Dialing back the fright

Seems appropriate that as things get scarier out there for Halloween, my bod's beginning to return to a less frightful state. Hair is beginning to grow back, lumps are shrinking, and as I get a bit more sleep each night, my face looks less and less haggard.

Over the past week I've had a cold with a wicked cough, and because my GP suspected a bladder infection when I went to visit her last week (despite having no real symptoms other than leukocytes in my pee), I've been on some wicked antibiotics. I'd been putting off the GP visit because I didn't want to discover I had some other dreaded disease while I was battling the c-dawg, but I'm a big girl, I am, so I finally went. Everything seemed otherwise fine (unless I get some bad lab results back), so off I go to remain simply cancer girl and nothing else for a spell.

I've also spent the past week trying to convince Stella that the cold has nothing to do with the cancer, but she's not buying it. She's been talking about it a lot lately.


"When it's Christmas time, you won't have your cold anymore because your cancer will be gone." This is a remnant from when we thought I might have surgery by Christmas.

"I wish you didn't get cancer. Because I didn't want that to happen to you."

But mostly the talk is good. Both girls are cheering on my hair and rubbing my peach fuzz when we kick back in bed to read books at night. It all feels like it's going in a positive direction unless I have that stupid opening line swirling in my brain that goes, "After a brave two-year battle, she finally succumbed..." I can usually beat that one back, but it's that part of me that doesn't want to be caught off guard by the thing that dare not speak its name that revisits it occasionally. Scary stuff indeed.