I’ve been lolling about the house in vintage underwear, stretching out on the bed or the couch to catch the breeze off one of the fans. I’m hungry but too listless to throw on a pair of shorts to go to the market. There is a storm warning but the last three or four never materialized into any kind of weather to remark on, so I don’t believe it will happen.
I have lived a multitude of lives in the last three weeks. There was Chicago, there were parks and beers and boys and galleries and patios and events and parties and bike rides and photos and therapy and books and friends and lectures and work. I’ve been so far removed from cancer and the hospital and it makes me angry that I have to go back to it tomorrow. I would like to live my life and I would like this not to be part of it.
This summer has unfolded in slow motion, the way it does for schoolchildren. I don’t want it to end, but I feel that tomorrow’s visit will mark a shift — in the type of treatment, or the frequency. Of how my days and weeks are mapped out. My feelings towards this are like a 15-year-old girl’s. I’m over this. It’s boring and banal and I want something else to come along.
Whatever tomorrow’s results, I’m taking the slightest of breaks from chemo to go to Scotland and Ireland with Jessie. I want to travel at least once with everyone I love.