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Something odd is happening. In my reaction to the fire and the loss of things precious to me, I am doing two things: trying to find my lost treasures out there in the universe and wanting to get rid of everything I own.

I talked briefly with K about this and she understands and has had similar feelings. Thinking about lost things takes her down a rabbit hole of emotions. Writing about the memories I have about the house, to keep it alive, makes me cry. When K asked me if it was helpful for me, I said that at least she would have this journal with my memories of the house for her future. And then I said, “Unless it burns up,” and she said, “I just thought the same thing.”

I don’t trust the universe right now. I don’t trust that there’s not another giant Monty Python introduction foot just waiting poised to fall and crush me again. Dreams reflect this. Dreams where I can’t find my hotel or my hotel room. Yes, in my dreams, I’m back to living in hotels, a sign that I don’t know where I belong. Dreams about the beach house, which right now feels like the only home I have left, but in dreams, it has changed or moved or the beach has altered, the town has altered, the sea itself has altered, with huge, consuming waves.

I expect to lose all things now. It’s how this works. In my traumatized brain, I think that if I eliminate all extraneous things, which translates into almost everything, it won’t hurt so much when I lose “it all” again. There may be some validity in this instinctual Konmari impulse, but it’s very unlike me. When I feel empty from loss, I have a tendency to become acquisitive. Which is why I’m on the hunt of specific items that I lost in the fire.

I’ve always been attached to my “stuff”, been extremely sentimental, the opposite of my Mother. She was very cognizant of this and guarded against me myself, cleaning out my childhood home and not even offering me too much stuff. She knew I’d take anything and everything, the house included, if I’d been given the opportunity. I’m still a mix of miffed and grateful that she approached it that way.

So now I’m in a bit of a limbo. To acquire or to dispose? I think clarity will come when MKL finally joins me at the Retreat. I trust that then, we will get the things we have organized, decide what we really want to incorporate into what will be our home together, and move forward. Maybe then, I will calm down. Maybe then, I will be able to find peace in emptiness. Maybe then, I will move out of the hotels in my dreams.

It’s been a week since the fire. It doesn’t feel like a week. I’ve lost track of days. I wasn’t even sure what day it was today. But a week? It feels like it’s only been two days. Or maybe two weeks? I don’t know.

It snowed and was freezing today. I didn’t go to the ruins. I feel oddly like I’m abandoning them by not going every day, searching for more of anything. I don’t want the house to feel cold and lonely and unloved. I know that doesn’t make any sense. I remember after our Mikhail chose to end his life nearly three years ago that I asked the funeral home people to keep a blanket on his body because I didn’t want him to be cold. Again, it made no sense, but it feels somehow similar.

So today was spent helping ex-Pat find an apartment. Really, it’s been K and A who have been most helpful. I’m so glad that A is here, as she’s a wonderful support for K, who is managing all these things for her Dad while trying to process her own sense of loss and other emotions. For all of us, whatever emotion we’re each feeling at any given moment is okay.

This experience has reminded me that grief is not a linear thing. Decades ago, Elizabeth Kubler- Ross’ five stages of grief spoke to me: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I can say I’ve felt each in the last week and not settled on any one in particular. I feel different emotions from minute to minute, depending on what I’m thinking of. Thinking of the loss of Roscoe and Dusty elicits one feeling, while thinking about the loss of the contents of the house elicits another.

Despite where I am in the supposed grief continuum, there is one overriding feeling: exhaustion. I remember this from when my Father died. I just wanted to lay my head down, to sleep, to rest. I was constantly drained and I couldn’t make sense of it. Much like how I feel all the time now.

So tomorrow. I have clean clothes (except for socks, which I forgot to buy.) We’re going to hang a Colorado and an American flag from the chimney at the ruins. We’re going to see if we can meet our congresspersons or the President. And then I will go back to MKL for a night or more to wait for next steps. Whatever those may be.

It has been a very difficult few days here in Boulder County. As you’ve probably heard, unless you’ve been under a rock, we have had rain and flooding of biblical proportions. I have lived in and around Boulder for over 30 years now and have never seen anything like it. Have never felt anything like it. The closest I have experienced was in spring of 1995, when I cut a business trip to Philadelphia short to come home and hope that I still had a house. The flight attendant gave me a bottle of champagne, saying I could drink it to celebrate if I did, and to drown my sorrows if I didn’t.

