Fumbling The Ball

** "I'm getting less moody, aren't I?" He pauses and then says, "A little."  I start to tell him just how wrong he is. I am a LOT less moody. And then I start to laugh. Right. Dearest One walked right into a trap of the sort of "does this dress make me look fat?" variety. I let go of my need to be right and realize that even my protest shows that I'm not quite where I thought I was.

** "I didn't recognize you because you were so skinny." It's a few hours later and we're in the grocery store. I hunt up and down the aisles for something when I see Dearest One talking to an elderly couple we haven't seen since last summer. Back then we talked about how fortunate I was that they caught the pathology report mistake before I had my breast removed. I have no energy to tell them what came next. I duck around the corner and continue shopping. I stop to dig through my purse and find my cell phone. I expect Dearest One to send me a text and ask me where he can find me. Except he didn't. He came looking for me and then walked right by the aisle I was in because he didn't recognize me. I wish this made me happy.

** "Are you the wife?" Them's fighting words although the telemarketer on the other end of the phone doesn't know this. I tell him that no, I'm not THE wife. He asks me to repeat myself. I do. Then his voice takes on the hue of someone backing away slowly from the room and he tells me he will phone back later. Good call. I was getting ready to tell him I may be moody and I may be skinny but I am neither an article nor an adjective. Sigh.

The Little Engine That Could

It was -45C with the wind chill factored in this morning. The windows are frosted up nearly to the top but the sun is shining through them. The northern version of stained glass windows courtesy of Jack Frost. A good day to stay inside and keep warm.

I'm healing. It feels like there is light at the end of this year long tunnel. And hope that this cancer journey will truly be a distant memory one day.  I look forward to when I don't tag a post with the word cancer. My mood swings are lessening. My goal this week is to get through it without telling someone to eff themselves. So far so good.

I'm learning that skinny people really do need a cushion for their chair because otherwise their butt hurts too much to sit for very long. I had to ask only daughter last night if that was true because it's a brand new phenomena for me. After I asked her I excused myself and went and got a cushion for my kitchen chair so we could continue our talk via Skype.

I took a writing course last December where the instructor told us that a good writer didn't write about their relationship with God in a post because she said it put up a wall between writer and reader. That intimate place where really only the two involved could enter into it. I've mulled her opinion over a lot since then.

My prayers of late have mostly been silent ones. Except for the time after communion where I knelt and the only words that came to mind, in the vein of the little engine that could, were, "I need you. I need you. I need you."

Pinning The Tail

I've spent the past week trying to point in the direction of getting back to normal, whatever 'normal' is. One thing I've concentrated on is continuing to get my range of motion back on my mastectomy side and I am winning that challenge. From what I can gather I will feel the pull/tightness all the way across my chest for a good long time yet but am grateful that I can stretch further than I could last week. The day I can make a full snow angel motion with my arms will be a day to celebrate.

This past week was also the first medical appointment free week I've had in a very long time. It's made me realize just how much of my time and mental energy has centered on the next medical thing in front of me.  I told a friend that it's felt a little like playing that pinning the tale on the donkey game and maybe I'm starting to have some clarity in the direction I want to aim for now. Figuratively speaking I'm less dizzy and more clear headed.

One of the guided imagery CDs I've listened to throughout this process invites a person to accept their feelings of worry, fear, grief and anger as their inner truth of the moment, without self criticism or blame. That doing so will be encourage the healing process. The key word there is 'moment'. I felt relief and a bit of a chuckle the first time I heard that sentiment. Inner truth of the moment. A reminder that there are no permanent feelings no matter how much that seems impossible in the moment. It takes way less energy to acknowledge a feeling than it does to repress it. Funny how I needed to hear someone tell me that it was okay to feel all those things without self criticism before thinking that was an option.

I had a long talk with God today about wanting to feel other feelings. The ones that make me feel connected to other people and to life. I am tempted to chuck the estrogen blocking medication that has my hormones all awry and my mood in disarray. Then there is the fear that if I do that it will be my fault if my cancer reoccurs.  See how my brain works? I have bumped up against fear and my illusion of control so many times through all of this. Maybe not any more than before other than I am aware of the bump. More aware of the 'oh, here it is again, and again, and again.' in the way that is challenging its presence instead of being oblivious to it even being there. I guess that is progress. For today I'll take it.

