Thanksgiving

It seems a bit counterintuitive, but these past couple of years, filled with news I'd rather not hear (both personal and out in the world), have heightened my awareness of all the good there is in my life. And so, I give thanks.

I give thanks for my people. The meal train page I set up to get me through the six-week recovery period from my latest surgery filled up immediately. Everyone who signed up delivered. It was a parade of delicious food, chosen and prepared (or, ordered and picked up) with love.

My people have walked my dog, cleaned up my leaves, and sent me 'hang-in-there-you've-got-this' gifts. They keep reaching out to let me know I'm missed and to make sure I'm doing all right.

I give thanks for the beautiful neighborhood where I get to live. I walk with Sylvester twice a day, and every time I set foot out the door, Beauty waves, trying to catch my attention. He likes to walk in the park that's just a few blocks away, and when time permits, I like to let him. 

There is a tree there, an oak that was mature before I was born. When we walk by, I try to take time to stop and lean against her trunk for a few minutes. I breathe. I listen. She is old and wise and gives good counsel. She doesn't speak in words, but when I straighten back up to continue on my way I always stand a little taller; my problems are cut a tad bit smaller.

I give thanks for lattes. Worth getting out of bed for.

I give thanks for all the researchers who came up with the medical advances and treatments that let me say "treatable" when I tell people my cancer and Kate's have both returned to set us on a new path. Treatable is huge, and most people whose cancer returns don't get to use the word - my heart aches for them. Their path could be mine. It might very well one day be mine. But for today, it is not mine.

I give thanks for the art class I took fourteen years ago. It woke up the inner voice that convinced me to jump out of my comfort zone and into my camper van. I gave up my routines, my job security, and the house I'd worked so hard to restore. In return, I gained a storehouse full of memories of beauty. They can't be tallied in an accounting book, but I've not regretted the tradeoff. Not for a minute.

I wouldn't have thought the blog I started then, as a way to let the people at home follow along on my adventure, would still exist, an ongoing chronicle of my days. Yet, here we are.

A story isn't truly a story until it is shared, and so I am thankful for you, the person reading these words - you complete the circle.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Frustration

I'd really hoped that by now, in this breast reconstruction surgery journey, I'd be leaving behind the "what the h-e-double-toothpicks was I thinking" camp and be well on my way to "this was a great idea".

Unfortunately my progress has been stalled by swelling on my right side. I'm guessing radiation side effects strike again. (My left belly boob is doing great, no small consolation.)

I've let the medical team know, several times, about the aching and itching associated with the swelling. Sadly for me, the doctor who did my surgery is out for a few weeks, and his nurse is in the wait and see camp of life. Clearly, the achy, itchy, heaviness doesn't bother her nearly as much as it does me. Go figure.

From a strictly medical point of view, I suppose I agree with her - waiting a week or two before telling me what is going on and if there is anything I can do to help healing get back on track isn't going to change the long term course of healing. Most probably. 

From the point of view of my right belly boob, however, I really, really want to tell her where she can stick her wait and see attitude. 

But, once again, on this journey, I don't get what I want. There's still a part of my brain thinking clearly-ish, and I do know sharing my feelings would NOT be in my long-term best interests. I will keep the 'stick it' part to myself.

But. I am SO disappointed. I thought, by following instructions and doing all the things, I would heal well.

No guarantees.

Not in the large things, not in the small.

My spirits have been falling all week. Can't SOMETHING in this god-forsaken journey go smoothly?? Please???

One more week. I will see her in one more week.

And in the meantime, I can take one more step. I can go for a walk, to help release some anxious energy. I can do the few stretches I am allowed to do, to give my tight muscles a bit of ease. I can stop and breathe and remind myself that this, too, shall pass.

Treatable doesn't mean the path is smooth or easy. 

But at least the path exists.

