While bingeing Jane the Virgin on Netflix, hubby’s hand brushed against my arm, the cancer one that’s mostly for show. Caught off guard, I flinched. “Ouchie! My arm!” I whined.

I’m not used to having my arm fondled by him. He knows better. My knight in shining armour, hubby-the-great, is a pro at shielding me from potential arm-bumpers. From years of practice, he skillfully elbows through crowded rooms and festivals for me, forging a berth wide enough for the Titanic to sail through.

So when he pulled back and said, “Sorry, sometimes I forget” my heart sank. He forgot?

Bummed, I mumbled a weak, “Wish I could say the same.”

I never forget.

Ever.

But hubby’s not alone. Many friends have come close to grabbing my arm on occasion, forcing me to kung fu smack them with a quick left-handed whap. Driving on a recent road trip, my kid passed me a snack and waited for me to stretch my hand out to meet him halfway, cruelly dangling the chocolate until I snarled, “I can’t reach.” And not too long ago, a family member was shocked to hear that I was still in pain after all these years. It wasn’t the first time I’d told him, which translates to he forgot.

This is why I decided to write this post. I wanted to tell you a bit about my disability. I also prefer answering questions about my scar and skinny shoulder over being gawked at and told, “Oh that? I didn’t even notice!” to which I call bullshit. And I wanted to remind you of something I never forget. Just because.

Fourteen years and four months ago, I survived cancer. My right humerus bone did not. Beneath the big long scar on that arm is an even longer prosthesis bone. Also, most of my shoulder muscles are gone. And my arm still hurts.

Did you know it takes sixteen muscles to make your shoulder rotate and move? I’m down to two muscles and they don’t move my shoulder worth a shit. Do you know how much your arm weighs? I’ll bet mine makes up 50% of my body mass. That’s how it feels, anyway. In the absence of my most important shoulder muscles, the deltoid and rotator cuff, it feels like I’ve been carrying a two-litre Pepsi for fourteen years straight (and four months). I never get a rest. I can never set it down.

Also, you know what else I haven’t done in over fourteen years and will never do again?

Raise my arm (can’t)

Shake your hand (can’t)

Sleep on my right side (ouch!)

Sneeze the wrong way, because it feels like my arm will pop out of its socket

Grab my dog with both hands when she’s trying to kill your dog

Stow my carry-on bag in an overhead compartment (can’t)

Shiver (well, I can shiver, it just really fucking hurts)

Reach the controls to change radio stations or adjust the heat in my car

Sweep or mop the floor (this one doesn’t make me sad)

Peel many potatoes (ouchie!)

I also hold my fork and cut meat like an eight-year-old. And carrying things can be a challenge; grocery bags, laundry baskets, a Tim Horton’s coffee cup. Yes, even a small dark roast (black with two sugars) might as well be a baby moose when it’s in my right hand. Everything is just so heavy.

But I don’t complain (much) and I rarely ask for help. Instead, I’ve found new ways to do stuff, sometimes even left-handed. I taught myself to write left-handed, use a mouse left-handed, drive with my knees so I can change the radio station left-handed. You should see the way I hoist laundry baskets on one hip. And mopping? I throw soapy water on the floor and rags under my feet, and then I blast Latin music and bust a move. It’s really quite a show.

However, the residual effects of cancer do not boil down to pain, disability, and mashed potatoes with the skin on. There are a few experiences in my life I have a hard time putting into words. Cancer is one of them. I’ve never truly gotten over it. I’ve been cancer-free for over a damn decade and I still fret every time I get the flu. I cough and picture a spot on my lung, then quietly accept my fate, this is it . . . I’m dying. Please bury me in a sexy red dress. No, I’m not obsessive (anymore). It’s just that cancer and what it did to my arm are always present even if I rarely vocalize my thoughts.

So if I don’t bitch about my arm, why am I bugged when people forget? I’m not entirely sure.

I’m forever grateful to my friends and family who were at my bedside in the hospital, brought me food, sent maids to my house, comforted me when I fell to pieces, and refused to bury me in anything but a low-cut sexy red dress if the time ever came. And I feel like the Queen of Sheba when hubby-the-great parts a path through a sea of people for me. Of everyone in my life, hubby is the one who forgets the least and works the hardest to keep me safe. He knows how to point out potential dangers without making me feel like an invalid in the process.

It’s just that when I hear the words, “sorry, I forgot” no matter who says them, it makes me feel like they’re also forgetting that I spent two hours in the first surgery, six hours in the next, eight days in the hospital, five months on painkillers, six months in a sling, ten years having my lungs x-rayed, and the last fourteen years and four months in pain. It makes me feel like they’ve forgotten I have a metal arm, as though cancer never happened to me, and I dreamed the whole thing up.

Again, why does this bother me? I. Don’t. Know.

My best guess is this: I think I’m jealous. I wish I had a real arm instead of a metal one and what I wouldn’t give to put that two-litre Pepsi down for just one minute. But don’t misunderstand me, even if I’m jealous, I’m not a psychopath. I don’t wish you knew how it felt to have my arm. I don’t want you to spend even a minute in my sling. I just want to forget I had cancer as easily as you do. And this is what bothers me most. I can’t.

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