Relief

Tumour test results came back today and I don't need chemo. I am so, so relieved. There is only a PET scan ahead of me before the end of the month - which will hopefully clear up if they need to investigate further why the AP node in my chest is enlarged and the node in my armpit. After that I am good to go. It feels like a huge weight off my shoulders. The doctor is also hopeful I won't be so bitchy now.

Some Fight In Me

That about sums up my day yesterday.

I went to my home group meeting for the first time in six weeks. Drain tube free. Pain free. Good weather. I was grateful that the hour drive was possible. I knew that getting out of my head was the best medicine for me. It would be a win-win for everyone. I sat in my chair before the meeting and felt such relief to be there even though I found it harder to be honest when people asked how I was than to fake it and be cheerful and upbeat. My ego gets caught up in wanting to be a poster child for breast cancer so people can tell me how wonderful I am. My ego will seek its glory any which way it can. It's not picky.

And then he came in and any hope I had for accolades vanished in about 15 seconds flat. He is like a father figure to me. He is as tough as nails and has the softest heart around. His way of dealing with the worry that my increasing weight loss caused him was to be gruff with me. We also have known one another long enough to have had deep conversations that have created a mutual respect of one another. He is the real deal.

So yesterday I was on my way back to my seat with a cup of tea when he hugged me and asked me how I was. "Not good." I tell him. "What do you mean 'not good'?" He said this as if it's against the law to not be fine. I looked at him and asked, "What? It's against the rules of being a human being to be not good?" "Yes." He said it in a 'you're darn tootin' kind of tone. And before the filter between my brain and my mouth had a chance to engage I looked at him and said, "Fuck you."

I had an internal 'oh shit I only meant to think that, not say it' moment. Then he laughed and said, "Good. You have some fight in you."

After the meeting I tell him I am sorry. That I hope I never say that to him again. He tells me that I need to be able to say things like that to people like him who can take it. I put my hand on his heart and say, "No. It's no excuse. I know you  have a tender heart and I don't want to walk on it." He looks at me and says, "I have no idea what you are going through." So few people have had the humility to say that to me and it brought tears to my eyes.

Glimmers

** little glimmers of hope the past few days have been a relief.

** thank you for your support and prayers. I think we often fail to realize just how much prayer can do.

** my spiritual director emailed me this week and suggested that I offer all that I feel right now, in lieu of spoken words, as a prayer to God. I had a really good cry in response to that.

** the sun shone today and so much more seems possible in the sunshine.

Off The Train Please

** As a child I made it through each day by looking ahead to something else. It was like living in perpetual limbo. That's what I feel like I am doing these days while waiting to hear what comes next in the cancer journey.

** Had another bit of fluid drained off my chest yesterday. I keep wanting to write breast instead of chest but it's not a breast any more so what do I call it? You know, that place where my breast used to be? It's a bit disconcerting to have a huge honking needle stuck in there and to not feel it in the least. When the doctor asked if he could use a bigger bore needle to suck out the fluid I was like, um, I can't feel anything there anyway so do what you need to do. I told Dearest One the other day that that side of my chest looks like a toad. A squished toad. I want flat, totally flat like it was before complications set in. I feel like I'm being hard to please. Jeepers, they removed the cancer, what more do you want, Hope?

** Got a copy of my latest CT scan report today. It reported not only the size of suspicious nodes elsewhere in the body - dear God please no more biopsies - but that the back pain I've been having for months is explained by a degenerating disc in my back. One less doctor's appointment needed now.

** the doctor I saw today was incredibly kind, compassionate and just plain decent. I told him how much I appreciated the way he practised medicine and how much difference it made from this patient's point of view. He told me how he has worried about my unexplained weight loss in case they are missing something. The doctors all confer that the tumour in my breast doesn't explain it.

He explained exactly what was happening in my body with the new drug from the oncologist and that it would take three months for my body to adjust. I told him I could handle anything for three months. It was the five years of drugs that was hard. Then I said, "Oh, hell, I can do anything for five years, one day at a time." I just don't want to.

For the second time in a week a medical professional suggested anti-depressants to help me get over this hump. We'll see. Hopefully all my posts for the next three months won't be estrogen starved brain cell induced writings.

** Yesterday I tried on winter jackets and was disturbed that the size I tried on was just about too loose. Not being in control of my weight loss is the most vulnerable feeling. And I feel guilty every time I write or talk about it because it is many a woman's dream to lose weight without effort. Millions have been spent in hopes of that promise.

