Morning Me

Every morning starts the same. I wake up at 5 a.m., it’s still dark in my room. The house is quiet, the world hasn’t decided what kind of day it’s going to be yet, and for a few precious minutes, I’m not that me.

I’m not “cancer me.”
I’m not “chemo me.”
I’m not “strong me.” (Lord, I get tired of that one.)

For a little while, I’m just… me.

Just me with an aching back, because apparently that’s the 68-year-old starter kit. Just me with a stiff neck from sleeping in some pretzel position I’ll never admit to. Just me thinking about whether today is a kayak day—paddling hard against the current until my arms protest, then surrendering and letting the water carry me back while I spy on turtles sunbathing and birds plotting their next dive-bomb.

In those quiet morning moments, cancer doesn’t exist. There are no side effects to anticipate, no gnawing questions about whether the chemo is fast enough, strong enough, brutal enough to keep pace with whatever is lurking inside me. “Just me” doesn’t carry that weight. She gets to dream about the river instead.

But of course, the memory always shows up. It knocks, then barges in. And suddenly I’m not just me—I’m cancer-fighting me. So I reach for my mental armor, adjust it until it fits, and swing my legs out of bed. Because meds don’t take themselves, and battles don’t wait for daydreams.

Sometimes I wonder if that’s why I go to bed early—so I can squeeze in more hours of “just me.”

And honestly? She’s my favorite version anyway.