One-Knee Focus

     If a man gets down on one knee in front of you, it is serious business. It signifies he cares deeply about what he’s about to say or do.  I remember the times in my life when this happened.

    Once, a charming waiter at a tiny restaurant on the Oregon coast dropped to one knee, got up close and described in savory detail and a soft voice, the offerings on the evening’s menu. He had a compelling accent, Greek perhaps, that made me swoon and my husband Ron roll his eyes. There was no mistaking this was more than charm: the meal that followed was exquisite.   

     Other times included last week (and last July) when another gentleman, my plastic surgeon Dr. Yale Popowich, kneeled before me and drew on my breast with a purple marker. This focused and serious effort was part of the pre-operative procedure. The surgeries that followed were positive and finessed.

     Thursday’s surgery was uneventful. Aside from being assigned to room 13 for pre-op, having veins which refused to offer blood (poke number three was a charm), everything went as planned. I arrived at 6:30 a.m. and was out of post-op room 25 wrapped in a chest bandage by 12:30 p.m.  I’ve popped a pain pill here and there, but all is well and it’s all behind me now.

    To top off the relative ease of this experience, my husband Ron kneeled at my bedside and rubbed my shoulders a couple times since. I realize I don’t always comment on the times he drops to one knee. Sometimes I don’t even notice. Right now, though, my awareness is heightened. I understand the serious business of dropping to one’s knees.  And I seriously appreciate it.   

Coming Home

I haven’t written for a while because I have no news. No news but an inner guilt associated with the stage I’m at, which is called ‘survivorship’.
       Here are a few of the things I feel guilty about: not exercising enough; indulging in a few too many of those left-over snack-sized Milky Ways at the bottom of the trick-or-treat barrel; sliding back into coffee again (although I went a couple days on the weekend with none and no headache so I don’t feel addicted); grabbing less-than-healthy meals rather than salad on busy days, i.e. not being fully intentional and still loving food; and sometimes forgetting to take my stash of vitamin supplements, which include Magnesium, Calcium, Vitamin D and Turmeric.
       If I unpack the “guilt”, I find ‘fear’. Fear that because I’m not perfect and vigilant and disciplined in all my habits, as I never have been, the cancer could come back. Fear that maybe I was responsible in some way for this journey in the first place. My fear is so real that just now I wrote C and then went back and inserted the word ‘cancer’. I find myself not wanting to write the word, not wanting to say the word, just wanting to forget all this happened in 2013. It was a fluke, the year ’13 was simply bad luck; ’14 will definitely be better. I also find myself checking my right breast daily, feeling for anything suspicious residing near the chest wall. I’m happy with my decision to not have anything done to my healthy breast, but these feelings are real and present even as I deny them.

          Tomorrow, bright and early, I have my last surgery. This is the one where the plastic surgeon swaps out my croquet-ball-hard tissue expander with the implant. This is a good thing. I’ve scheduled it so I won’t miss my Tuesday and Wednesday night classes this week or next. I check in at 6:30 and expect to be home by 2.  I'm thinking of wearing the red shoes I bought two months ago, clicking my heels together and saying those magic words...

           This is the coming-home again part of my journey.