Sylvia's Journal

For two weeks I had been anxiously awaiting the report from the pathology lab to learn whether any cancer cells had escaped into the lymph nodes and whether the margins from the excavated lump were clean. Yesterday I found out: the lab report was negative. In this case the word negative was good. It meant that no cells had travelled outside the lump. How this will affect the treatment plan I have yet to find out when I meet with the oncologist and radiation oncologist. Our medical professions have mushroomed into so many specialities and subspecialties that the surgeon who did the excision did just that. When I saw her yesterday she declined any comment about next steps, other than that I would receive a call from these specialists. I received no answer to my nervous question about chemotherapy. If it wasn’t for the infected scars and the considerable amount of fluid that she had to drain from them, and sending a prescription for antibiotics to the pharmacy, I would have been in and out of her office in minutes. At least she had something to do for her pay. Hopefully in 6 months when I am summoned back to her office (is that really needed?) I expected I will be in and out in minutes because her handiwork will be close to invisible.

Although happy about the lab results, the infection has been draining me – apparently I did not rest my traumatized body the way I should have. True, a week after surgery, I did carry a load of firewood into the house, I carried and moved boxes that were probably too heavy and I did go this past week, 2 weeks after surgery, to yoga and pilates as I had understood I could. I had been anxiously awaiting to resume my other exercise classes, the aqua bike and spinning classes. Now I am told to wait another 2 weeks.

My body has absorbed the upsets, disappointments and trauma in various ways: my foot problems, now including plantar fasciitis, were most likely a result of the Tai Chi retreat during which I was on my feet, practicing QiGong and Tai Chi for 7 hours a day, 6 days in a row. Then back in the US where flu and cold viruses were circulating widely, I eventually got into their paths. And then the surgery and the preparations for it: the insertion of a magseed and radioisotope in my breast, then the cutting and chafing of the scars under my arm and too many needle sticks to list. Enough already my body yelled, be quiet, be still. But I did not sit still – idleness is not my thing. And now it is payback time. Forced rest. This reminds me of one of my favorite poems about rest, written by the South African activist & poet Benjamin MoLoise, a brilliant soul, silenced by his government in 1985:

In our whole life’s melody the music is broken off here and there by rests. / And we foolishly think we have come to the end of the tune. / God sends us a time of forced leisure, sickness, disappointed plans, frustrated efforts, /and makes a sudden pause in the choral hymn of our lives. / And we lament that our voices must be silent. / Our part missing in the music that goes up to the Creator from the world.