I've been feeling better the last few days. Although there's more information to collect, I have a good sense of my choices and am getting a chance to try them on for psychic size. Thank goodness our thoughts are private, no? I mean, what would that woman at Whole Foods have thought if I said out loud "now, I definitely would NOT be able to reach these crackers if I'd just had my boobs removed."
I've also learned a new, situationally-appropriate vocab word: "Froob": fake boob - like it? I kinda do.
But although things have calmed down for the moment, I'm experiencing a definite ambient mental strain. It's probably the same as for people whose ears ring - I just can't shake it. And so while I go through the happy motions of starting summer vacation (last day of school fun, an awesome Father's Day/Family Day combo, Canobie Lake Park with a bunch of great folks, etc.), I'm just beat. The last time I remember being this tired was when I was on chemo. Seriously. It's the kind of fatigue that doesn't go away with a good night's sleep. 'Cause the cancer's still there whether I've had a great 8 or not, right? I still have to decide whether I'll "treat & repeat" or "end it all" and score myself a matched set of Froobs. My mind's still not made up. Once I have my map drawn, I know it'll get better. But until then, it's buzz, buzz, buzz.
So everyone'll have to bear with me a little while longer. I'm forgetting where I put things, stumbling over my words, telling Lilah to put things in the freezer when I mean the fridge (can you say "Father's Day Monkey Bread SNAFU?"), having to think twice before operating heavy machinery. I'm crawling into bed at 8:30 more nights than I care to admit (did I just publish that to the blog?) and sleeping like a rock right straight through 'til 6.
It'll get better. I'm not whining. Really, I'm just putting you on notice that if you come here for dinner, your wine might be chilled into pops. And you might want to grant me a wide berth if you see me trolling the streets of Belmont in my big fat Mommy-Mobile.
I'm dangerous.
xo
Sarah
I can't imagine what you're going through...
ReplyDelete...and yet...
Your blog is so pithy and is articulating the unfolding of events with such soul that I feel in lock step with the process--even though I'm not.
So, if you're feeling drained/scattered, at least know that this space is making a hella lot of sense and you're shining here about as brightly as I've ever seen.
I love wine pops! And I love you. As Edie would say, "you rock!"
ReplyDeleteLindsay
I hadn't heard froob but I had heard of foob. I like them both!
ReplyDeleteI'm a big fan of the term "Froob" and, of course, froobs in general. In time, you will be able to reach crackers in earnest, with the added fun of inability to tell when your froobs are in an inappropriate place, such as squished into a stranger's arm (heh heh). Please give Dr. MCH and Dr. Smith big hugs for me. Thinking of you every day - hugs to you and yours.
ReplyDeleteAllison