I did. I still had my little white house surrounded by lilacs on the banks of Coal Creek. It’s still my house in name and mortgage payment, but now ex-Pat and Kelsea live there with the menagerie of two big dogs (Roscoe and Champ) and two yellow cats (Dusty and Mel). I left five years ago on Halloween, taking very little with me but a lot of hope and fear and pain.

The little white house has a very special place in my heart. Ex-Pat hasn’t taken good care of it and that makes me very sad. But it’s still my little house with its giant fireplace and knotty pine walls and huge lilac bushes. And the gentle sound of Coal Creek, sometimes trickling at the bottom of the 20-foot bank, but more often dry. Not something you would ever expect to see raging.

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That shot was from today. Kelsea took a video yesterday that I wish I could share, but I can’t figure out how to embed it.

When Coal Creek flooded yesterday, I was worried. I was calling them constantly, checking on the status. They had received notice to evacuate at 5:00 pm. Pat chose to ignore that. (That’s Pat.) But in one of my check-in calls, he told me that the water was coming in under the kitchen door, more and more of it. It was ankle-deep in the old part of the house (which is an old mining cabin from 1910, with no foundation but dirt.) The root cellar under the kitchen floor, which houses the furnace and the water heater, was full of water, up to the top of its stairs. They started gathering things to leave, even though the bridge by the house was completely submerged by floodwaters. Kelsea’s voice broke as she asked me if I had a digital copy of the picture of her and her Grandma that she keeps on her wall.

They loaded things into the truck. They put the dogs on leashes. They put the cats (fighting and hissing) into the carriers. And then waited a little more. The waters stopped getting deeper and just sat there. And then they started to recede, to vanish, to soak into the carpets and floors and anything sitting on them. They stayed on the couch and watched movies, since they still had power, water, and cable. And the waters were gone. The creek backed down. The huge backyard stopped looking like an ocean. They were all right.

It was so painful to not be there. I felt helpless. I felt powerless. It felt like when my Mother was dying, except I couldn’t be there. It showed me my need to be in control, to be fixing things, and you can’t be in control of or fix a flood. I was breaking, for my daughter, for my animals, for my little house, for the things I left behind – heirlooms from my great-grandmother, that I left so that Kelsea’s home would not feel so strange after her mother left. So much of some many hard things coming back to haunt me.

I watched the news until 2:00 am, waiting for a 30-foot wall of water that fortunately never came. I slept fitfully by MKL (who had the flu, my poor baby, but I was so incredibly glad that he was there) for a few hours, waking to find that my bus route was shut down and travel was inadvisable, so I worked from home. At the end of the day, I drove over to ex-Pat’s.

The downstairs was a wreck.

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Friends from down the street and Niece #1 came to help. We moved furniture, pulled up the rugs, dragged them outside. Sadly, I lost some books that I’d had for 30 years. We worked for a few hours, mopping over and over again to get rid of the mud and leaves and dirt. The house has flood insurance, a requirement of the mortgage, so ex-Pat is trying to get the claims person to come out. He is concerned about mold from all the damp, and the water was pretty toxic. But the house still stands. For now.

The rain stopped enough for clean up efforts to get underway, but it’s supposed to rain more tonight and on Sunday. The creek rose two feet in the last hour I was there. However, the house is on the high side of the bank, and the flooding last night was more caused by the city unwisely opening a spillway at the back side of the town. Hopefully, they heard enough harsh words for that decision today to keep them from repeating it.

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It could have been so much worse. So many in Boulder County have lost everything. Beautiful little towns like Lyons are cut off from the world, with residents having been evacuated by the National Guard. People have lost their lives. This experience again makes me examine my relationship with and attachment to “things”, something I have ruminated on for many, many years. I don’t think I’m ready to write about that yet. But I will in a while. Right now, I am still coming off the shock and fear and surreality of the last couple of days, feeling a wee bit of PTSD, and hoping that the sunshine will stick around for a while.

This was the 100 year flood that was way overdue. Meteorologists say that it was so bad, it probably won’t happen again for 1,000 years. I know that, either way, I am glad I won’t be around to see it again.

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Warning for some: TMI ahead.

Perimenopause.  The prefix “peri” is from the ancient Greek, and means “near”.  Near is a relative term.  I am near the Caribbean when compared to someone in Juneau, Alaska at this moment, but that does not make me as near as someone in Miami, Florida. “Near” is a hedge word.

