What ifs, why nots, and the chemotherapy multiverse

Two of the recent Spider-Man movies (Into the Spider-Verse and Across the Spider-Verse), as well as the critically acclaimed movie Everything Everywhere All at Once, depict the concept of multiple parallel universes (universi?), something that appeals to me recently. As I journey through the Chemotherapy Multiverse, where many people don’t know what to say to me, where I feel nauseous and fatigued, where all activities centre around a location to empty my ileostomy bag if required, I like to imagine another me, living a parallel life. Maybe she’s hard at work on her next book, training for a race, climbing a mountain. Maybe she’s found a new profession or is learning a new language. I’m not complaining—my treatments will hopefully add years to my life—but I do hope to exit the Chemotherapy Multiverse soon and re-enter the healthy one.
          One part of the current Multiverse is a tendency to flounder among what ifs.

I’m not normally a big risk taker, but I’m also not usually one to picture all the worst possible outcomes of every scenario. Recently, we tried to plan a shortened version of our usual two-week cottage vacation, accommodating my chemo schedule, and I was immediately overwhelmed:
-what if I can’t enjoy the lake? I have cold neuropathy due to my chemo, I have the ileostomy bag. Water activities are a huge part of the cottage.
-what if my ostomy bag detaches when we are in a rustic setting with no flush toilet?
-what if I can’t manage the walking that usually is no problem for me?
-what if I’m nauseous and tired and can’t enjoy the family time?
And so on. And so on. I acknowledge both the privilege of having a cottage and the insanity of my concerns. My husband and I discussed all of the above and decided to try.
          Well. Everything went so smoothly, I feel like an idiot for ever worrying. The lake was an amazing 78 degrees, swimming pool warm, and I had no problem tolerating the temperature even for prolonged periods. My husband found me some high-waisted swim shorts that covered the ostomy bag and held it against my body, and my online ileostomy group suggested some Sure Seals to keep the flange in place—both worked wonderfully. I swam, bobbed in waves, played water volleyball, and used my paddleboard. My in laws gave up their usual cottage so that I would have privacy, a place to rest, and access to the electric toilet. My brother-in-law did the vast majority of the cooking. My energy was pretty good and I limited my activity as needed, even asking for help (they all know I HATE asking for help!) lifting the paddleboard.
          Thank goodness I didn’t give in to all those worries and abandon the trip. Getting out of town, spending time with friends and family provided the perfect distraction from side effects and self-doubt. The “worst case scenarios” were pretty benign and should not have caused such ridiculous stress. I blame the Chemotherapy Multiverse, because one of the (few) “benefits” of a cancer diagnosis is that you can blame it for everything.
          Moving forward, I want to turn my what ifs into why nots. Why not try, and see what happens? Why not? Just because I’ve temporarily lost control of my health, I don’t want to become a scared little mouse. Not when I have a roaring dragon inside me who fears nothing. Maybe the next universe will be the one that releases that dragon and whatever magic she contains. Now THAT would be a Multiverse worth seeing.