homebody, incurable, part 2

The kids, Laura, and I were scheduled to take part in the upcoming "We Can Weekend" sponsored by the American Cancer Society. This was going to repair my group experience at Stowe Weekend of Hope, from which I returned feeling acutely aware of my sometimes too solitary nature. I felt kind of like a -- what are some solitary animals? Wikipedia says: leopards, jaguars, almost all spiders, most species of rhinoceros, polar bears (except for mating), the maned sloth. Not much to work with. Certainly nothing maned. At Stowe I felt like a rhino at an elephant party. No offense to the very kind elephants who were enjoying the group experience.

Anyway, the kids were willing to go with us on this weekend designed to support the cancer survivor and her family. It offered groups for, among others, young adult "children," where they could talk about the impact the cancer has had on their own lives. I thought maybe that would be good for the kids, good for me, good for Laura. But as the time approaches, we all feel like doing something unprogrammed as a family might be better. And we already talk about cancer a lot. So we backed out. Homebody, still and again.

One thing, though, would have sent us to the Hell Yes We Can Weekend, homebodiness or no. Laura had an ultrasound on both breasts early this morning; she got called back after her mammogram two weeks ago. We exhaled around 8:30, chests pumping from holding our breaths for ten days. All clear. Her breasts are pretty bulky, so we saw all kinds of things in the ultrasound -- cysts, fat globules, my favorite striped sock, and that missing earring I wrote about in December.

Needless to say, we are relieved, as we had been entertaining some weird fantasies about being the bald and breastless lesbians walking together down Main Street, Farmington. Aside from being scary, painful, and extremely inconvenient, it would have been creepy to have Laura hit with cancer, too.

Despite our relief, Laura confessed that there was a part of her that had been curious to know what I have gone through. There is no thought that is so weird I can't imagine having it cross my own mind, so I understood this. Surely we all hold an innate curiosity about experiences, particularly things that test our mettle. How would we each cope, we wonder, given any conceivable trial that others have faced?

Truth be told, I haven't felt great about my mettle. I had hoped I'd be more of a brick through chemo; less needy of attention and sympathy, less fascinated by symptoms, less anxious about the whole thing. Maybe even more of a rhino, in some ways. The elephant in me came through more than I wanted it to. I like the sociable pachyderm in me, but am not always as accepting of the elephant that is clinging anxiously to the tail in front of it.

Here's an almost pastoral shot of my cranial horizon, hair slowly rising. The furrows in the foreground show you I am smiling.