First of all, thanks to all who have donated to my care so far. I can’t help but notice that many of you are people who probably can’t afford to donate, so thank you. I am grateful and yet ashamed to need the help. I am kicking myself for not buying cancer insurance, not getting a mammogram sooner, and not doing 20 other things, even as I am learning that kicking myself is just part of the self-torture that goes along with getting cancer in the first place. A real part of me believes this is my fault, but then, a real part of me thinks I am responsible for keeping airplanes that I’m in from crashing. So if you are one of the people who haven’t asked me what I did to get cancer or why I didn’t save my money in anticipation of getting cancer, thank you from all of me.

This week I got some good news: I have er positive and pr positive breast cancer, and her2 neg cancer. The first two mean that I can be treated with hormone-suppressing therapy, which is good; I also need to rethink a lifetime of doing things that help estrogen collect in my body (weight gain, inactivity, eating soy, drinking alcohol). I don’t know exactly what her2 neg cancer is, but it’s also good. A second good thing is that the tumor is floating somewhere not apparently attached to anything I really need (like the chest wall). I am trying to get a double mastectomy, but I’m learning more about that and need to learn more still. Unlike my siblings, who keep weighing in on this out of true love, I have always thought getting rid of my breasts would be just awesome. They’re big ponderous torpedo things like my equally short grandmother had, and they’re always collecting food and hitting things. They would be great on a woman twice my height. However, it turns out that if you’re overweight, there’s a good chance that a mastectomy will leave big ridges of fat and make your chest look like dented dough (thanks Robert Frost). When I met with the surgeon, he didn’t mention various skin-saving options, like keeping your breast exterior and possibly nipple and then sucking fat out of your middle and putting it in there. That’s probably because I was so adamant about being flat chested (and still would be except for the fear of looking like a half-melted marshmallow). If only my cancer would agree to stop growing while I went on a crash diet and trained for a marathon. But apparently I shouldn’t count on it. So now I don’t know if I should talk to another surgeon who keeps a plastic surgeon standing by.

Meanwhile, I’m sleeping constantly. I attended a session on close reading in Shakespeare today, at a conference in New Orleans, where everyone kept talking about dismembering Lavinia (from Titus Andronicus) and penetrating Gertrude (from Hamlet). It all seemed to be about me!

Thanks again for all the love and unconditional support. Here’s a line from W.H. Auden that keeps going through my head:

Time can say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you, I would let you know.