progress

Just wanted to show that I've successfully extended my reach, something I imagine most people don't bother to measure. The tiny writing you see shows the furthest place I could possibly reach with the tip of each middle finger two weeks after surgery.

This may not seem like much of an accomplishment, but for me, this is the difference between reaching the squash soup on the top shelf and settling for the black bean bisque that is in front of it. Someday I will get all the way to the chicken broth at the back.

Laura is in Tucson for five days, visiting her dad and her sister. I agonized over whether or not to join them, but worried that the trip might actually be more taxing than the visit would be restorative. As it turns out, I'm glad I stayed. The bone pain continues to annoy me, like someone's bratty kid kicking me in the shins and, somehow, ribs as well. With each round of Taxol, the pain begins earlier and lasts longer, squeezes harder. I'm still struggling with how to medicate myself in these times (sorry, followers who keep urging me to drug up), and find that I wait until I'm really, really uncomfortable before surrendering to meds. Mostly I've been getting by with ibuprofen (4 at a pop) during the day, and, for 4 of the 7 nights so far this chemo round, an oxycontin at night. There's always a terrible battle of wills over this decision. It's a weird Id versus Superego thing.

This is my upbringing, of course -- the Superego on steroids. "Don't mind me: I'll wince myself to sleep." Our folks never took medicine unless absolutely necessary, and we all learned to be big on self-sacrifice in general. When my mom got a brain tumor (benign, but the size of a tangerine, wrapped around her optic nerve) in 1984, she felt so bad for the kindly New London doctor who wanted to "try" the operation on her -- such a great learning opportunity for him, she thought. We had to beg her to go to the Philadelphia Eye Clinic where they did this operation multiple times a day. But he's such a nice guy, and he really wants to learn how to do it, lamented mom. Egad.

I am in the middle of a potential example of how well I learned the self-sacrificing lesson. I hope I am wrong about this, but as insurance against my own inclinations, I am asking directly for support. I'm on the prowl for a therapist. I've made an appointment with someone near by for next week. My only anxiety about it is that I am at risk of staying with a therapist with whom I'm not entirely comfortable but who seems very nice and wants me as a client. I don't want to find myself thinking, "But she's so nice and she really wants to learn how to do it." If I don't report back in, say, three weeks that I feel GREAT about this connection, I would appreciate a collective glass of cold water in the face.

A final note is that I have felt very comfortable at night while Laura is away (see "my husband, Laura" entry for how she can heroically frighten off intruders by peeing like a man). In the past, I often felt a little ill at ease sleeping alone at night with a small (deaf) dog at the bedside -- you know, acutely aware of sounds, creepy thoughts about how one could get into the house, that kind of thing. It is interesting to find that things that go bump in the night are actually less frightening than things that go bump in the breast. Since cancer, I have been unafraid of things outside me.