** I can't believe how much I am hankering after certainty. Every time there is a new bit of medical information that leads to more questions than answers I can hardly stand it. Off the train. I just want off the train.

** Today someone, in response to my sharing the grief I am feeling at losing my breast, tried to tell me all the reasons I should be thankful instead. I just looked at her and said I need to go through the grieving and that none of her suggestions changed that. She tried to explain how I should have perspective in different words. I had to tell her that it didn't change the grief process. I could, to ease my own pain, and to make it easier for others, shove that grief way down deep, put on my happy face and pretend otherwise. But I'm not going to do it. I told my friend that I wasn't going to get stuck in the grief but I was going to go through it.

I don't know how to explain to people that just because I am feeling grief and expressing it doesn't mean I have no perspective, know no gratitude. It's not an either or scenario but a both and one. I feel intense grief and I feel grateful that what I'm facing is much less serious than some other people's. But dammit, I have to live through it and for once in my life I'm going straight through it and not try to sneak my way around it. Why is that so hard for people to accept? Why can't they celebrate that I am going through it instead of around it?

There's part of me that would love to pretend I am fine. But man, pretending my feelings are not my feelings has bitten me in the butt more times than I can count. I told my sponsor the other day that the only way I'm getting through this right now is knowing that feelings aren't permanent. And knowing that God is with me in it whether I feel his presence or not.

** Today in a parking lot I was driving behind a young woman who was walking arm in arm with a woman my age. They were so engrossed in their conversation that they didn't see me behind them. I watched their body language and it was so evident how fond of one another they were. I just about rolled my passenger window down, when they moved off to the side so I could pass them, to tell them how much pleasure I felt watching them so thoroughly enjoy each other's company.

And because it's all about me I longed for someone to walk like that through this journey with me.

At The Dinner Table

** realized yesterday that the number of people one can truly take into their confidence about how things are and not get shit on is small. Reminded once again that some people find it hard when I can't summon up any rah-rah cheerleader spirit for my own journey. I wanted to say I just didn't have any emotional energy left to be okay for their sake. I hung up the phone feeling deficient in the faith department and general human being department. I didn't want pity I wanted empathy. Sponsor later reminded me that expectations can give way to disappointment. True.

** new medication is doing a number on my whole being. Today was a weepy day. Oncologist said to give the medication a few days break and then try again at half a dose. I hate feeling like a stranger in my own skin.

** phone calls where the other person is understanding without jumping into the pool with me are invaluable. It makes climbing out of the pool much easier and inviting. I just wanted someone else to tell me it was okay to be where I was, that it wouldn't last forever, and not try to fix me. She did that. Pure gift.

** was supposed to get all test results tomorrow, waiting over finally. Oncologist called today to cancel tomorrow's appointment because the most important test result isn't back yet. It felt like the straw that broke the camel's back. Not living for this day. Not accepting life on life's terms. Just tears and despair.

** Oncologist called back later in the day with a little bit of test results that were hopeful. That helped balance the earlier call where other test results showed a possible need for more biopsies.

** had a frank talk with God about how I was feeling. Read this quote that made my day:

"My belief is that when you're telling the truth, you're close to God. If you say to God, "I am exhausted and depressed beyond words, and I don't like You at all right now, and I recoil from most people who believe in You," that might be the most honest thing that you've ever said. If you told me you had said to God, "It is all hopeless, and I don't have a clue if You exist, but I could use a hand," it would almost bring tears to my eyes, tears of pride in you, for the courage it takes to get real -- really real. It would make me want to sit next to you at the dinner table." Anne Lamott, "Help, Thanks, WOW"

Snippets Of Life

** drain tube #2 came out Boxing Day. So far so good. When Dearest One was helping get the tensor bandage back on again this morning I lamented that I just wanted to be done with needing help getting dressed and presentable. Tomorrow is ten weeks post mastectomy. Dearest One reminded me that some people don't get to ten weeks post mastectomy.

I feel like a two year old when they wrestle their clothes away from you because they want to do it themselves. Perhaps in a week or so I will be able to do that minus the wrestling. Simple things that can both irritate the heck out of me when I can't do them and bring me joy when I can. The rest of the time I take them completely for granted.

** I made the mistake of shopping for clothes on Boxing Day. Looking in the mirror with a lovely new top on without wearing a prosthesis brought me close to tears; the grief enveloping me from head to toe. Reminder to self to never go shopping for clothes without two breasts, a fake one will do.

