Is Worry Worth Writing About?

"The only thing we have to fear is fear itself."  Franklin Delano Roosevelt

I haven't been writing as much lately and have been trying to figure out what the deal is. I mean, this is normal for writers, I suppose. Writer's block, and all that jazz. Or, for anyone who does anything creative. Sometimes the juices just aren't a-flowin'. But, I think it's more that I've caught the worry bug, and I just don't like to put negative vibes out there, anywhere, for anyone. Today I realized though that if I don't put them out there, then they're just in here, in me, and that's the worst place of all.

Yesterday, there was a horrifying photograph in the Washington Post of a little girl who was burned in a Pakistani suicide bombing. I thought of NJ, of course, as any parent would think of their child. Anything that devalues the preciousness of life is disturbing to me now more than ever – sickening, paralyzing nearly. Yesterday when the train got to my stop, some drowning, heavy sadness physically overtook my body. I felt nauseous, and started crying as I was walking through the parking lot. Couldn't even wait until I got to my car. I hoped no one saw me.

The image of the little girl was awful, but it set free some oppressive heap in me that's been there for weeks – fear of anything bad happening to NJ, or my family, or, basically – me. What if I'm working too much, and not spending enough time with my family and that makes me sick, again? What if I'm not eating enough good stuff, and that makes me sick again? What if I need to exercise more (um, I mean, exercise at all, and yes, I do!), or give more, create more, love more, pray more? What if I'm waiting too long to get my ovaries out of my body, and that makes me sick? What if I can't have another baby and NJ never gets to have a brother or sister? What if I'm breathing wrong (not even joking)? What if it comes back? What if, what if, what if? This worry itself will make make me sick.

My friend, Ash, told me I should see a therapist after my surgery. It would be a lot to deal with, maybe more than I could prepare for, mentally. Maybe she was right. But can a therapist heal me better than God can? Talking is talking, and I'm being much too quiet. I know God is listening, and well, He's free.

A little Xanax never hurt anybody, either.

Bless This Home Sweet Home

Buy this pretty picture from Spread the Love.

Buy this one from Spread the Love, too.

Show Some Love, As If You Haven't Already Shown Enough

I'm doing the 3-Day walk in DC. Sixty freakin' miles. 6-0. Soo excited, and nervous. I know I'll cry so hard when I see all of the gorgeous ladies and families and friends who have been affected by breast cancer. What's a few blisters for a good cause, right? I hope I raise millions of dollars, just me – with the help of you.

Change Is in the Hair

Oops, I meant to say, change is in the air. So much has happened in the past month. All good things. So much to be thankful for, I'm afraid I don't know how to show my gratitude. How much can I pray? There's more to do. Something big is right around the corner, always. I can feel it. In the meantime, here's what's been goin' down:

1. I got my very first new hair haircut. Wheeeeeeeeeeeee. But still soo short...
2. I'm not eating meat anymore. For serious this time. No more dead stuff.
3. NJ is sleeping in her very own bed! – mostly. And me and Jon get to snuggle, like old times, if one of us doesn't fall asleep on the couch that is. It's pretty sweet, but we miss that little munchkin.
4. We got a sweet, awesome nanny. Her name is Katy, and NJ is in love. She brought her a princess coloring book with stickers on day one, and that sealed the deal.
5. I was crazy post-treatment anxious, like, what will happen now that I'm not getting a zap or a cutting out or a toxic-in-a-good-way drip? And I prayed for no more worry and fear, and guess what? It's gone. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
6. Went to see Dr. Huxtable (oncologist) for the first time since my "treatment plan" has ended, and got straight A's for once in my life.
5. And, we bought a new house. Plantin' roots, and wheat grass.

I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars.

–Whitman

The Kindness of Strangers

This is from someone I never even met before – another angel.

So Sorry, But You Won't Be Missed

I forgot to go to radiation one day last week. It was one of those rare occasions when I was actually engrossed in work and just plain forgot. When I arrived late, the nurse said, "I'm glad it's such a non-event in your life." Exactly, I thought.

That non-event has been a thorn in my side and is now an itchy red mess, and it's about to be over. There isn't a single thing I'll miss about radiation, unlike chemo when there was some bittersweet, ecstatic, confused ending. Then, there was camaraderie, like some battle, where I was headed home and the rest stayed to carry on the fight.

I won't miss opening that steely locker, hoping that the coral, not the blue, hospital gown is on top of the stack, and that it isn't too starched. I prefer the ones that feel like a worn, floaty old summer sheet, the kind at shoddy beach houses mostly. And I won't miss the part after when I struggle to get out a navy robe from the too-small wiry shelf shoved precariously into that small space. I almost always yank out the whole damn thing. It seems I'm the only one who ever cares to wear them, but there are boys, men, whatever, in the waiting area here, too.

I undress, top only, but I take off the bottom sometimes, just forgetting, or I'm wearing a dress, and then after I lay down on the table, they remind me "top only." I know, I say, I'm wearing a dress. Next time I just pull the top of my dress down. Make little jokes, small talk, the weather, work. How much can you say in five minutes?

I won't miss walking past the sign that says, "Danger, Radiation," wondering what exactly it means for me, and what it even is anyway. The nurse explained to me the other day that I'm in the last days of treatment here, and now I'm getting a "boost" on my scar because recurrences occur here most often. It's only surface radiation – electrons – which is different from the protons that penetrated deep into my chest wall, bouncing off bones, fragments brushing my lungs and inducing a barely noticeable dry cough, intoxicating my throat with a funny feeling. The bad coffee and the fake creamer. I won't miss any of it.

I went to the pool today, and my little fake boobie was almost completely out of my bathing suit because I can't feel it exactly, in a way that I don't notice when it's all out there, nekked. I just happened to look down and see it, really, scary close to the edge. Seriously close. Got to watch out for that sneaky little gal. I've kinda been wanting to show it off anyway.

Little Poem for a Big Man

Dad, Workin’

Bent down, bent-over shoulders

hooked back

raising up, lugging in, heaving out

still

Broke

Those busted up fingers all swelled

From the ink and the roots

and wire and cutters

sand paper really does sound like hands

on a tired old chest from North Carolina

that you rub down

some life you round out

like yours

getting smoother now

add milk paint

make a few bucks