However, if we check in with our friend Wikipedia, the word “Peri” means the following:

In Persian mythology, the Peri are descended from fallen angels who have been denied paradise until they have done penance. In earlier sources, they are described as agents of evil; later, they are benevolent. They are exquisite, winged, fairy-like creatures ranking between angels and evil spirits.

I like that definition of “Peri” much better. And it really describes who, how, and where we perimenopausal women are.

The highs and lows of perimenopause are meni and veri. See what I did there? Yea, get over it.

I say “Get over it” to myself many times each day, as I am perpetually awash in a slippery tangle of hormones.

This thing they call perimenopause – in laywomen’s terms, pre-menopause…do you mean it’s actually WORSE once you hit ACTUAL menopause?  I’m still technically not menopausal, yet I have all the symptoms – and I try to view them as positively as possible. Hot flashes are just short private vacations to a tropical island. Mood swings are experiences of the rich depths of my mercurial personality.

Based on my research, I fail to see where the actual differences between perimenopause and menopause lie, except that I guess you never get a period again, instead of having one that lasts three days once or twice a year.  Or one that lasts twelve days when you are on a vacation in the islands. Maybe that’s part of perimenopause – your body has gotten smart enough to wait to release the deluge until you are in the exact place and time when you don’t want said deluge to occur. Perhaps your body is giving a giant Bronx Cheer or having a last hurrah before your reproductive system gives up the ghost altogether.

Regardless of it’s motives, it feels like my body is not playing fair.

Don’t tell me to “own it”, to gracefully accept this change in life. I DO own it. I’m not treating my body as separate from me. In fact, I’m totally on board with this change of life.  Let’s just go ahead with it, okay? No more of this dinking around. Right now, my body is like, “Oh, okay, I’m done with periods.  (Significant pause.)  JK!  LOL! LOVE YA!

Stop it.

I’m in a pretty happy place these days. Got a wonderful love, got a cozy house, got a decent job, got an amazing daughter. But the unpredictable tide of hormones can have me going to bed smiling, and waking up in tears, wishing I could just stay in bed all day eating Slim Jims and sugar cookies with a bottle of rum, watching Jerry Springer.

MKL and I will be celebrating our one year anniversary on Friday, and I feel for him. It must be hard for a guy who has been single for a while to find himself involved with a woman who has several different personalities. He never quite knows who is going to show up. In the olden days, couples had been together for a long time before the peri/menopause days hit, and so the man knew who the woman was, and could recognize “the change” as an anomaly in the woman he’d lived with for years. In a new relationship, I imagine it’s more along the lines of the old game show “To Tell The Truth”  – will the real Seasweetie please stand up?

I am blessed that MKL has the wisdom to look beyond the mood swings, and see the true me. I am blessed that he just hugs me when I’m having “one of those days” and asks if I want to talk, but doesn’t insist on it. He doesn’t try to talk me up or down or out of wherever I am.  He just loves me, steadfast and true and stable.  (OK, enough gushing about MKL.)

As (almost) all women do, I just have to wait until this plays out. I have spent my life (as many women do), blaming my hormones for a variety of moods and behaviors. I don’t know why I’ve been blaming my hormones, as my hormones have been fluctuating since I was 13, so really it’s just my normal state of being. I guess I expect that once menopause hits, my hormones will calm down.  But I think the only way that could happen is if they went away altogether, and they’re not going to do that – and if they do, I think someone would give me drugs to simulate them.  And besides, if they were completely gone, or if they were simulated, that would just be another thing for my body to adjust to. It all just doesn’t make a lot of sense.

It comes down to “I am who I am” and there is no need to make excuses, blame internal or external factors, or expect change to follow some logical, predictable, orderly sequence.

I can just be here, right now, somewhere between angel and evil spirit, waiting for the next deluge that may never come.

Angel on the Beach by Kamil Vojnar

With any disaster, be it natural or manmade, empaths (like me) have a broad-spectrum struggle.

We take the “can’t look away from the train wreck” mentality to the extreme, studying and following the most minute details so closely that we embed the event within our souls.

