I’m back. Mostly. Like Billy Crystal's, “He's only MOSTLY dead!” but in the reverse. Day by day, I’ve been feeling brighter. More energetic. Less doomed.
I’ve got my goddamn ducks in a row and I’m ready to go. I have some strange antibacterial soap to use the next two days, I’ve got packets and pamphlets of lumpectomy pre-op and post-op instructions, and I’ve got a folder to put it all in.
I learned today that they basically stick a clothes hanger into my boob (a wire), which will guide the surgeon to the tumor that has shrunk so much we can’t feel it anymore. I’ll be gonzo during this - likely drooling large amounts of saliva, as I’m wont to do when I pass out - for about 1.5 hours, during all the cutting and gore.
Then, I go home and wait. It’ll take 1-2 weeks to find out if they got all the nefarious shit in there. Or as my nurse put it today, “to tell us if we can close this book on your surgery.” Please close that freaking book. Please. If not, they either go back in and try to scrape more, or it’s back to the mastectomy route.
Then there’s still a ways to go. More chemo, for 3 whole months, and 6 weeks of radiation after that, to be exact. Fortunately, my head’s on straighter than it was when I took a dip into the dark abyss the last few weeks, and I’m ready now.
I think Labor Day weekend, and the supposed “vacation” we had, really fucked me up. It wasn’t just all the background trauma going on, it was realizing my eyebrows are flying off my face, it was realizing that this may have been one of the last summers a majority of my friends won’t have spawns cooking in their stomachs since we are “at that age.” It may have been one of the last summers I wouldn’t have felt left behind.
If I had to see one more picture of Ember and the live music and the fun everyone was having, any more “this was the most EPIC summer ever!” proclamations, I thought I’d off myself right then and there. It wasn’t FOMO, it was just MO. I was MO’ing a whole lot of stuff and it SUCKED. I knew it would suck but it SUCKS.
But for the most part, I’m over it. Because feeling pressure to still try to want to do these things? Also sucks. Just accepting that I’m not going, that I’m staying right here, thank you very much, dealing with my own disasters, seeing people on my own terms - that’s more like it. Not checking Instagram or Facebook. Instant relief. It’s simple really, but don’t we just torture ourselves?
This next couple of weeks I have off work to recover. I am going to open up that novel I wrote (which sucked, and sucked less after a couple people gave me feedback) - and I’m going to continue to improve it. Mike thinks I should submit “Mouse” somewhere. Before I was very trepidatious and meek and down on myself about these things, but seriously? Fuck it. If I publish it on Amazon and 3 people read it, I’m happy. Because three people read it!
If anyone wants to read a rough draft (it’s a thriller!) please let me know. I’m not embarrassed of it anymore! PEACE.