Battle Scars: The Magnitude of a New Normal

Honestly, I wasn't ready for the fight.

I wasn't ready for the scars.

I wasn't ready for the pain.

I wasn't ready to be cancer free.

     
There are stretch marks along my thigh, lines whispering alongside the scar. Nobody warned me how much the scar would ache, and how diligent I need to be with massaging it, so that it doesn't form adhesions. (Scar tissue binding with the tissue underneath, causing problems like restricted movement. I had to find that out from my chiropractor.)
November was a struggle. The meds I was on were causing sleep disruption, anxiety, and depression. Fun cocktail.
In the midst of that, I'm officially cancer free, so yay?
Somewhere inside me I'm happy. Mostly I'm weary; cancer being gone doesn't mean I'm okay.
Two more surgeries are already on the horizon, the official term is de-bulking the graft. Or, as my doc puts it,
"To make your foot sexier."

In other news, the radiologist wants me to see a chemotherapist, to "have a conversation about further treatment."
Interpretation: "It would ease my mind if you had chemo."
Part of me understands his concern. We finally received the full diagnosis, now that they've had a chance to dissect the tumor.
Grade 3, Stage 3. (The highest you can go is 4)
Interpretation: The grade level correlates with how aggressive the tumor is.
The stage indicates how far the cancer has spread. In my case, they caught it right before it metastasized. The combination of a high grade tumor, and stage three cancer prompted the visit with the radiologist, and brought up the prospect of chemo. 
Yeah, who cares that the tumor is gone, and the margins were good? Since there is the slight chance of dormant cancer cells in my body, you want to pump me full of toxic chemicals to be safe?
Bull. I'm not doing it.
There's enough to deal with, adjusting to the information from today. Highlights:
Two (!) more surgeries.
Bi-yearly MRIs and CT scans to make sure I continue to stay cancer free
I'll be wearing a compression garment the rest of my life. (A fancy term for a special sock that keeps my foot from swelling, because surprise, surprise, radiation killed the pumps that naturally take care of excessive blood!)
This is my new normal.