One of my "favorite" stories when I am telling grisly tales of recovery from what some fools want to call "the good cancer":
I was just a few weeks out from cath removal, and my neighbors asked me to come over on a Saturday night to celebrate being alive. Mind you this was already a big deal, it is a younger crowd (late 30's), lots of seriously cute girls, good whiskey (no, not Scotch, but some special edition Jack). We had been out on the patios so late that the sprinklers had gone off, so things were a bit wet. I was still in sweats and tennis shoes, since anything against the sutures was painful.
At some point one of the girls said, hey, move over here, you're in a puddle. I looked down, and realized it was my puddle. More in my shoe than outside. I pretended all was well, carefully excused myself, cleaned up, and went back. No one realized it, but the combination of the leaks and the cute girls with my non-nerve sparing surgery left me, well, let's just say not the best mindset.
I guess getting myself to admit there is a "new normal", and live with what that means, got me over the expected depression, but there are days that I realize I can't do some things I want to do. I'm not big on meds, so I had to make up my mind to deal with it.
I have not gotten over the desire to do harm to those who congratulate me on having "the good cancer", and probably won't try to get over that.
By the way, three years later, they are still my friends, we still have movie night, and now search for those once-in-a-lifetime bottles instead of what's on sale.