It just strikes me as odd that reading those old e-mails a couple nights ago, it just felt for the first time as if I had come through something big and life changing, but it also felt a bit as if I'd won, as if I'd accomplished something. Those months passed in a fog. I went back, after reading them, and re-read the blog. I am glad that Mikey nagged me into blogging. I'm glad that those days are there for me to see before my eyes. It was a life in transformation, a faith in blossom, a family drawing close. You all were along for the ride, and you did a good job of encouraging. As I read it seemed that really, for the first time, cancer was part of my past. I haven't ever really felt as if I'd finished with it. Finding the lump in my armpit (actually it is below my armpit, as far back from the breast as you can get, on the inside edge of my shoulder blade) was a bit ironic. Is it cancer? I don't know, and I'm not jumping to any conclusions. I'm pretty sensible that way. I did however want to hear the words "This? Oh, this isn't anything..." but of course it was the Thursday before the long holiday weekend, and there is not a doctor to be found. Not in the office anyway. *sigh* Tell you though, if I see mine biking by in his little racing suit, I'm chasing him down and having him 'feel that, right there' right in the middle of the road.
Yesterday, I dug hostas in the rain. One of the houses downtown is overgrown with them. I had a truckload of five gallon hostas. Seriously. A truck load. Unable to let a plant go to waste, I brought them home, and planted them along the northside of the house, around the ornamental pond. Yes, Doris, one day I will show you a picture, and tell you how I did it, but now it is not 'ready'. I planted cattails in it, and it has a lily pad, and it has a water hyancinth. It also has two fish, 'Ghost' and 'Bawly' (it has a white face, like a Hereford, and in Oz, they call white faced cows 'bawly', though I've yet to figure why, but it did make a nice name) While I don't see Ghost and Bawly regularly, I do have the cutest little frog that hopped over and decided to stay, and I see him every single day. Anyways, so I planted these huge hostas, again, in the rain. (will it ever stop?)
I took a shower, and then Tim and I went downtown to get some pictures. I found some garden finials, about 3 feet tall, marked down from $40 to $10. I bought two. I also bought the makings for a huge fruit salad. This is the day of the reunion, when Tim's family gathers at the brick oven once again to bake all manner of bread, and in happy carbed out bliss, we will sit and socialize. Probably in the rain.
Tonight, I am making the ultimate sacrifice. I am going to the races with my husband. I hate the races. We're going to Erie to see the big races, and although I've never been, I don't expect that they will excite me any more than the races I've been to already. However, Tim really loves the races, and there will be a huge fireworks display. Tonight will be his night. I will sit at my husband's side, and I will watch the races. Probably in the rain.
So, no. I'm not sitting around obsessing. The lump is a disconcerting discovery, and I am acutely aware of it. It immediately crossed my mind 'I cannot do this again' followed by the immediate knowledge that I could, which was followed by the instantaneous internal snarl of 'Okay, I can, but I do not want to. Not at all. Not even a little'. I'd rather eat pickled pigs feet than do that again. I'd rather pick up a snake than do that again. I'd rather go to the flipping car races every blessed Saturday night than to 'do' cancer again.
But. In the end, it is what it is. It either is, or it isn't, and there's not much I can do to influence the outcome. So this weekend, I'm celebrating. Happy Fourth of July, America!