Grind

On the road again...New York awaits.

That, of course, is a lie. New York waits for no one.

Four hours' sleep has me relaxed and dreamlike. Everything is at a slight remove. When I close my eyes I drift into Nod, but do not sleep. Fugue state.

It has been a hard week, since my last journey north for biopsy #2. The gut-punch impact of the procedure was manageable, but the pensive wait wore on me, grinding...grinding.

The usual themes dominated—fear, loneliness—yet they were eased by "getting shit done". Busy-ness breeds...I don't know...something...something that isn't moping or obsessing.

Who am I trying to kid? I kept busy out of sheer inertia. As long as I was moving forward, I wasn't dead. That was good enough for me.

When Did It Become October?

This all started the weekend before Labor Day.

Remember then? End-of-summer rituals, back-to-school, we all reveled in the final long days of summer. T'was a lifetime ago.

Process fuels the engine, powering time's millstone. One. Step. At. A. Time. One procedure after another. Another test. Another needle. Another appointment. Another phone call. Another fear...

I'm tired, and the nasties haven't even begun.

How's It Going?

My second biopsy was blissfully uneventful.

After a difficult, post-bowel-prep morning, I was in a dour mood, upon arriving at Sloan-Kettering. But once beyond the sacred doors that separate the waiting room from the sanctity of the working hospital, I was OK.

Sedation and I are becoming friends. This time, while in my happy place, I remember waking thrice during the procedure. Each time I raised my head and asked "how's it going?" with wild enthusiasm.

The third time, my good doctor said: "Dude, leave me alone. I'm working here!"

Now, it's possible that he said no such thing.

It's possible that my well-medicated brain made that up.

But I doubt it.

And I'm not crazy.

When they revived me and wheeled me out of the surgical theater, I enthusiastically inquired: "So, how'd it go? Did you get what you needed?"

The rolled-eye reaction and "Duh" response is my best evidence that yes, I was annoying, and yes, he called me dude.

Interminable

So my countdown began. One week to come to jeezus.

Every time my phone rang, I prayed that it wasn't a call from the 212. Nothing good could come of that. I didn't want to know anything until...today.

And here I sit clickityclacking away, chased by the pre-dawn stars, holding on.

Holding on.

What will be will be what will be.
I've got this.