Fragments

In my bathroom is a small MC Escher calendar, a Christmas gift. It took me until the end of January to hang it, and even then, I did it ineffectively - just scotch taping the whole thing to the windowsill in an impulsive fit, probably just to stop carrying it from one surface to another. There it still hangs, taped open to January 2014, showing a few cute little demonic lizards trapped in a mathematical cage in trippy space. Day after day I see it and think "I've got to flip it to February" but I can't get up the gumption to A) Untape it; B) Flip to a new month; C) Find a nail or tack. I think about this off and on, various times daily. Now it's March.

Saw my surgeon today in her pretty office with Van Gogh prints. She was very surprised that the pathology report from last week's third surgery showed some cancer still remaining, despite her having removed another substantial piece of me.  3.2 cm long by 2.2 cm wide by .7 cm thick - whatever that is, I'm not feeling very metric right now. Not to mention symmetric. 

I'm running out of milk and raspberries. And I'm running out of plants that keep freezing in the winter. And we are running out of coats. And I keep getting more and more bookshelves but I can't find the books I want and I keep getting more and more books. I imagine the shelves filled neatly but I don't do anything about it. My garage has boxes of books that I imagine alphabetically and thematically and neatly organized on my white and wooden shelves. But they're not. I imagine making my blog into a book or part of it into an essay, but I'm running out of tape or something. Or imagination.

I had almost no pain after the surgery. It didn't hurt me much pysically. My surgeon says she is going to consult with the pathologist regarding the specificity of his report. She wonders exactly what was sliced through or sliced next to. She also wants to consult with the radiologist. Everyone needs to be consulted to figure out what to do with me as I am not a simple case. My oncologist assured me that the chemotherapy would take care of anything left in my body. My radiologist told me that anything left in my body would not have been taken care of by chemotherapy because surgery obscures circulation. My surgeon said sometimes this just happens. I don't know.

My sister got these brown square toed boots a long time ago. They are too big and they have a sharp wrinkle that hurts my foot and they drag when I walk like I'm a slug drunkard. I steal them and wear them and ask her to give them to me whenever I'm with her in her home in her little shrine closet. She always says no you can't have them stop it they're mine. She mailed them to me.

My surgeon is going on two-week vacation. She likes France, as do I. One of my favorite memories from my last trip to France was getting croissants and hot chocolate at some little tabac somewhere, nothing fancy, but they were delicious. I think you can literally get a better pastry at a gas station in Paris than you can at the best bakery in Austin. So I might have to have a fourth lumpectomy. Or not. I'm in another white space, where I have to wait, simply wait, wait, until other people have discussed what to do about me. I don't know what the future holds in the next few weeks or beyond. The plan was to start radiation in about three weeks, and following that to start taking the hormone pill that I dread. Right now all of that is on hold in case I need another surgery or two or 10 million. Nothing is planned right now for sure.

I am okay. I am calm. I'm going out to dinner with some friends. I'm about to Spring break with two creatures of my heart. Led Zeppelin is on. The floor has been vacuumed. The counter is clean. The backpacks are flung.