The days of worry and woe aren't over, but the complaining is.  I mean, it Has to be.  I got so sick of hearing myself, that the universe stopped me.  Literally.  I jumped 7 feet from a fence and landed on the cement floor on my feet, twerking my tibia and reworking my pride. My leg was so shattered I was rushed from urgent care to emergency surgery  tout de suite.   I was so high on pain meds I was  telling everyone I had been training for the Olympics and forgot my javelin.  Yep, I was higher than a kite and just enjoying the ride. 
I spent 6 months in what I would call the Cuckoo's Nest, kicked and screamed my way out of basically everything they tried to do.  It was my stop point. My "remember what is precious" point.  My "everything is temporary" point.  I was re-born, but not in the biblical sense.  I was given another chance to have a different life, a better focus and a need to find gratitude in all things.
I learned how to walk again but my fear kept me from taking that first step.  I think about it often. At the rehab center, I masked out the stink from the halls, and focused on literally putitng one foot in front of the other.  I only had my art materials and a few clothes, a bag of toiletries from where I was dog sitting at the time of the accident .  The dogs owner came back to deliver both my car and my stuff and told me that the dog buried an eye pack the emy people left right where I fell.  Smart pooch. 
I couldn't wash my clothes for 6 months, as they wouldn't ever make it back to me, so I handwashed everything like my grandma did in the 60's.  I reinvented my wheel.  I taped the holes, polished the rims as best as I could and now I'm rolling away from a life of pain and loss, and moving toward something greater.
The things I'm grateful for are many.  I have my health, my port-less chest, and a cat named Yoda.  I have my girls, a great job and a cute lil' jeep.  My house is not ideal, but it is home for now.  So I am rich.  Rich by the simple standards of a life free of judgement and bias, helpful hopeful me sees lost pathetic me now and then.  Having tea with her is out of respect, not out of pity, and when the time comes, I can let go of her hand, not feeling I have to fix her anywhere, anytime.  Free to disconnect.
This new me isn't void of fears though.  At times my fears get the best of me and I'm overcome with nausea and what-ifs again.  I may have stopped the loop, but I haven't yet learned a way to fully detach, but I'm improving every day.  I feel stronger even though I look compromised.  A limp that I have yet to straighten reminds me there is still work to be done.  Don't get complacent.  Don't get too comfortable.

Since I've been out of the hospital I've seen all types of reactions to my situation.  Pity and Defense.  They either feel sorry or feel it's too dramatic for them to deal with.  Hey you, I'm the one dealing with it, you are just listening to my story.  That's right - it's My story and I'm in the midst of changing the ending thankyouverymuch. 
When I really look at the reactions, I can't help but wonder if  I'm saying the information in a way that encourages either behavior.  When the cancer was at the height of its story, yes it was brutal but I'm still here for gods sake. Literally.  I've seen people perish and saw what labels one can create when telling this story.  What good does playing a victim do? It regurgitates the situation and makes you feel like shit all over again.  What good is that?!  The person that is listening will either be empathetic or cynical, neither knows the true grit of the situation and frankly neither of them want to.  Circle back to me; my part in delivering the story will be how it's seen.  If I insert my puppy dog eyes, you damn bet peoples heart strings will be pulled.  Citing every detail will bring my audience to its knees if worded right.  I don't want that.  Yes, a time or two I've pulled the cancer card.  It's gotten me out of situations, but then I feel like the asshole that parks in a handicapped parking space when they're clearly not handicapped.
That brings me to my next point - the cynic.  Cynicism is a learned behavior that rarely goes un-learned because it's "worked" for them.  Making fun of something puts them in control - they think they have you pegged so they run with their comedic flair, not really caring, while still waiting for the mic drop.  The reaction from the audience is key to how far they go.  If the other person is horrified or embarrassed, oh boy, they've down what they set out to do.  If the person kids along with them, they still don't feel like the idiots they are, but the story becomes the joke not the person. 
I met a man that is the epitome of the Dons - Don Rickles mixed with Donald Trump.  He's handsome as hell until he opens his mouth.  I may be dramatic, as he constantly pointed out, but I found his life to be boring and predictable. So there.  He gathered bits and pieces of my story and in one or maybe eleven comments he shredded me faster than a food processor shreds onions. I kid you not, at first I was affected but not nearly as bad as I would have taken it even months ago, It wasn't even in my delivery of the information - I said things very matter-of-fact, like one would talk about what they ate for lunch.  He was just ready to rip and classify to hopefully pump his scrawny chest up and wield his sword of power over me.  It didn't work.  The minute he said he was a Trump supporter, the whole 2 hours of getting to know each other went right in the shredder with the onions.
When I got back I didn't think of it too much as it would just get my panties in a bundle and get me hot and bothered all over again.  What it Did do is appreciate what I've got.  A roof over my head, a loving cat and food in the fridge.  I talked to two of my neighbors , not to commiserate but to be kind, reminding my that it's always my prerogative to change the story