** new drug for blocking estrogen is giving me morning sickness like symptoms. Twenty four hours a day. Not sure I can do this for five years. Hopefully it will lessen. So far ginger tea hasn't helped settle the tummy.

** it's also giving me mood swings which I haven't had in years. I don't miss them one bit. Neither does Dearest One. Not sure I can do five years of PMS like symptoms either. I have bitten my lip a hundred times over the past few days. I am grateful that years of practising restraint of pen and tongue means that not every single thing that I think needs to be said out loud. And that I don't believe everything I think helps too.

** am going to see Les Miserables tomorrow. I saw The Hobbit a few days ago. That's more movies in one week than I've seen in a theatre in years.

** went to a family gathering yesterday with 40+ people. First time I've participated in playing games in the 30 years I've been a part of this family. Turns out a person can change and enjoy themselves in the process. Was good to put a crack in the "But I don't (fill in the blank)" rut I can so easily stay in.

Anything Could Happen

When Y2K was coming, preparing for it was like reliving the tension of my childhood but on steroids. I knew all about needing a plan to stay safe in the face of impending doom. So I canned 600 jars of jams, pickles, fruit and vegetables until my cold room looked like a jewellery case with its row upon row of pretty coloured glass. I also had six months worth of flour, sugar, salt plus canned goods, matches and portable stove fuel. Finally there was an out of control happening where I couldn't be caught off guard.

When January 1, 2000 arrived with business as usual, part of me was disappointed. I saw it as a missed opportunity to gloat about how I had outsmarted people who were stupidly living as if they were in no imminent danger. All I had to show for my fanatical planning was a much smaller grocery bill for the next six months.

I watched the countdown to December 31st this year with detachment combined with occasional bouts of patting myself on the back that I wasn't like those doom sayers  My self- righteousness deflated like a popped balloon when I bumped up, for what felt like the zillionth time, against my fear of not being prepared for whatever might happen next, just a few days before the supposed end of the world.

As part of an ecumenical class gearing up for the coming of light we were asked to sit in complete darkness for ten minutes before lighting a candle. Once I shut off the lamp in my office and stuffed the chinks of light coming through the crevices I was left in a blackness that took me right back to childhood. I strained to make out shapes of things in the room just as I did as a child. Back then I would work myself up into such a state until I became convinced that not only had the chair across the room moved but so had the creepy person I imagined my clothes had morphed into as well. I couldn't even run for help because I believed the Beagle Boys lived under my bed and only came out of their trapdoor at night. No way was I going to risk one of them reaching out to grab my ankle as they broke free from their prison.

So when eerie images began to form as I sat in the dark a few nights ago, I asked myself why was I scared of the dark. "Because in the dark anything could happen and I won't see it coming." Not exactly what I thought the darkness would reveal to me.

The tension between who I was as a child, who I am now, and who I have yet to become feels taut in these moments as I`m catapulted back to being a 9 year old girl with a vivid imagination in the dark.

When my Zen timer (oh, the irony) made its Buddha bowl sound I lit my candle and it`s glow grew to illuminate a photo on my desk of my parents and Dearest One. I felt comforted to be among people whose faces shine with love for me. I didn't always feel that way.

My mother was the proverbial boogie man of my childhood. I never knew when she would morph into something as scary as the clothes on my chair in the dark, verbally, emotionally or physically lashing out with such randomness and without predictability. I could never figure out as a child if she loved me and I stood before her closed bedroom door on many a Sunday morning trying to get up the nerve to knock and ask timidly, "Do you love me?" I never got up the courage to go past raising my fist a hairbreadth`s away from my parents` unfinished wooden door. It was a question that hung in the air for decades.

So I find there is a tension as well between the mother I grew up with and the one I have now and the unknown one I will have as she continues to age. The woman who I today, without a doubt, know loves me. The woman who was the source of my greatest fear as a child was the one who comforted me the most in the illuminated darkness this week. 

If that isn't a sign of hope I don't know what is. 

 

Crossing The Line

This week we travelled for a second opinion about my treatment options.

It was surreal to be in a hospital solely devoted to cancer care. Everywhere we looked was a person carrying a green piece of paper which signalled they had gone through patient registration and were headed somewhere within the building for an appointment related to having cancer. I secretly wanted to stop every person and tell them that green was the symbolic colour for hope.

