After six weeks of waiting, during which my mass has undoubtedly grown so large that it will no longer fit in one of those “tiny houses” that everyone wants to retire to, I am having surgery in six days, and soon many questions can be answered. How far has the cancer traveled in the lymph system? Do I have the kind of cancer that is slower-growing and doesn’t respond to chemo (Oncotype-dx under 16) or the kind that is fast-growing and does respond to chemo (Oncotype-dx over 31), or is it one of those middle numbers which may or may not respond to chemo—who knows? So far everything else has been somewhere in the middle, so I’m preparing for limbo. I had not thought doubt had undone so many…

In the last few weeks I have had bloodwork and a dexa scan, which is a scan to figure out how much bone loss I have already suffered as a baseline for when I take hormone suppressing therapy—which will be after the radiation therapy—which will be after chemo, if I need it. I can’t tell you the results of these tests, because they are a secret. I’ve been able to get hold of most results, but the ones that go to the oncologist never get reported to me, and I’m told I can’t get them from anyone but her. I’ve also had DNA testing to see if I have genetic cancers—I don’t (so we’re back to “sporadic,” which means food, weight, environment, stress, law and order re-runs, not having a baby, red licorice, Leonard Nimoy, pallor, poetry, polyester, voting for Hillary, and of course, wine, plus or minus religion—one or more of these may be responsible for my cancer. Or not. )

As you might suppose, I joyfully trumpeted this news to my siblings, one of whom had already scheduled a mammogram. Naturally, they found something “odd” anyway, and so she had to have a biopsy. So what was that genetic testing for? I do not know. Most biopsies lead to nothing but hardened spots on your boobs, and my sister is not a big cancer risk, but–fuck. That’s JUST about enough. I do not have the stamina for anyone else to have cancer. Plus she had a bad reaction to the lidocaine, which is crappy, but we are determined that her boobs will be fine, which will be good. See? Positive thinking.

Because I didn’t want to go to Atlanta a bunch of times, I’m having pre-op meetings with both doctors on May 5, the day before the surgery. The only problem with this arrangement is I have not gotten any information about what not to eat and what supplements not to take. If you’re going to have surgery, they want you to cut out most vitamins and supplements somewhere between two months and two days before surgery. That range means that I have had to turn aside once again to the Valley of the Shadow of the Internet for advice, which is ubiquitous and, as you might expect, contradictory. You should have Vitamin C before surgery, and zinc. Or maybe not. You definitely shouldn’t have fish oil before surgery because it thins the blood, but you should start it up right after surgery. Or two weeks later. The other things you definitely shouldn’t have: Vitamin E, Ginko Biloba, Ephedra, Ginseng, Ginger, St. John’s Wart, any pain relievers, garlic—and, of course, alcohol.

A friend and I were lamenting that alcohol used to be good for you in moderation. Just a few years ago, for example, it was good for heart disease, so we all learned about good wine. Now, however, it’s only good for you if you’re a man. It’s got to be a conspiracy. Right now, the Supreme Court is pondering whether Texas women need to be protected from abortion clinics closer than 100 miles away, and physicians have announced that women of childbearing age should protect their potentially child-bearing selves by never drinking until menopause. And now, guess what? When I said menopause I actually meant “until everything falls off or gets unrecognizably wrinkly.” Just don’t drink until then.

Yes, but wine can be a great distraction, and now I don’t have one—the television signal at my house having been shaded out by God, and never having been cool enough for cannabis which, as it turns out, grows estrogen-positive cancer anyway, and cheese being fattening. These have been gratifying weeks in terms of people reaching out, but they have also been some of the loneliest weeks of my life. Many people are unsure what to say, of course, and my heretofore-announced ambivalence about talking about things probably doesn’t help them. Things feel weirdest at work, where there’s a studied non-talking emanating from people in the halls, nice as the people I work with are. The Lunchers go on with their lunchy life and I sit in my office trying to decipher forms filled with tiny tables that look like this:

In this way, life with cancer isn’t that different from life before cancer, except that for that quiet scream, still keening softly in my head. But talking about cancer is dull, too, and yet, it’s the subject of every conversation I actually have. Getting to the point where you can talk about something else must be excellent—they should have a dark-pink ribbon for that, resembling your tonsils, or maybe a chip like you get in twelve step programs. People tell me that cancer makes you see the big picture, and that’s partly true—except for the big part, in my case. The scream is screaming, is this all? 21 years of those hallways, and that office with the Delta Influenza 5000 pelting noxious fumes from the ceiling, and those computer screens, and students who “deeply resent” their assignments and “urgently” need to be elsewhere during my exams? But then my Shakespeare students give me the hard-earned swag they bought for their Henry IV scene, or I get a card from the students at the newspaper, or someone gently hands me a coloring book or sends me a care package, and the scream subsides a little.

Anyway, today when it was still cool, all kinds of birds gradually started the morning. Robert Hass says those birds bring you back to yourself: “A towhee scratches in the leaves outside my open door. He always does.” It’s like finding your house after you’re lost. You wake up, and it’s still dark, and the world is back, and you can hear the creek, and the birds are calling the way they did when you had a family, two parents, and a sweet welcoming kitchen, and you are that person for a moment again. Then headlights on their way to work grope furtively around the walls and ceiling of your room, and it’s time to get up and try again. The waiting is almost over, and I thank you for following my blog and caring about what happens to me and offering to help and donating so I can pay my bills. I’ll post this weekend after surgery, or maybe one of my sisters will. I’m knocking on wood–or my head, whichever is closer.