to be true in an effort to rid me of my disfigurement. It is, perhaps, their way of helping me forget, but really, how can I forget?

My parents do what parents do best and worry, as only parents can. My mom is miles away and I know by the sound of her voice she wants to be closer to make sure I am okay.

Her emails scream “worried mom”.

My dad is in another state as well. Even though we speak daily, I know he too would like to see me more and know (know!) that I am coping, healing and even surviving.

My family tree is a dysfunctional tree. I have half-siblings, step-parents and even a quarter-sister (you’d have to be Southern to even begin to understand how these things are possible in a family); we gave each other the title because we share half-siblings. But in the South, one is just family.

I cannot go to the eye doctor without filling out the dreaded box – Cancer. I imagine my family doctor thinking that I should be in a corner of my house in a fetal position rocking myself to sleep.

I don’t feel depressed. I am told I should be healing emotionally. But, I am prescribed and take antidepressants.

I’ve tried reasoning with my doctor to let me stop. But somehow I end up coming home with a bag full of new samples and new prescriptions and now I cannot sleep. I toss those in the trash, I ignore the pharmacy and think, “two less medications to get their claws in me.”I take deep breaths and think, “At least it’s not chemo.”

I thank God, my oncologist, Mother Earth and anyone that will listen that I am alive, aware and not incapacitated.

Sometimes, when I am in my doctor’s waiting room I think, “Today is the day. You will tell him you want off the crazy meds Melissa. Do not leave without a fight. Throw a temper tantrum if you have to!”

And then I get to his office and he asks me questions and I start talking and I can talk. And the more I start talking, the more he doesn’t speak and then the more my speech turns into mindless, repetitive rambling. And that is when I say to myself, “I sound like a crazy woman. Quick. Shut the hell up.” I usually stop in mid-sentence and he usually asks me to continue.

“Great doc…you really opened a Pandora’s Box of nutcase today.”

I think that if I still had menstrual cycles, this must be my crazy week. Whatever the cause, one minute I am crying because the ATM isn’t fast enough and the next, I am leaving my doctor’s office with more medications. Maybe next week.

At my oncologist’s office, I am greeted and examined. My doctor tells me he wants me to begin Tamoxifen. He leaves the room and I start my research on my smartphone, because my smartphone is smarter than I am. Tamoxifen is a breast cancer medication.

I freak.

“I have breast cancer now? How is it that I am now going to be treated for breast cancer?”

I feel faint. Tears start. The doctor returns, sees the phone in my hand and says, “Melisa, I am treating you as a preventative measure. Tamoxifen is an estrogen blocker. You do not have breast cancer.”

I begin to breathe again.

“How long do I take this one?” I ask.

He smiles, takes my hand and says, “Let’s take it day-by-day. Call me if you notice anything different.”

He tells the nurse that I am his youngest patient, as he flashes a smile back in my direction.

He hands me my prescription, along with a task list of annual diagnostic procedures; some I have had upteen times, some are new. Damnit…mammogram, cystosocopy and colonoscopy.

Sounds like the three probing stooges to me.

Photography by: Sara | B. via Photopin cc

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