November 17: In-Between Times

Today, I stripped the sheets on the daybed, boxed up the odds and ends from my recovery (several types of pillows, the black mastecomy cushion I wore like a security blanket for weeks, the binding bra that held everything together) and said goodbye to that period of my life. I'm back in my regular bed now, with Will and the pups and the ceiling fan and the stack of novels on my nightstand. I'm still supposed to be sleeping on my back, but most times, I wake up halfway on my side, and for a good long moment, I forget anything has changed about my life.

As soon as tomorrow, I might be beginning hormone therapy. 

As soon as Thursday, I might be released for physical therapy. 

Life is moving on. 

**

Every night for the past few weeks, I've made myself a to-do list before setting my phone in its charger for the night. Some things are very small, easy to accomplish, and satisfying to cross off. Take a shower. Feed the dogs. Wash quilt. Some things are larger: submit an invoice, order such-and-such for the store, go through inbox. 

Every day, I do only some of the things, and push the rest forward. 

I'm acutely aware that it is a luxury to have more days ahead. 

**

Every day in this post-surgery life, I take a big nap.

We're not talking catnaps, dozing off in front of the TV, catching a little shut-eye. I go down hard, and I'm out for 2-3 hours. Sometimes, I need this rest when it's still in the A.M.; sometimes, my naps will last until it's time to think about dinner. Unlike the way I sleep at night, in a daytime nap my body completely relaxes, my mind goes dream-free. The pups settle onto either side of me, creating a warm and cuddly human sandwich. Inevitably, I wake without knowing what time it is, what day it is. Will complains that I'm cranky in this post-nap state, and that's unfortunately absolutely true. If I knew how to not be cranky, I would do it. But I can't be reasoned with in the waking-up moments. It's like shaking cobwebs from my mind, and it takes a good minute, sometimes an hour, to clear them away. 

I tell this to a friend, who notes that I have always liked naps. 

This is true; naps are high on my list of values. 

But also, she reminds me, you've had a hell of a year. What if your body just needs rest? 

I think back: there was the skin cancer (a sous vide-like chunk carved out of my back last fall), pneumonia in November, my broken foot in December, what was either norovirus or some really tragic food poisoning around Christmas, my dad's declining health and passing in March, and then, just when I was catching my breath, the news that I have/had breast cancer. (This is to say nothing of the sprinkling of other losses, like trust and friendships, professional disappointments, things too heavy to mention here.)

I wonder: Have I been heading in this direction all along, steamrolling myself into sickness, until my body simply refused to go any further? This, I know, is not how cancer works, but in my post-cancer state, I can easily succumb to this form of magical thinking. I have been going and going and going, a middle-aged Energizer bunny with an irregular drum beat, marching steadily between obligations, assuring myself that at some distant point in the future, not today, but soon enough, I will be able to slow down. And when I didn't slow down on my own, cancer made the decision for me -- pulled the plug (or removed the batteries, to better fit the analogy), and here I am. 

**

Cancer changes you, my therapist A says. This experience will change you. 

She knows; she spends her days in conversations about cancer, mental health, body dysmorphia, and all the attendant worries and questions. We mostly talk about where I am right now, what I'm feeling today, what things she can help me with, what resources I might need. But I can't turn off the "what comes next" switch that's flashing in the background of my mind, a pulsing light that wants me to answer the big questions. There's time for all of that, A says. You don't need any of those answers today. 

And yet, I wonder: 

How will this experience change me? Who will I be when I've caught up on sleep and have clarity? What will I do with myself? What comes next? 

But first, a nap. 

It was a sweet space to recover.