lingering effects

I'm embarrassed to say that I am having a bit of an existential crisis. It's just so trite, so predictable. Cancer focuses the mind, burns off the fluff of one's life, clarifies your sense of purpose. Blah blah blah. It's a tiny but annoying papercut of a narcissistic wound to see how true that has been for me. I grimace here: I am a bit disoriented at this point of the journey.

I am left with some post-traumatic thought-quirks. I carry an acute sense of time running out. That time is running out is no more true and no less true now than it was before I had cancer -- but I think about it constantly.

As I work on my book, a process I want simply to enjoy regardless of outcome, I flick myself with the crop of time. If I don't finish it soon, what? People won't be reading books? People of the future will no longer wonder about the same things we wonder about now?

Both mind and body are still wound up from the trauma of cancer, of chemo, of losing my breasts, of I don't even know what. What was that? What is this? What is this new normal, this back-to-life-as-usual that looks like it always looked but feels like maybe there's a missing step in the staircase, this chair's legs are maybe a half an inch shorter than they used to be, the door knob just a bit to the left. There's no way it could have changed, but it feels like something is different.

The key pieces to my life have not been altered, but the puzzle's picture is different. I am startled whenever I look at it. Is that my life I'm looking at? It's a wonderful life -- one I am not even sure I feel worthy of having -- but I am having such a hard time resting in it. I'm like a dog that walks in a tight circle, over and over again, trying to get ready to lie down just so.

I'm meditating most days. That's good. My private practice is going well, but my emotional center is in writing. Or, often, not writing. When I'm not writing, I'm ruminating about how I'm not writing.

I'm still not sure how I want the book to take shape. I feel like I've bought a barn sold by IKEA. It comes with a 200-page manual of diagrams without words. There is a truckload of wood, bolts, screws, window panes. It's all spread out in the backyard and I walk around and pick up this 2 x 4, that wingnut, this piece of fabric -- could these go together?

Last week I had three CT scans, a procedure that will be repeated annually for a few years. The scans were clear. The doctor left a message saying how clear they were, and had to spell it out: "You are fine. F.I.N.E." I appreciated the spelling. It reminded me of when as a kid you'd hear adults spell out "N.O." They really seemed to mean it then.

But the accompanying blood work shows that my white blood cell count is very low. It's lower than it was during most of chemo. I feel more vulnerable than I would like to admit. I want to feel F.I.N.E., but this adds an I, an S, and an H. The only good thing is that I have been able to extend my agreement with Laura that she will handle the kitty litter, because of cooties. Score.

Until about a week ago, I was running nearly daily, and greatly valuing that piece of my puzzle. It was annoying, though, to find that I was getting weaker and weaker, bruising in weird places, and feeling increasingly tired. Running was depleting my body, pounding my hips and knees (among the many joints still aching from chemo) and not doing doodoo for anything but my mood and my heart.

Learning that running weakens you is like finding out that prayer gets on God's nerves. I thought I was doing the right thing for my little body, but I was hurting it. I've hired a trainer to help with strength training, and have cut running down to once a week. Strength training is B.O.R.I.N.G., but I am committed. Notice that I don't spell that out.

The collateral damage cancer exacts on your body and mind linger long after the surgery, the infusions, the reappearance of health. People ask, kindly, "How you doing? All better?" and you are supposed to say, "Yep! Feeling great." But this is not the whole truth. The whole truth is "Feeling pretty good except I don't know how to answer questions like that anymore."