That’s what Husband and I have been calling surgery this week. A day at the spa. It’s a little trick we came up with to keep my feet pointed towards the hospital instead of anywhere else. Like, say, the Aquarium.
I can see it now: Me, barefoot in my johnny admiring the penguins, paper cone of Sel de la Terre fries in hand, when the men in white coats spot me and descend. I fling my fries and holler, “You have to catch me first,” then sprint bare-assed up the ramp along the shark tanks as fast as I can, which isn’t fast at all, by the way, but I had a head start so they wouldn’t reach me until they got all the way to the top. There I’d be, perched on the edge of the shark tank, dizzy and winded from, I imagine, the cancer, pausing because, after all that, the dramatic death-by-shark ending I was envisioning seemed, ultimately, way more gruesome than just losing a body part. Also, technically, I think that still would have counted as a win for cancer.
So let me send my sincerest thanks to all of you for your comments, e-mails, and pigeon-o-grams that have done a lot to keep me from teetering into dark places. What I’ve taken away from them is that anybody who’s anybody has a grandma that’s beaten breast cancer, so if I die, I’d better have a pretty good excuse. No pressure. Everyone who’s been through this, and I’ve spoken to quite a few by now, tells me that this is the worst part. Weeks and weeks of waiting for surgery, waiting for a more comprehensive diagnosis, waiting for the final treatment plan. Once you know what lies ahead and you accept it, while things may be rough physically for a stretch, emotionally it becomes a little easier to take. All I know is if I’m going to be hanging out in the geriatric ward, I guess I should start working out. (Cue Rocky theme song). I hear it’s worse than prison over there.
And thus concludes Cancer Week. It’s time to evict that evil gremlin before he takes gigantic dumps all over my vital organs. Lord knows my immune system isn’t up to the task. WAKE UP, Immune System. Can’t you see what’s going on? There’s a war to be waged and you’re just sitting around smoking cigarettes. DO SOMETHING!!!! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a hot date with a surgeon from Dana-Farber. Dear God, I hope he slips me a roofie.