A resounding theme with cancer survivors (not to say that if you had cancer, this is you), we’re all recovering control freaks, to some degree or another.

One survivor said she used to do her son’s homework. Since her need for control was so over the top, I had nothing to worry about–that wasn’t my problem. Thank goodness I dashed that bullet!

I didn’t need to be a freak about it; just some semblance of control would do. So I diligently went through my radically out of control year (chemo, two surgeries, and almost a year of infusions (only two more, and I get this port out). So now, if any, would be a good time, maybe not to celebrate, but at least grant me some semblance of control of my life back.

But then we’ve been slammed, again, and again, and again. Like my daughter said, “Even if we wrote a book or movie about this, no one would believe it.”

Or what my Dad said, “When it rains, it pours.” Only I said, “Dad, it’s not rain; it’s a hurricane or even a tornado.”

And the sheer devastation of it all is in the realization I’m not getting control of my life back.

So as a re-formed two-boobed wonder, I have to be honest with myself. I’m a recovering control freak (though I would never do my son’s homework, even if I had one).

And even now, with my newfound boobs, I’m just asking for a bit of damage control–for old time’s sake. Is that so wrong?

Cancer taught me that some things are not in my control. Gasp! Pow! Smack! But you don’t think I learned my lesson? It’s not that easy. No.

When my life is out of control, I feel so vulnerable and scared, and let me tell you, I hate that feeling more than a year of cancer treatment.

So, of course, I’m gonna fight it–get life back under my jurisdiction again (where it belongs).

And, see, I’m already starting to sound like, oh no, a recovering control freak.

I’m getting hit with enough things that I can’t do anything about; it’s time I accept that I’m not the one in control (and while I’m finally honest with myself, I never was).

But boy, did I play a giant game of it. I fooled myself into believing that if I had everything under control, bad things wouldn’t happen. (Good thing I didn’t have a son to do his homework, and my girls were too smart to let me even try to do theirs).

Give me credit; I’m a WIP (work in progress). What can I say? I’m a recovering control freak trying to remind myself that the bad things that happen are not my fault. (To write that on the blackboard a hundred times).

Now, to let it set in: I’m not perfect. Once I believe that I’ll be a true cancer survivor—a card-carrying member of the Re-formed Boobs of America.