Nobody dreams about this kind of wedding.

Little girls don't play "chemo" with their dolls.

No one spends years imagining the day they'll walk into an infusion center and promise themselves they'll endure poison in hopes of living a little longer.

But...

Here we are.

Something Borrowed... Something Blue

I'm becoming a bride.

Not to a person.

To chemotherapy.

It wasn't exactly the partner I had envisioned in my sixties.

There wasn't a white dress.

No flowers.

No string quartet playing Canon in D.

The closest thing I had to a bouquet was an IV pole.

My only "borrowed and blue" was the chair where I sat. 

And instead of wedding cake...

I had protein pretzels (thanks Marps) and a bottle of water.

Not exactly Pinterest-worthy.

But I still had butterflies and anxiety.

I still had the nervous excitement that comes before your life changes forever.

As I sat in that infusion chair, questions danced through my mind.

Will this work?

Will I lose my hair? (I asked my Oncologist and he said "110%").

Will I recognize myself a few months from now? Probs not. 

Will I still feel like...me? Probs not.

It's funny how weddings and chemotherapy have something in common.

You walk into both hoping they'll change your future for the better.

For Better...

Every marriage begins with hope.

Mine did too.

I watched the medications drip through the IV and into my body, thinking...

"You're about to make me sick...because you're trying to make me well."

Only cancer could come up with a relationship like that.

Chemotherapy isn't showing up because it likes me.

It's showing up because cancer overstayed its welcome.

It's the bouncer I didn't invite but desperately need.

...Or for Worse

Now, every marriage has its rough patches.

But chemotherapy doesn't believe in easing into relationships.

It skips the honeymoon entirely.

Instead it says...

"Here's the deal...

I'm taking your hair.

Your energy.

Your taste buds.

Maybe your eyebrows.

Possibly your patience.

You're welcome."

Well...

At least it's honest.

In Sickness and in Health

Those words have always made me think about marriage.

Yesterday they made me think about myself.

I've spent a lifetime trying to take care of this body.

I've exercised.

Tried to eat right.

Bought the creams.

Colored the hair.

Worried about wrinkles.

Drank the wine (I know).

Wanted to be the best version of me.

Now I'm learning something different.

My body doesn't need me to criticize it.

It needs me to thank it.

Because while I sit in a chair working and answering emails...

My body is doing the hard work.

It's fighting for me.

Till Death Do Us Part...

Those words hit differently when cancer enters the room.

Not because they scare me.

Because they remind me why I'm here.

I'm not marrying chemotherapy forever.

This isn't my soulmate.

It's my rebound relationship.

A temporary fling with a very specific purpose.

Six months.

A few more dates.

Some surgery.

A little radiation.

Then...

I'm filing for divorce.

No counseling.

No second chances.

No "Let's stay friends."

Pack your bags, chemo.

Take cancer with you.

Don't forget your toothbrush.

The Real Love Story

The funny thing is...

My first infusion wasn't just about chemotherapy.

It was about love.

Love looked like my husband Yani sitting beside me for hours without complaining.

Love looked like nurses who somehow knew exactly when I needed a laugh.

Love looked like friends checking in before I even got home.

Love looked like family reaching and praying for me.

Love looked like complete strangers rooting for someone they've never met.

And yes...

Love even looked like poison dripping into my veins.

Because every drop carried the same promise.

We're fighting for more birthdays.

More vacations.

More giving back.

More blogs.

More ordinary Saturdays.

More life.

Today's Blessing Cake

What was mine?

• Realizing my first chemo wasn't the beginning of the end.
• It was the beginning of the fight.

What did I learn?

• Some vows aren't spoken in a church.
• Some are whispered in an infusion chair.
• Some marriages last fifty years.
• Mine with chemotherapy?
• I'm hoping for a very messy divorce.

What's yours?

• Maybe today your Blessing Cake doesn't look like a blessing.
• Maybe it's wrapped in uncertainty.
• Maybe it's disguised as something difficult.
• Keep looking anyway.
• Sometimes the sweetest blessings arrive wearing the ugliest disguises.

Until Next Time...

To this new unwanted relationship, I didn't say...

"I do."

I said...

"Let's do this."

And unlike every great love story...

I'm counting down the days until this relationship is over.

Keep looking for your Blessing Cake.

I know "I can and I will" (What my mother always told me).

In the Spirit of Health & Wellness,

— Elizabeth