It’s Crone Week, y’all.
I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about all of this, but I’m also trying not to be overly concerned with how I’m “supposed” to feel right now. I have enough on my plate without trying to jam my feelings into propriety.
I’ve spent my day engaging in active comfort; a long early morning walk, flea market scavenging, painting and meditation in the woods after a hike by the water, and a trip to pick up beach plums from a friend’s bakery. The plums are for dyeing; they make a good purple, and mauve when used with iron. Speaking of iron, I have two cast iron pans running through the self-clean cycle in the oven now, one a vintage 10″ Wagner skillet that I picked up this morning. Five dollars well spent if just for the joy it gave me, but I can already see the beautiful thing it’s going to be once the rust is lifted.
Nothing about this is actually that bad. I’m acutely aware of how lucky I actually am in all of this: health insurance is a blessing, and really, BRCA is sort of a mixed blessing, too. I described it to a friend recently as “one hand full of bullshit, the other full of gold” and I think I’m sticking with that. There are so many people who get cancer and have no warning, no explanation. I’m not going to say I’m thrilled to have this mutation- nobody is thrilled to have surgery or constant testing, right, and until we know what Kiddo’s status is I expect I’m going to keep feeling a little tight. People like us get a warning and have options, though. That’s one hell of a lot. I’m still having complicated feelings, and walking through those doesn’t necessarily get easier just because I have something to be grateful for, but again, I feel somewhat, strangely, unluckily lucky in this damn thing.
I’m distinctly uncomfortable with general anesthesia, which I hear is pretty normal. I’ve been under before and I don’t have any issues, nor do I anticipate any, I just don’t like the idea. Control, surrender, that whole thing. I’ll work through it when it’s time.
This is easier than the last surgery. Easier, too, than Sam’s last stroke; easier than the MS diagnosis, too. We have a more complete support network now, in meatspace and out in the ether. Sam’s created two phone chains- friends and family- and I’ve spent the time between pre-op appointments visiting with the people close to me and fielding messages from everybody who is in states (or countries) away. My stepmother sends love notes and photos of my niece and step-sister; my dad sends me late-night texts reminding me that we come from strong people, tough women: he reminds me that I am both kind and hard. I need that, some days.
We are all alone together in everything, to paraphrase; this all feels much simpler with small acts of kindness on my side.
This evening, we’re headed out with a small cluster of artists, musicians, sound healers, aromatherapists, massage therapists, etc, to a friend’s rambling old colonial on a lake for some therapeutic debauchery. According to my Facebook Memories, I was standing on her dock, with her dogs and my friend David, two years and three days ago, deciding that I’d suggest moving back to New England to Sam. What an incredibly half-cocked scheme, I thought at the time. He will never go for this.
I wonder what the next two years, three days will bring us?