It’s never too late to become what you might have been. ~ George Eliot

Thursday
The boys head off to their wilderness program first thing in the morning. The sun is out, quite happily, promising a warm, dry day, and predictably so, given that it was wintry yesterday, and since a pattern has been established this spring, with spring and winter taking turns (one day off, one day on), today is spring's turn to rise and shine and melt some snow. The boys will spend the day with their clans on a lovely spot (more like a vast array of unbelievably beautiful woodlands, meadows, and enchanted forests on many, many unspoiled acres, rather than an actual, ah, spot) by a roaring river in Dummerston, Vermont. They will track wild animals (much more fun than domesticated ones) in the snow, work on their shelters (all very environmentally friendly, green-chic, no-VOC), make fires (not yet pyros but getting close), and commune with the quiet, their friends, and the wintry spirit that still resides there, in the achingly tall white pines, the rush of river ice, and the thick snow that still blankets the forest floor.

My mother arrives to help me with my day--she helps me change the sheets on the boys' beds, drives me to my hair appointment (after which I feel about 5 pounds lighter, hurrah!), treats me to a delicious lunch--and my first real outing since the surgery--at one of our favorite stops, Gill's own Wagon Wheel, and takes me food shopping at our local food coop, where she pushes the cart around for me and carries my bags out to the car. It feels strange, not being able to do these things for myself. I know it's only temporary, but it is amazingly frustrating. And contained in the frustration is a good lesson for me: to surrender my stoicism and self-sufficiency, which has served me well over the years, and instead open myself up to receive this kind of help. Later, we return home for my second visit from the occupational therapist; she's been awaiting instructions and approval from my plastic surgeon, but has not yet heard back, and when she calls, the secretary (previously mentioned in past post as the woman who seems to spend all her time chatting on the phone with friends and talking to her work-buddy about how she made herself sick the previous weekend after drinking too much, nice) tells her that no, Dr. Pitts does not want me to stretch (this much, we know) and that anything else she wants to do will have to await approval. So, appointment cancelled. The OT is frustrated, to say the least, and so am I. I could really use the OT, given the soreness and immobility on my left side, and this means that this part of my follow-up care and treatment will be delayed. It seems neither she nor Sara, the visiting nurse, has had any luck with the secretary actually returning phone calls or faxes or passing on information from them to Dr. Pitts and vice-versa. It seems that perhaps Dr. Pitts should know about this, don't you think? Oh gee, this is beginning to sound like something I will have to talk to her about. She's such a good surgeon, and such a nice person, and she should have a secretary that better reflects her professionalism and warmth. And really, she should know about this disconnect: Yep, sorry to break it to you, but it's time to get a new secretary.

I see Dr. Pitts next Wednesday. I'll break it to her then. And I'd like to ask her why the expander seems so big, so big that it's digging into my rib cage, so big that it seems as if it is preparing me for a much larger breast than I had before. Is someone not telling me something? Did I sign my life away while in a narcotic haze at the hospital, and tell her I wanted bigger boobs after all? Just what happened after they put that twilight in the IV in pre-op? Hmmmmm...

I dare say I think I'd fall down with bigger boobs. No balance. Boom. I'd be pitching about all day long.

She did mention that I could have a lift on the right side to better match my new fake boobie on the left. A lift? A lift? I was insulted. I may have nursed my boys for six years but I don't need a damn lift. Do I? Ah, see, boob insecurities never die, they just sag a little.

Friday
It's a cold, soggy day. Winter's turn. We wake up to about an inch of wet snow on the ground. Luke opens his curtains and screams. We're all sick of this.

The boys and I make our way through the morning. We're all feeling a little glum, with no sun to warm our table. We wind our way through math, emotional outbursts, grammar, sibling rivalry, spelling, stomach grumbling, word roots, and lunch. When we're not watching March Madness, or Animal Planet (can you say Chimp Eden?), we've been watching a lot of cooking shows lately; Luke, in particular, has taken a real interest in the gourmet techniques he's watched, and it's sparked a willingness to cook, play with seasonings and sauces, roll out the chef lingo, and "plate" his food. Lunch, these days, has taken on new meanings. In fact, it's entered into our curriculum with a new flavor of competition and ambition, a Top Chef for the homeschooling set. And to great effect: lunches have been amazingly delicious and interesting. Much better than the usual leftovers.

Bellies full, we dig into our Inherited Traits project, using filters to explore connections between different traits within family sets. If your ring finger is longer than your pointer finger, does that mean you are more athletic? Do Damons really have thicker, crazier eyebrows? (yes) What does it really mean to be a ghost whisperer?

The nurse comes at 2. I like her so much. I will miss her when I'm healed up and my visits are done. And then, I'll have to go visit her, take her vitals, bring her chocolate. She's made a huge difference in my recovery. I am grateful.

Outside, in the afternoon, it's so soggy it feels like I'm in Scotland, or Wales, or England somewhere, and I've got my Wellies on and I'm taking the dog (a setter cross who happens to listen with much more attentiveness when I speak to her in a Scottish accent) over the moor to fetch tennis balls out of the woods. Daisy McMayhem! Stop yer barkin'! I threaten to write to the Dog Whisperer, with the same just-kidding tone that I use with the boys when I threaten them with Super Nanny. It works. The afternoon rain has washed away the morning's snow, and the ground sinks in and sprays wet with each step. I pocket two balls that I find amidst last fall's rotten, moldy, indistinguishable pears, and then, something red appears in the distance and catches my eye. At first I think that perhaps it is Daisy's Kong (or Bong, as my mother lovingly calls it), but then I see it has a long red handle and I do a little skip. The chuckit!! I've found the chuckit!! Hurrah, hurrah! We lost the chuckit in the fall, right before the first snow buried it and kept it hidden from us all winter long. The chuckit is a great invention; it's basically a really good arm--you tuck the tennis ball in its grip, wind up and heave-ho. The ball can go for miles. And when you've got a crazy Daisy girl like we do, and rotator cuffs like mine (shot to heck), and oh yes, a left side that's a bit compromised, it's a real savior. I spend the next twenty minutes tossing the ball all over the place; Daisy is ecstatic, and so am I: it's effortless, and doesn't put any strain on my sore left side, and finally, finally, I'm throwing like a girl no more. (actually, I don't know why I say that; I've still got a pretty good arm, mastectomy-induced girly sissy throw aside, and I am a girl, a girl under construction, but a girl nonetheless)

I do love how the snow melts and unearths all these treasures from the fall. Dead leaves and rotten pears aside. Tennis balls, golf balls, chuckits, dog toys, kid toys, and as ever, the lush bidding of life just pushing up through the surface--the crocuses, the buds and blossoms and beginnings of green, a return to energy, a plea for the surety of spring's healing warmth.

Tonight, I am feeling particularly grateful for the choices I've made since my diagnosis, and for the help I've had in making them. I know there will be more ahead, but I feel better equipped to deal with them than I ever imagined I would. Tomorrow, more cold raw wet is expected. Blimey. But for now, my blue light calls to me. Time to rest. I am so tired at the end of these days. My spirit waning, I am eager to fall into the depths of sleep, if it will have me. G'night.