I’m sitting at my desk in the basement of my parents house. Around me are piles of boxes, and piles of . . . of, well let’s call it stuff. Some of it looks useful, other bits feel random. Why did I ship the thermal socks with holes in the toes? Can’t really say why, except that it felt right at the time.
Happy labour day weekend to you. The leaves are starting to crunch and children are about to shuffle off to school. Tomorrow I have an appointment with my long-time GP to renew the Tamoxifen subscription. It kinda gives me butterflies.
You see, coming home I had – in a sense – wanted to forget all about the cancer. But tomorrow I have an appointment with my GP, and at the end of this month I meet with my oncologist for a little catch up and review. It seems no matter how far I travel the presence of this situation refuses to fade away. However, the tree outside our house is reassuring with it’s whishy, windy leaf-blown sounds . . . my family is near-by (though Dan’s about to take off to BC for three weeks – wish him luck as he treks through the mountains) and it’s nice to see them, Zsolt is cuddly as always . . . and I think, I think in a matter of days (like later in the week, maybe Friday) . . . the unpacking and the arranging will all settle down and I’ll be able to just write.
Write and work on Narrative Nipple. And meet with friends? That’d be lovely too.
So my point? My point is that despite the never-ending reality of ‘checking up on the fucking cancer to make sure it’s gone, dead, and over’ . . . it’s good to be home.
Very good to be home.