Asking for the second opinion was in that land between hard and easy for me. The doctor here mentioned I could go to that city far away for a second opinion but her tone and the way she phrased it let me know that it pushed her insecurity button when people did. I seriously considered sparing her any more button pushing at my expense.  Here, let me possibly keel over and die so you don't have to feel bad about my decision.  Not.

The doctor in the larger centre was refreshing. He spoke of living in the moment, being aware of what messages we internalize and listening to our hearts; on top of being passionate about oncology and treatment options and cutting edge technology.

He talked about how people feel secure because there is that yellow line  down the center of the highway as if that line alone would keep a semi truck from crossing over it and hitting us. Then he related that to how we get stuck in believing this, this or that is the thing that will keep whatever we fear from happening to us.

I looked at him rather fiercely and said, "I won't get stuck." He looked back and said, "I know you won't."

There is no clear cut treatment plan right now but there will be in the New Year. I am grateful to have a doctor I trust and who is advocating for me. So much so that he is sending my tumour to another country for further testing to aide him in his decision making.

I am healing. I am hopeful.

Cradling Her Face

This morning I brought my breakfast back to bed, added in a heated wheat bag to keep me warm, stopped and picked up a long sleeve shirt I had draped over the heat register and settled in to finish reading my book. It was -41C when I went to bed last night so extra heat was a must!

Two minutes later one of the Pugs was whining to be let up on the bed to join me. So I hoisted her up - the heaviest thing I've lifted since surgery - and she settled in for a nap. Or so I thought.

Before I knew it she was pacing back and forth at the end of the bed looking over the edge and whining. She wanted to be back down on the floor but was too scared to jump. I reached to help her and she ducked away. I tried again and again she ducked. Finally she came and looked up at me, her little tail wagging like an intermittent wind-shield wiper. I cradled her face in my hands and told her that she either had to get up the courage to jump or stop her whining.

I went back to my book and she went back to her pacing. Her story having as much to teach me about life as the one I was holding in my hand.

Eventually she jumped.

The Real Thing

"Don't laugh too much when I have a needle stuck in your chest."

For a moment I have an urge to laugh even harder, in that teenage laughter that gets out of control kind of way, but common sense prevails and I settle down.

The drain came out two weeks ago and slowly the pocket of skin where my breast used to be has been filling with fluid. Another drain will be put in but for today the surgeon has a big ass syringe on the end of a needle stuck in the pocket to remove as much fluid as he can to give me some relief from the pressure and pain.

Next week we see the powers that be in a city far away for a second opinion about the chemotherapy regimen they are suggesting here for me. If chemo goes ahead as planned it will be 6 months before I can put the active part of this breast cancer journey behind me.

My goal is to get well enough to head back to work next September. I miss my job, I miss the regular daily life. I was going to write that I miss the old me but I don't other than I miss my breast. Life has brought me to this point. I am a better person for it.

But my breast, I do so miss it. It's been more disconcerting to look down and see what looks like a breast, minus a nipple, than it's been to see the road of transformation. It's helped me realize that breast reconstruction will not be for me. I want the real thing or nothing at all.

Which is my aim for life in general, too.

Sense Of Humour A Must

My temporary breast prosthesis is shaped like a little cotton filled football. I tried it out yesterday and well, between it and the increasing fluid build up in the place where my breast used to be, I couldn't wait to be rid of it the moment I walked in the door last night.  So I took my bra off right then and there, tossed that on the dishwasher and totally forgot I had been wearing a prosthesis at all.

A few hours later I walked through the kitchen and spotted my prosthesis laying on the floor, its cotton batten filling just visible through the flap in its side. I scooped it up in a hurry, so very grateful that the dogs had not discovered it. More than likely they would have snatched it up in their jaw and carried it to the living room, dropped it and then picked it up again and again searching for the squeaker that inhabits all their toys. I can only imagine.

Gatekeeper Into An Unknown Land

Dearest One and I are silent as we glance at the arrow on the "Cancer Clinic ahead" sign. We drive past it like it's a gatekeeper into an unknown land. We swoop down a ramp that curves around until we are right at the clinic's front door. It looks like we've driven up to some fancy hotel with its carport like roof over head and the sliding glass doors that part as we draw near to them.

I check in at the reception desk and hand over my paperwork. She glances at it and says, "Oh, you're new." She turns to start transcribing it into the computer and asks me to take a seat.