Autumn Walks

While Sylvester has enjoyed having me home most of the time these past weeks, I could tell he was missing the routine of our daily walks. Sure enough, last Monday afternoon, when the neighbor lad showed up to walk him, Sylvester went about a block, then sat down and declared, 'enough is enough'.

Even given the lure of treats, he wouldn't go any further. When Wyatt tried to tug him along, Sylvester just laid down in the grass. As soon as they turned for home, however, he jumped up and willingly followed along. 

I get it, my puppy, I get it. I started walking with my dog walkers. Problem solved.

I continue to heal, am a month out from surgery. Sylvester doesn't pull on the leash, so I was able to start walking him myself a few days ago - turns out he wasn't the only one missing our daily outings. (It just wasn't the same with someone else holding the leash.)

Today dawned clear and cold. I grumbled a bit to myself as I pulled on a jacket, hat and gloves, not wanting to leave the warmth of my cozy house. But the longer I walked, the less I minded the cold. 

Beauty won.

Last night's cold snap brought down a carpet of leaves; I hope I never get too old to scuff my way through them as I walk. There's something about the feel of their light touch on the tops of my shoes, the dry rustle of the sound they make as they scatter before me, that ignites a spark of happiness to lighten my mood.

So precious, these short days of beauty. For most of my adult life, my enjoyment of these days was limited to a quick appreciative glance through the windshield as I picked up and dropped off on my way to do all the things.

These days, I am grateful to have the time to be able to pause for a moment and take a long walk !IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY!, where I take mental snapshots of the vibrant colors to hold as a buffer against the day when all the leaves will be down, their hues quickly dimming to a tired brown.

I'm working to stay in the moment, to see what is before me. I want to savor the taste of the air, the chill on my skin, the feast before my eyes. I don't want to waste it by mourning its impending passage. Yes, all things pass, but...  today.

Today. Today, I am here. Today, there is beauty.

Today is the only day I have.

Still Healing

Three weeks in, I am healing well, but am also restless and grumpy. Good thing I live alone.

After I got the last drainage tube out, my doctor said I could walk as much as I wanted, as long as I didn't sweat, but to check with a physical therapist for specifics. So, I went back to Katie, who has been helping me counter the effects of radiation. 

She said, "that's right, you can walk as much as you want - as long as you stay in the house. Walk all you want from the kitchen to the living room, from the living room to the bathroom, from the bathroom to the bedroom... Outside, limit it to 2 miles a day, max."

She also made sure I knew to minimize all overhead reaching motions before giving me a limited set of allowed exercises.

*sigh*

Exercise has been my antidepressant of choice for a long time now, and don't-break-a-sweat walks, even when done daily, don't come close to giving me the balance I've gotten from my usual exercise routine these past few years. It's better than nothing, but.

Without structure, my days have been blending one into the next. Rather than tackle the things I want to get done, I've found myself spending too much time dozing and/or mindlessly scrolling on my devices. The more I sit, the less I want to move. The less I move, the more my body aches when I lie down for the night.

Back to my toolbox of coping mechanisms. Good thing I've kept it handy.

Future Janice has been helping a lot. When I find myself avoiding getting started on whatever-it-is because I'm caught in inertia, I try to remember to check in with her. "When bedtime arrives, how will future-me feel if I've stayed stuck vs jump-starting myself into doing the thing?" Not surprisingly, the contrasting mental pictures have been enough to get me started. And once I've started, it's not so hard to keep going.

The bright sunshine of the last three days, contrasted with the cool gray drizzly mist of the preceding couple of weeks, has also helped. I wasn't disliking those gray days, but they did have a way of convincing me to stay put on the couch. (Which, from a healing perspective, was perfect timing - I NEEDED to not move for a while.)

Those misty days jumpstarted the colors of fall. Instead of just going from green to brown, the trees have paused to dig out their mantles of red and orange and luminous yellow. The beauty calls to me; makes it easy to get outside for walks. The cool air makes it easy not to sweat. 

Three more weeks. Three. I can do this.