Dangerous Curves

Been trying to live my life again, the way it used to be. Playing slowly-moving-target to the kids' waterballoons and scanning the art fair for free junk. On Thursday night, Cheryl and I hung out with the guys. On Saturday night, we hung out with the gals. Yesterday, I got to ride 26 glorious miles.

'Course, this illness thing keeps wanting to tussle. Over the past few days, a section of my scar has become inflamed. My left breast is stinging in odd areas, nowhere near the scar. Last night all I could imagine was the cancer was back. Something they missed. Because that does happen. Or maybe some new cancer, like the inflammatory type, which is the most gnarly of the gnarly buggers and presents like an infection. Then my mind begins a subconscious march through all the things I need to be, and be doing. Be a better mom, be a better wife, better friend, make amends. Become a saint essentially, which doesn't look good on me; makes me look fat. It's wrong to go there, I know. But I’m a little suggestible when everything is not 100% fine. So this morning we headed back to to the plastic surgeon, who was a little stumped by it. He did a culture and put me on antibiotics.

There are other reminders, all around, disturbing as Betty Davis in Whatever happened to Baby Jane: "But you are Blanche, you are in that chair!"

While we were all talking on Saturday night I realized our friends Mel, Nancy and their daughter Ivy had stopped by after my surgery. Ivy entertained the kids; Madeline had lent her one of her Eeyore stuffed animals. This was all news to me. Somehow, in my percoset/ativan/post-anesthesia haze I lost the event. Certainly, I was there sprawled on the recliner, but not in spirit apparently.

Last night, I saw an old clip from a show Cheryl "forced" me to watch, The L Word, about all these women who were friends and lovers and full-time drama queens. I had forgotten there were some characters that didn’t make it to the end of the series. None of these women represented our lives very much anyway, so to try and somehow match yourself to a personality type was like trying to dress in the petite ensemble of a manikin at Ultimo. But secretly I wished I could squeeze into the character of Shane, the rascally lothario (lotharia?). Then seeing that clip last night, I realized I must be Dana the dorky one who got cancer. Feh.

We find out the results of the tumor test on Thursday, which will determine my chemo protocol. I will also find out the results of today's culture.

I am so over this cancer business. I wish it was over me.