Colds, Cancer and Butter Tarts

The words came as a relief. It was like being an a jet to a foreign land and getting cleared for take-off, after engine problems.

As long as I don’t develop a fever between today and Monday, get that scalper ready.

Am I looking forward to the procedure, to getting a piece of myself, removed? I have only thought about the physical aspect, a little. The thought of it makes me crunch up the left side of my mouth and nose. I can’t do that with the right side of my face. Try it. See if you can twist each side. I can’t even wink my right eye.

Sorry about that interlude. I just found myself sitting her making faces.

At this point, because what I am having done, is minor, in the repertoire of what surgeries are done to remove cancer, aka, the gremlins, I have focused on just getting the bad stuff out and moving on to the net part of this Cancerland ceremony.

Women go through so much more than what I am dealing with. Many women face surgeries that alter their bodies, face questions of if they will live, or if they will see their children grow up, and if their new appearance will change their relationship, and much more.

So I have no complaints on my diagnosis.

But, here is the thing.

Waiting is a killer. I am not a necessarily patient person. I like to take action and march on.

Well, that laugh is on me.

The last few weeks have been a Toad. As I told Nick, a few times … it isn’t the cancer … it is the COLD.

And add a COLD to your little jaunt through Cancerland, and you can get one wacky broad.

You could have called both Nick and I, Phlegm, and we wouldn’t have been able to argue. You know when you get sick and talking takes too much energy?

I will spare you the details of the last few weeks. Although, if I had the energy, I could make it funny. But I don’t.

It is amazing how your brain, or at least, my brain, doesn’t function well when sick.

I can’t see the forest through the cantaloupes. Doom and gloom prevail. I am quite pathetic. That is ok for an hour or so, but when you aren’t yourself for a few weeks, holy nutmegballs, even you don’t want to be yourself, because the sickness and phlegm coughing have taken you apart like thought by thought, hope by hope, and left you are left as a bucket of human debris.

Yep, you don’t want me getting sick.

And add that to this self-imposed stress of getting well so they can cut the beef stew-sized piece of you, the stuff that now, you aren’t even bothered by, and you have a casserole of confusion and that lovely thought of will life ever be good, again?

Yes, be glad that I wasn’t writing.

But yesterday, after watching a season of Ann Olson, a pastry chef, teach baking techniques, I got off, I made my way to the kitchen and made Butter Tarts.

That was a good sign. And they were dynamite.

I think the antibiotic has kicked in or the Dottie’s have decided to slowly vacate my body. And I mean slowly.

But this morning, I woke up and, though still congested, I feel a bit like myself. I feel life. I feel hope and that health will return and that I can concur a cold, cancer and the Butter Tart.

Now, excuse me. I have to blow my nose.



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