I have often questioned why I do this. Who benefits? I do not outwardly share the pain I experience as a result of this empathy, so I am not doing it for any self-gratification or to attract attention from people around me. That’s not how empaths function anyway. I wouldn’t dream of comparing my empathic experience to those who are directly impacted by something like the Waldo Canyon fire – the people who have lost their homes, the firefighters who are wearily yet steadily fighting what must at times feel like an incredibly discouraging and losing battle.

Given the rampage of fires within close proximity to me and places that I love here in Colorado, you might imagine that I’ve spent some time thinking about this. I suppose I’ve come up with some vague and unconfirmed answers.

I draw energy into myself. I transform it and expend it back into the universe. It’s like breathing. Like pulling something from the air, and turning it into something more peaceful and sending it back out. The energy I pull in comes from the air itself, from the fire, from the heat, from the silent, or not so silent cries of people who are suffering, from their own energetic emissions of pain, fear, and loss. I breathe in the negative energy, I breathe out the positive energy. I absorb the negative energy and transform it into life force energy. That sounds a little uber-woo-woo, even for me. I guess it’s hard to find the words. I try to soothe others by taking on their energetic pain.

This unconscious exercise – and it is unconscious, second nature for me – is wearisome, yet rewarding.  It’s like giving a gift with no idea who the recipient will be, or how it will benefit them, just knowing that it will.  But my body and spirit exhaust themselves, even as they are enriched by the process.

I am like a sponge, absorbing the energetic pain of people I will never see, pain that I just pick up from the winds, pain that I intuit from pictures.

And at the same time, I throw psychic energy at the flames, in an attempt to stop them. This enters into the realm of magical thinking, which any therapist worth his or her salt will tell you is not beneficial in any way to anyone. But a belief in magic and the powers of the unseen world are part and parcel of being an empath. While I do not think that my thoughts alone can stop (or start) a fire, I do wonder if the collective healing energy sent directly  into the universe by people can impact something like a fire. I suppose Christians would translate that into the power of prayer. Although from the Buddhist perspective, I should know that things like this are beyond my control, and I should just be with it, doing what I can to help.

Fire, especially a wildfire, has its own unique energy, its own life force, highly connected with nature.  In many cases – such as the Flagstaff Fire in Boulder and (hopefully) the Waldo Canyon Fire in Colorado Springs – such fires are sparked by nature and fed by nature, and it is a challenge for man to contain them.  Fires draw their strength from trees and brush, from wind and the heat of the air, all this natural energy that feeds it and that it in turn emits – a balance within itself.  I believe that empaths, who are sensitive to both the energy of nature and the energy of man, pick up very strongly on that entity that is a fire. We absorb some of its energy as well, and are disturbed by the very violence of its nature. Combine that with how we pick up on the energy of people who are suffering and you have a thick energetic pudding that we find ourselves swimming in.

It’s tough to keep your head above the surface when you’re swimming in pudding.

At the Bottom of the Deep Blue

I am caught in its tender tendrils, swept up in a rush of salt water,
Frustratingly feeble as I attempt
To catch a wave with my bare
hands.

The shades trap me, tripping me up, turning my head and my ankles
until I am nothing but a sodden heap of shattered fabric on the sand.

A sail rent so terribly that it cannot ever again love the wind.

So many tears trickled down the crevasse of my breasts,
tumbled into the wildness of my fragile hair,
teased into the tunnels of my ears as I lie on eiderdown alone.

Is the sea always as alone as I?

It has the sky to keep it company, a rich match made in changing tides and cycles of planets
and the light of certain stars.

The blue comes, a terrible torment, stealthily circuitous, catching me
innocently unaware, basking in a bliss that could never last.

It encroaches on my spirit, nibbles at the nape of my neck, an unease that I know
will smother me
until it fades away,
seeking some other
wayward
trusting
spirit.

Weapons are ineffectual.
Intellect is ignored.
The blue comes,
and stays,
of its own accord.

It curves around the edges of my light, false softness slipping a dream around my shoulders,
clouding my vision with gentle pulsating pain, pain so soft I can mistake it for pleasure,
until it is too late, and I am muffled, choking, speechless, sightless,

Drowning
in the unlenting blue.

“The  fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.”

This poem by Carl Sandburg is how I feel now, except substitute “blues” for fog. This is not a full-out, twelve round, knockout bout.  It feels like it’s creeping in, like I’m in a battle with my own brain and my own body for my own soul.