I sit down and watch people. A man shuffles in in slippers and sweat pants. Another man cracks a joke with a nurse. Beyond another doorway I can see a huge sign that tells everyone it's the chemotherapy treatment room. There is both a stillness and a camaraderie present in the air.

A volunteer calls my name and I follow her to get weighed and measured. Down a little more weight since before surgery. Who knew my breast weighed that much?

Within minutes we are ushered into a room and our nurse starts asking questions and filling in yet more forms. Over her shoulder I notice a watercolour painting. I answer her questions while gazing at its gently rolling hills, watery blue sky and winding road. Symbolic of the journey I am now on. The one I didn't sign up for but the one presented to me.

I'm aware that I get to choose how I look at it. It doesn't divorce me from the whole range of human feelings, it's just that after I feel what I feel there comes a 'now what' point where I get to choose my focus. It's not a one time deal but a revolving door of feeling and choosing that will last the rest of my life. The rest of yours, too.

Forms are completed. The doctor comes in. We listen to her recommendations. She is wonderfully non biased and I appreciate that. She tells us to take some time to come to a conclusion.

I leave her office convinced which way I am leaning. My heart sinks as I listen to Dearest One come to a totally different conclusion.

In the middle of the night I lay in bed, fretting about which direction to take. Convinced that the decision I make is akin to deciding between life and death. As if it is all up to me. And in the stillness of the night comes a thought, you're forgetting God in this picture. A wry grin spreads over my face and I chuckle to myself. I had forgotten. That little nugget of grace comforts me so much that I fall back asleep.

In the morning I wake up unexpectedly joyful. That grin involuntarily springs up on my face every time I think about making a decision. I make phone calls about second opinions and get details about the chemotherapy regimen they are recommending. I scribble them down on the backside of an envelope.

It's only later when I turn the envelope over and see "Limited Time Offer" stamped in capital letters that a wry grin spreads over my face once more.

Gripped

"I'm scared you're going to die."

She hugs me tight, her words filtering down through her fingertips onto my back, desperately hoping in the power of her hug to keep me here.

I understand that grip.

One time my brother-in-law caught a bald headed eagle and put it in his truck. On the floor of his truck was a paper bag full of groceries. That bird put one of its talons right through a can of tomato soup. My brother-in-law knew he didn't have the power to get the bird to loosen its grip, the bird had to do that itself.

And so does my friend. I can try to calm her fears but I can't make them disappear. I haven't seen her since my first surgery. I'd been puzzled by her silence and yet not really. I reassure her that I understand her lack of contact.

I do.

I think specifically of several people. A friend whose life I disappeared from while she had cancer. I just stopped showing up. Or the friend who used to babysit my kids when she was a teenager, who - years later - lost her own teenager in an accident. How I couldn't bring myself to ring her doorbell. Much to my shame it didn't prevent me from telling anyone who would listen to me at the funeral that I knew her when. I also think specifically of this friend. Mea Culpa.

A loved one told me she did an online search for"how to not be an asshole while trying to support someone who has cancer." I think that's the reason many people stay away. The reason I have done so, too. When I look at it that way, my lack of action is due in part to an ego driven response. Fear of not looking good, of someone thinking less of me, in the face of their pain. And then there is the desire not to add to their suffering. I'm scared of getting it wrong.

Fear has been my most faithful companion in life. I've gripped it's hand so tight through the years. It's been one of my longest standing prayers for it to stop overshadowing my every move. Now is the perfect opportunity to learn how to let go a little more. Holding on tight doesn't have the power I thought it did. Thank God.

As my friend and I hug goodbye, her grip a little looser, she whispers in my ear, "Please don't die." I whisper back, "I don't plan to anytime soon.".

Fingers In The Dark

"I know, I've touched your incision."

His answer surprises me. I have absolutely no feeling for several inches on either side of my 26 stitch mastectomy scar, which comes in handy when the surgeon is digging deep to get the sutures out, but is awkward when it comes to Dearest One's touch. Has he run his fingers in the dark over my incision and I've been oblivious? I guess so.

No one writes about this part. Regaining physical intimacy while manoeuvring around drain tubes and foot long incisions. It's hard not to feel like there is an intruder in the room with us. A permanent one.

