It's my last week with the original equipment, folks, and I'm left to wonder - what does one DO to mark a transition like this? I am feeling frustrated - I have the luxury of knowing that a big change is going to happen, and yet, am at a loss for how to mark or commemorate it for myself. It's not a celebrating kind of feeling, for me . . . as much as I want to be that cool and carefree gal who has a "foobulous" "ta-ta" to the breasts party, it's not something I'm feeling like I can make fun of. I'm not morose, either, just flummoxed and uncomfortable - and all that combined with fatigue and anxiety (they make a great couple, don't they?) are making me feel a little like I'm finally coming off the rails.
Tonight I'm going to shut the lights out on the situation - just crawl into bed with an USWeekly and try to sleep it off, but I have purposely scheduled some unscheduled time this week (reminds me of my favorite Chinese fortune cookie fortune "Plan to be spontaneous tomorrow") to be by myself, to think, to reflect on all of this. No background noise, no distractions. Maybe I'll pick up an old favorite in tough times, Pema Chodron's When Things Fall Apart or The Places That Scare You and breathe my way through it. I'm curious if I'll find comfort in anything this week, or if I'll just be in a bad place, waiting for the shoe to drop.
This too is part of the process - for me it's actually a bit of new ground. While I had new and exciting experiences during Cancer Round I (chemo, for example, I remember losing sleep (and then hair) over chemo), I have never had the (dis)pleasure of major surgery. These will be new lessons after a new dance with cancer . . . trusting my doctors, trusting my body, receiving help, letting things go. All great for the future, but tough in the present.