Is this my exit?

I'd like to think that with one radiation visit behind me, the warning sign for the exit ramp off the cancer highway is within sight.  I'm still enjoying the spoils of my trifecta cancer winnings:  chemo, surgery, radiation.  I wanted to believe that there's nothing left here for me to rehab, ingest, infuse, consume, consider, you name it.  My once purposeless follicles have emerged from their toxic unemployment.  Scars have started to fade.  Flexibility has returned.  But as a cheesy and seductive marketing campaign would suggest at 3:00 am, but wait, there's more!

Pathology.  15 lymph nodes removed.  2 were malignant.  Two too many.  My oncologist seems genuinely thrilled.  I guess I can learn to be too.  This nugget gets shoved into the folder labeled "whatever".  I refuse to lose sleep over stuff like this.  Can't do anything about pathology reports.  My oncologist and I talked about drug therapies.  This for a few years, then that.  Hormone this and that.  Bloodwork here and there.  New tests in the spring.  Just one little pill for now, I ask him?  Yes.  Just one pill for now.  All that I have been through, and the next step is one measly little daily pill.  Yes, I think my exit is up ahead.  Moving forward, however, there will be a new standard of my personal normal.  Medically, diagnostically, nutritionally, psychologically.  This is about making sure the beast stays far in my past.  Yes, I'm a little motivated to stay off that road for a long time.

In other news, the plastic surgery has been a success.  My abdominals have probably not been this flat since 1993.  This new body I find myself in feels strange at times.  My new breast is an evolving work in progress.  It is me, 100% authentic and will continue to further assume the appearance of a conventional breast by the early summer when the final touches can be applied.  I have no feeling for about two inches beneath my entire front waistline from hip to hip and on the lower half of my new breast.  This is a permanent side effect of the surgery.  This is why I have to be careful with loose fitting pants, with no sensation I may not realize they are falling off me (an unanticipated consequence that especially humors Sean).  I have some touch up liposuction I can get too, post operative 'contouring', as it's known.  In the meantime, I still have curves, I still fill out a bra, and there's still cleavage.  I'm still me.  I would have been anyway.  While recovery from this surgery was rather excruciating - and I will add in some ways worse than chemo - it was well worth it.  This is the apex of the plight of dealing with any fear, related to cancer or otherwise, I could possibly imagine:

Dear Cancer, 

First of all, you totally suck.  Now that you know this, how dare you choose me to do battle.  I mean really.  Of all people!  Did you honestly think you had a chance?  Granted, for a long time you were ubiquitously lurking, hanging, seeping and soaking through every available corner and crevice of my consciousness.  For many months I slept, ate, crapped, dreamt, thought, breathed, laughed and cried cancer.  You came between me and many people, screaming your presence whenever the opportunity reared your ugliness.  You ate up a good chunk of my life, some of which at times I believe I can't get back.  The break up was at times adversarial but you and I both know this was for the best.  Should I keep you on my Christmas card list?  Maybe I do need to address your presence now and again but there will not be a reunion any time soon.  Surely you have learned your lesson by now.  I am fully aware of the tracks on my soul you have left behind.  I am a changed person in ways I'm only starting to understand.  But that's okay.  You are out of my body now but not out of my thoughts.  And probably not out of my actions.  Because of you, I am better than before.  I am better than just whole again.  The proper perspectives of everything are now in place because of you.  Oh, and the best gift of all, by the way, is that nothing scares me anymore.  Nothing.  Maybe I need to thank you for that.

Fondly Yours, (and screw you!)

Me

I walked into the hospital last week for my radiation dry run.  They pretend to give you radiation, but insist that you lay still in your exact position because the pretend radiation may miss its mark!  Head to the right, chin up, arms up.  Zap.  Silence.  Ping.  More silence.  Lights go out then come back on.  Machines move silently up and over my head.  Six little freckle tattoos later, and I'm ready for the real thing on December 19th.  Just lay on this cold narrow table in the middle of the spacious and sterile hospital room with equipment that is reminiscent of the old set from Star Trek.  Reminders of "Breathe normally"  "Don't move" and "Just a few more minutes" as I'm laying in the now familiar shapeless light blue gown that ties in the back.  All the while telling myself, remember, chemo was way worse, all I have to do is lay here.  Let's see, three lunatic children and a dog at my chaotic home, and I am forced to lay still in this quiet room.  This is not so bad.  Ten minutes, at most.  Wondering why my nose has to itch now, of all times.  The parking attendants, techs and other assistants are all starting to look familiar.  I was pleased that the preliminary pictures and dry run went well.

Marched out of Radiology and into the cancer center's main lobby - and out the EXIT - to debut the new 1/2" hair on my head.  Garnier Medium Coconut Brown to cover the persistent grey.  Very short, but very thick and shiny.  Holding my hat in my hand.  Empowered!  Yeah hospital...Here I am!  And with my own hair!  No hat, wig, or wrap!  I'm reminded of the opening scene to the Mary Tyler Moore Show.  No, I didn't toss my hat in the air, but heck, I'm gonna make it after all.