Well no, I haven’t been kidnapped by aliens who sucked out my brains like Paleo man sucked the marrow from bones. Why do you ask?
I’ve been BIZZY. RULLY RULLY BIZZY.
With cancer and stuff. Doctors who cut things and then cut things some more. With discovering that despite the seeming accuracy and convincing confidence of a surly fictitious television doctor, Vicodin is not the strongest painkiller money can buy or that people will let you have and still walk around all legal-like and stuff (though I am cautioned not to drive cars or operate heavy machinery). With finding out that FEET are the foundation of everything. It all comes from your feet. Start off on the right foot, my friend!
I’ve been writing about all this over at my spiritual blog, but there are some things I can say here as well.
Pain hurts. Ow.
Friends are good. Who knew people would loan me wheelchairs, canes and crutches and bring me yummy soup, scrumptious organic out-of-season fruit and whole lasagnas? The friend thing can’t be underestimated.
I’m impatient. I know this is a Big Learning Moment and all, but jeez. Can’t it go quicker?
Once there was a woman who had a thing on her foot. Side of the heel. The thing, let’s call it Spot, started looking different and the woman said to herself, “Huh. Looks like cancer!” But since the woman 1) had no health insurance and 2) had disgust for doctors who give you the runaround, she chose to let it go. Run, Spot, run! And Spot did. Spot grew and grew. A friend is forgiven for once saying, “This isn’t cancer (but you should get it looked at),” because the same friend later said “OMG! Cancer! Dude!” and of course the woman, having Free Will and all, always knew deep down inside what was up with Spot.
Eventually, and this is months of thinking a lot about Spot because gradually Spot grew and grew and took up way more than his share of room inside shoes and whatnot and one day refused to heal (heel?) any longer, the woman decided to Have Something Done About It. She went through the seven layers of acceptance for bad things that happen to you and envisioned possibilities like no longer having a foot and chemotherapy and all sorts of dire things. Finally she heard the word “melanoma” and read the pathology report, in which Things Did Not Look Good.
There was a lot of cutting out of a foot-piece the size of Kansas. Also some lymph nodes, just for fun.
Later, after the pain the woman has now partially forgotten ever happened, they took some of her own skin and stuck it to Kansas.
Things are getting better. Doctors have stopped using the word “amputation” and instead caution the woman about coveting three-inch high heels.
Pain prescriptions run out and it’s not a national emergency.
Things go on. Still breathing.