my bad; I smudged her painting

Once I began to write heavier, more serious posts, friends who've had cancer began to pipe up. Oh, they thought, the opening act juggler has left the stage. The lights dim, voices lower, and the play has started in earnest. I got several emails from cancer survivor friends who recognize the struggle to accept support from others; they, too, have felt the twin fears of people thinking you're okay (thus neglecting to notice that you need their care and attention) and having people think you're not okay (thus giving so much care and attention that you feel indebted). I feel a little less crazy knowing that this is all part of it. Thank you for echoing back when I whispered into the canyon.

The cancer is demanding a recalibration of so many aspects of my life -- from diet to sleep to exercise to my practice. My practice. I'm worried about it. Before the cancer, it was exactly where I wanted it to be -- I was seeing the perfect number of people, and nearly all my clients fit my idea of who I want to be working with. I was getting a run in every day, had lots of energy, felt so happy with the shape of my life. I know the practice will come back when I need it to, but I also know it will take a serious hit in the next few months.

We went back to the doctor again today for a third draining. She took another cup or so of fluid, and for the moment I am relieved of the awful pressure. But the fluid shows no sign of abating, and I'll probably have to go in every several days for weeks. I am all bruised up from the big extraction needles, and sore for a variety of related reasons. The surgeon was BUMMED about the blister; it was almost funny how disappointed she was about my having burned myself (since surgery removed so many nerve endings I didn't know I was burning myself when applying hot compresses). She said, "Oh, nooooo. Ohhhhh, it will leave a scar. To me as a surgeon, it's like my painting got smudged." She is not concerned about the great discomfort of the fluid; she wants my skin to end up smooth. I would like that, too, but she is really annoyed that I smudged her painting. I guess for surgeons, your artwork is out there parading around on cancer survivors. Dr. A removed your breasts? Let's see. Oh, nice stitches, nice work. Oh, but what is this? A burn scar? Tsk. Dr. A, you said?

At long last we got the report on the hormone receptors today, and I am in the unfortunate minority of cancer patients whose receptors are negative. This means that in all likelihood I will be doing chemo, as I don't qualify for other less brutal options. Right now I am trying over and over to adjust to this idea, like when you keep shifting as you carry an awkward load, certain that there is a position in which it will feel less cumbersome.