I am thinking a lot this week about the Cheryl Strayed passage I wrote about previously (see The Bull). It really gets to the crux of doing cancer treatment. I can't veer off, or change my mind, or decide to do something else. I literally have very few choices, I have to make the choices, and none of them are what anyone in their right mind would consider appealing or attractive choices. My oncologist often reminds me, none of this is fun. I am in the process of deciding what to do among the often two things I don't want to do.
For instance, breast reconstruction or not? is my latest of these. Where the bull is, I have no idea, but I am going to have to pick a direction. And really, who would say either of these outcomes will be satisfying? Neither will, but one or the other is what I am going to do.
Yesterday while shopping in Portland I was able to ignore, or sort of tamp down or almost forget about the cancer for a while in little moments of conversation or rabid hunting through sale bins. I am grateful to my friend for sensing my need to get out of dodge and have some distraction. I did buy a couple of summer dresses, which I made sure to choose with flat fronts and no shelf bras, in case by summer I have a flat front.
I am starting to wonder whether I really want to deal with plastic surgery. I know it is more procedures, more time, more pain, and the risk of not being happy with the outcome. I am the type of person who walks into the house, pulls her bra off through her sleeves, and sighs with relief. Hate bras, always have. Being flat, or concave (?), will require dealing with self consciousness, in the locker room, in a swim suit, in life in general. If practicing this by being bald is any indication, it is one of the many, many things in life that are harder than they look. I don't know where the bull is, but I am going to have to pick a direction and go.