I had been doing so remarkably well, too, that when I have a misstep, I become discouraged.  I suppose one of the lessons of the Blues (yes, with a capital B) is that nothing – not even feelings – are permanent.

Somehow that does not make me feel better.

My small sage tells me to be patient, relax, and let things run their course, that everything will work out just fine.  It’s hard to believe that when you’re fighting the screaming blue meanies that seem to attack from every direction, leaving you tear-streaked and silent.

Honestly, writing helps.

But when that sense of tearing emotion seems to edge closer and closer, like some thick, wet, blue, velvet cloak trying to smother the life out of your heart…. it reminds me of women in gothic novels and B-movies, paralyzed at the approach of the charming vampiric villan, so desperately wanting to resist, but so powerless in his forthcoming embrace.

I sense a poem of my own coming on.

The whole empath thing, which I’ve spoken about before, can take me down some interesting paths and branches.  I am better about controlling it than I used to be – but not much.  I’ll admit to weaving like a little drunken rock star on the spiritual path lately due to my emotional rollercoaster. But I am pulling things together.  One of the empath gifts is a psychical connection to people with whom I share something.  I can feel when someone else feels bad or upset – or maybe even incredibly happy.  And I can feel when someone is physically farther away – on a  trip or something.  It’s like I have a slender spiritual measuring tape spool – that little invisible connecting strand that stretches with distance and is the conduit for emotions.  Maybe that’s why I find it so hard to let go after a death as well – the coil no longer has a notion as to where it ends.

Safe travels.

I’m a warrior on a quest for my healthier body.  I was going to call it my old body, but I’ll never be 20 again, and I don’t want to think of my body as old.

The fact is, I let myself go.  There are all kinds of excuses – deaths, grief, desk jobs, divorce, stress – you name it, it can be turned into an excuse.  I sometimes joke that I’m trying to lose the baby weight.  Kelsea is almost 14. 

In my younger days, I was a dancer – ballet and contemporary.  I took class with companies in Durham and in Boston.  I took master classes with legends in the art through the American Dance Festival.  I was appointed to the Governor’s School in North Carolina for my dancing.  Visitors used to come to class in Boston to watch me dance.  I was slim, strong, and graceful (except when walking – I was a complete klutz when it came to walking.)

Even though the dancing stopped due to broken toes and torn back muscles, I still stayed slender and active and fit.  I got a little out of shape in my mid-twenties, but got it back courtesy of free weights, 5-mile walks home from work, and Lean Cuisine.  At 30, during the dark year, I lost too much weight, thanks to marital problems and a steady diet of whiskey, fried chicken wings and country/western dancing until the wee hours.

As things got better, I (and my diet) got healthier again.  I was a little heavier than I wanted to be when I got pregnant, but when Kelsea was two, another round of hiking, supplements and protein shakes helped me shed that extra weight to get to a beautifully balanced place.  After that, physical work helped me stay fit for a few years, but when I finally got that good-paying desk job, the downhill slide started.  It was slow, gradual and kind of hard for me to notice.  But eventually, that pair of pants didn’t fit anymore (huh, they must have shrunk).  Or my shirts were too tight.  (Pat must have put them in the dryer – shrinkage again.)  I would look in the mirror and – I don’t know quite how to express this – I would see myself, my old self, wrapped in denial.  I look okay, right?  When I suck in, I can still see muscles.  That roll on my belly when I sit down, that’s just water weight.  Yes, denial. 

I got back into slightly better shape once I started going to the islands.  But nowhere near where I needed to be to be healthy.  And then, as I lost my parents and the Captain and my marriage, it just got worse and worse.  I was eating emotionally, to fill a need, to distract myself from pain, because the comfort food was there.  Excuses, excuses.  I was depressed and lonely and didn’t feel like exercising or eating right.  It was all I could do to get out of bed, to get through a day.  Thank the stars for Kelsea – she was my raison d’être, although I knew I was setting a poor example for her.

In January, I hit my peak weight.  It was ridiculous.  I went to a gym with a friend and realized I wasn’t one of those fit, hot women.  I was darn near porky – and middle-aged.  It was an awful epiphany.  My friend has watched my struggles and has encouraged me to eat healthier for years – and been frustrated with me when I don’t.  As hard as that’s been to hear, I need it.

