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Posted 2018-10-10T19:45:00Z

Today’s mile:  Icepacks and Beaujolais

9 days post surgery, I don't expect be out clubbing

But as le tit marches tirelessly towards monochromatic,

These 27 stitches exchange one pain in the boob for another.   

Sleep positions are a new expression of creativity


New normal? Ha. 

There are new new normals – every day.

 


Todays #fuckcancertip:

While “cancer” is an ugly word,

toss in a British accent, it’s much more pleasing to hear and say.

It becomes almost melodic, like Sansa -- the every evolving Stark daughter

I’ve spent hours with as I rest.


A delightful new normal is free massages at the amazing cancer spa, Pathways

You know you’re in the right place because you see a 3” thick book on the shelf bearing the simple letters CANCER.

Next week, I shall say it in my head with an accent.


Other new new normals?


Foresake my beloved backpack for a shoulderbag    #pitincsion


Laptop under right arm. Left arm carries coffee.

(harder than one would think)


Dog leashes held by waterbottle belt instead of my hand.

 This avoids tugs from an under-walked Midge that cause outbursts that make Wanda Sykes blush

(see also “biopsies taken outside of lidocaine area”)


Getting bras and shirts on is now a serpentine dance choreographed with a high awareness of a very angry pec minor.

 

Knowing nods from my nurses when they’re shopping in Target.


Genetic counselors that say “hey girl” when I answer the phone.


My daughter hoping I someday star on a “breast cancer thriver” poster

("mom, you'll look great" she says looking at this.


Cancer jokes.

 

Successfully participating in 15+ second science conversation with Coli.


Here’s the thing. There is no more normal, new or otherwise.

I know the long view, and for that I am grateful as a dog in a pool of bacon.


But for how I get there, I have to put on my marathon brain.

(Yes, I used to be in rockstar shape)


But I ran a couple of marathons fully aware of how many miles were behind me.

And how many were ahead of me.


And mentally, I fell the fuck apart. Overwhelmed for almost 5 hours straight.


Then a sage friend uttered the simple words “Run the mile you’re in.”

Some miles are borderline fun. Some miles are from the bowels of hell.

Just run the one you’re in. And don’t expect the same mile twice.


1 x 26.                   


Instead of {26-4} [⊕¼ =, ∑) + (9.2 x 26.2) ± ψ ∞ πσ∪≠;θ


Run the mile you’re in.

Or as Anne Lamott says, Bird by Bird

 


So onward ho. If this was Twin Cities, not sure what mile I am in,

but when the Cathedral is in sight, you can bet your sweet ass I will kick it in.

Even if there are 14-minute miles, face plants, temper tantrums or yelling at spectators (ask Tresidder)

heading towards the Capitol,  I'll stride it out like I did the whole thing with sub 8's

and meet you all on the Capitol lawn, where we will have a dance party, hands overhead,

because sore pits and angry pecs will be a thing of the past. 

 

So this mile is rest and recovery. The treatment miles are ahead. 

But I run the mile I am in. And just like actually running, people keep asking

me if I'm okay. And thanks to you all, I am. 

 

Love, Ginnie

 

PS: Fuck cancer 

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Comments (1)

  • jean
    jean

    I'd be happy to run some miles with you, my friend!

    2 years ago · Reply