On Friday night, I had planned to be watching a dear friend stand up in a rayon leopard print blouse and perform as Falstaff. Instead, I will be face down with my "breasts" in an MRI Machine. It will chunk and whir, and I will listen to whatever they want to play in the room.
"You know this feels different than last year."
There's something comforting that I have a survivorship doctor who knows what I feel like, who can trace the hidden topography of my body with her hand, who can find out of place tissue like a farmer finding loose posts in a fence.
It's also scary. My body, the great betrayer, the self-killer. What happens when you become your own death?
Cancer never really leaves me. Both my cancers were fast-- designed to spread and grow and reproduce. They are cancers, and we don't understand cancer enough.
Cancer settled in my soul. A ghost. A memory. A thing that returns like a long lost evil twin in season 8.
Everything feels good and feels quiet. Life is getting back to normal. The memory faint ---
"You know this feels different than last year."
I'll keep you posted, as we all know, this is probably nothing more than lymph fluid and scar tissue.
Just remember to hug your loved ones. Remember to do all you can for a cause you care about.
Our lives are not guaranteed. They are finite and fickle. They end.
Maybe next weekend, I will get to see Falstaff.