We've slept in separate beds for the bulk of my recuperation. We've learned the hard way that restorative sleep is not in the cards when you worry about accidentally hooking the drain tube with a body part or flinging an arm right over the area above the incision that burns without touch. And we need all the sleep we can get.

Tomorrow the drain tube and remaining stitches get removed.

In 6 sleeps we meet with the oncologist to see what comes next.

It's not the first time, nor will it be the last, that numb and painful and awkward will describe my continuing road of transformation.

The Sweater

It doesn't take much to make me dissolve in tears and this certainly did it today:

(Thanks Rebekah Grace!)

Story of The Sweater

Three Weeks

I apologize for the silence. Typing increases my pain level so I've tried to cut back on it and it's helped. I've also felt conflicted that all I'm writing about is my having cancer and not about anything else. I told Dearest One today that all I really wanted was regular life again. You know, dishes and housework and commuting to work. I still have stitches and a drain tube. Both will come out by the end of the week. That will help with feeling like we're getting somewhere.

Today is three weeks post mastectomy. I still find it shocking that my breast is gone. I look in the mirror at the flatness, trying to make friends with it.  Sometimes I look down and remember what my missing breast looked like and I wonder why I didn't hold onto it all the way into the operating room. When Dearest One comes to hug me from behind and encircles my chest with his hands I feel both loved and sad.

Last night, in the middle of the night my blood pressure tanked and as a result I crashed into the wall as I made my way to the bathroom. No harm done but it sure made me feel vulnerable. I have done very little, next to no 'Googling' about my health issues. Tanking blood pressure in a cancer patient is the second time I've done it. It reminded me why I don't.

I've always been curious to the nth degree so it's surprised me that I have had little interest in research about this journey. The surgeon recommended last week, when he handed over my pathology reports, that I not Google the heck out of them. Not because he didn't want me to be informed but he didn't want me to be overwhelmed. And I don't want to be either.

What happened the first time I looked stuff up was that I came upon a site of people writing blog like posts where they defined themselves by their cancer and prognosis and it fed into the fear that comes so easily to me that I recognized it would not be a good thing for me to read.

So there have been no late night searches. No quests for more information. I see the oncologist in just over a week. We will talk about what comes next that day. It's about all I can take at the moment.

Today was about little things. The gentle fat snowflakes that fell like glitter this morning. The sun coming in the window this afternoon that made me stretch out like a cat to enjoy its rays. A peppermint foot cream to massage into my feet. Writing with an orange gel pen in my journal. Which sounds like regular life to me.

At The Top Of My List

"How are you?" Dearest One asks the waitress as we place our order for tea and toast. [lovely song about tea and toast .]

"Old and bitter," was her reply.  I looked at her and said, "Life's too short to feel that way." I'd just said goodbye to my sisters who were boarding a plane to go back home. There had been tears and hugs and much love. The waitress looked at me and at that moment the tape that holds my drain tube in place was itching and I reached to scratch it. In doing so my sweater lifted and the drain tube was visible for a second. She glanced at it as I said, "truly, it's too short." Our eyes locked for a moment then she nodded in agreement and left to put our order in.

I can't read between the lines at the best of times, nuances stump me often. It was a few minutes before Dearest One told me that the waitress had been joking when she'd said she was old and bitter. Oh.

In the pitch black darkness of the early morning we watched out the airport restaurant windows, waiting for my sisters' plane to leave. While doing so we had a very frank talk about what could come next in my cancer journey. Dearest One told me he was grateful that we didn't need to be separate and alone with our thoughts, some of them as dark as the night sky, but that we could speak them out loud to one another. Thoughts lose some of their power that way.

The waitress brought our order and said something that made us laugh; something that showed us her feisty, kind hearted side. I cut myself some slack for taking her so seriously.

Later that afternoon we sat down with the surgeon to talk about drain tube plans and pathology results.

The news unbelievably good.

No lymph node involvement, no blood stream involvement in the mastectomy tissue. Very likely that the cancer was contained in the lumpectomy.

It feels like we won the lottery.

Until the hormone receptor tests are back and I see the oncologist, I won't know for sure what comes next, but it's looking far more probable that chemotherapy and radiation will not be in my future. Words are not adequate to describe how I feel.

I lay in bed this morning before sunrise pondering not only my day but my life. Hoping that if God grants me a long one that I won't be a walking advertisement for "old and bitter" as I age. That instead I will be feisty, joyful and real. Real is at the top of my list.