I'm in hermit-mode right now but I must write to tell you how exceedingly grateful we are to have received your wonderful comments on my last post.
My parents have read all of your encouraging words many times and are really floored by your generosity in taking time and effort to keep us in your thoughts and prayers. We are confident these prayers are like doses of magic, designed to promote healing and restoration of balance.
My mother's operation was yesterday and how we're waiting for pathology results, to determine next steps. That info will likely not be available until next week - perhaps by the time I arrive in North Carolina to spend some quality and fun time.
Yeah, it stands to reason that cancer will be semi-regular downer (to put it mildly), hovering at the margins of our pleasant visit, and over the next few months, but now we must find a way to functionally integrate concern into daily life (something to savor and bless under all circumstances).
I don't really know how I feel about all of this right now. In some moments I am utterly my regular self. In others manically positive. Occasionally, and I'd be dishonest to omit this, I am afraid and sad. It overcomes me, seeps in at the margins of my consciousness. It's like a flood that comes out of nowhere. Mercifully, I have lots of metaphoric mops. And a metaphoric contractor to shore up the foundation. And then normal re-emerges.
I'll leave you with this: I went for my own check up yesterday - an exceptionally friendly and efficient experience. Hilariously, the technician told me about the "modesty divide" - how some women will try to find ways to wear a blue gown even as they're having a mammogram while still others are entirely non-plussed. She said this as I whipped off my clothes like Houdini. I mean, I don't have time to wait for someone to leave the room and become otherwise occupied while I take off my shirt and bra! Note: Wear your most gorgeous bra (though not one that's delicate if you're having ultrasound, cuz you'll have so much of that lubricant shit to wipe off, you don't want to risk any staining). Why not undress to impress, I say.
At any rate, to say these technicians have seen it all is an understatement. I mean, they have to smush boobs into an x-ray machine day-in and day-out. Which I why I was entirely chuffed when my tech said, while looking at my chart: You're 43?! You're boobs look 33, max.
Yeah, I have managed to work this into every conversation I've had in the last 24 hours. And will continue to do so. And, don't lie, you would too. :-)