I started the Atkins Diet right around the beginning of the year.  The weight didn’t exactly fall off, but it did start to drip off.  In the early summer, I joined the Rec Center and started using the machines a little bit.  I found a couple of fitness classes that I like.  By the time I went away in the summer, I had lost 20 pounds.  But after the EAR, where Kelsea and I were on the road so much, and struggling with eating healthy, and not exercising, I gained 8 pounds back.  It was so frustrating.  I know the whole thing isn’t a diet – it’s a lifestyle change, it’s a mental shift, but I find I still struggle with the deprivation mentality from time to time.

Now I’m back on the regular regime.  I’ve even added a few carbs back to my diet – a little milk here, a couple bites of chocolate there – to help avoid that deprivation hurdle.  I haven’t stepped on the scale in weeks.  Some diet experts say you should weigh yourself daily, others say weekly, others say never.  I find that often, if I’m feeling good about my weight loss and the scale tells me something different from what I think, I get discouraged and switch to “What’s the use?  I might as well eat” mode.

Today, I had a great class.  I’m wearing something slightly more form-fitting than a baggy gym shirt.  I used heavy weights.  I could see my neck and my collarbone more clearly – I wasn’t just looking at fat.  It felt really good.  This is what I call my “easy” class, since the instructor is not the ass-kicking hard body that I take Kickboxing, Zumba, and Ultimate Core class from the other days of the week.  But it was still tough – lots of slow, strength building movements.  I was up front, and I swear I could have been teaching it.

After class, I went to the grocery store.  I notice I shop differently now.  I almost never go down any of the inner aisles.  I buy fresh stuff – a few veggies, cheese, fish, meat, chicken – almost nothing is processed.  When I asked the fish monger how his day was going, we exchanged gushing sentiments over our awesome, amazingly marvelous moods.  Better living through chemicals and salmon.

On Saturday, I hiked over 6 miles with a friend.  When we first started hiking together, I could barely go a half a mile.  After Saturday, I was proud of myself.  Yes, when I sit down, there’s still fat there, but not what there was in January.  I haven’t stepped on the scale yet this week – maybe tomorrow – but I feel really good about how strong I’m getting, about this new body, to go along with the reborn spirit and the gentle, recovering heart.

It makes me look forward to life – and to Kickboxing class tomorrow.

I don’t like to whine.  Truly I don’t.  It gets you nowhere and actually makes you feel worse.  I hope it seems more like I’ve been documenting my feelings around the divorce rather than whining about it.  So my writings about my feelings about the lump are to be of a similar tone.  As I say, I hope it doesn’t come across as whining.  Let’s call it emotional journalism, shall we?

I gathered my cojones and called the surgeon yesterday.  Of course, I got his appointment desk recording, and they said to allow them 24 hours to call back if I was requesting an appointment.  We’re at 24 hours now and not a peep.  Is it the approaching holiday that accounts for the delay?  Or do they just not want me?  Am I being rejected by the medical community?  I understand that offices can be closed.  But do THEY understand what it takes to reach out to a surgeon?  I somehow don’t think they do.

It seems with medical “stuff”, you have to make your own arrangements for everything.  Call for a mammogram  So if I have a mammogram, when do I hear something?  And from who?  Does that mean I have to schedule something else with the mammogram people?  Something else I have to wait for? Didn’t the doctor mention an ultrasound as she was leaving?  Call the doctor to confirm.  Call for an ultrasound appointment.  What were those surgeons names she blithely mentioned as she walked out the door?  Call to get the surgeons’ names.  Call for a surgical consult – or something – wait, what am I asking the surgeon for?  Here’s the name of an oncologist, just in case.  When do I call them?  And what for?  And the name of a breast reconstruction surgeon.   Huh?  The other surgeon doesn’ t do that? When am I supposed to think about THAT?  

And you know what?  I’m doing all this and I’m scared.  And there’s nothing anyone can do about that.  This sort of thing just lingers in your mind.  It’s hard to keep from feeling for the lump.  Is it bigger?  Is it gone? 

I am chewing my fingers out of stress, so Denise just gave me a squeezy stress hot dog.  That helps.  Am I overreacting?  I am tired, headachey, exhausted — is it stress?  Or am I “sick”?

Pat has taken Kelsea for lunch at the hospital cafeteria – strange, I know, but it’s good, inexpensive vegetarian food.  Is it a portent of things to come?

I’m so tired of thinking about this.  Where’s the mind eraser when you need it?

 

August 2022
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