THREE WEEKS

Nurse Selinda calls later in the afternoon. "You're all set for Madison, your appointment is with Dr. Kushner at 1:00 on Wednesday, August 22nd." I thank her politely, hang up the phone, and explode into Dayton's office.

"THREE WEEKS!!!! I DON'T SEE THE SURGEON FOR THREE MORE WEEKS!!!! WHAT AM I GOING TO DO FOR THREE MORE WEEKS?????"

After railing at him, I send out a polite email to my mom telling her about the date, then the following to my friends:

OK, now I'm pissed, the first available appointment for the specialist is August 22nd. THREE BLOODY WEEKS AWAY????????????

Yes, I know this means the cancer is not growing fast I know this means it really is good news...

BUT 3 WEEKS????????

And if they do surgery the week after, there goes Fox Valley Festival. And Centre East Showcase. And Premiere Showcase. And my September shows, and probably most of my October shows, too.

DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN....

Minutes later, the phone rings, and a ladylike voice with that distinctive east coast accent repeats, "DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN!"

Karen allows me to vent, then laughs me into a good mood. "I've never heard you use such language," she chortles at one point. It helps to just dump my messy emotions on her. Maybe it's not fair to her, but I needed it.

I try to reclaim my positive attitude for the rest of the evening, but I'm depressed. Three more weeks of pain - sure it's been mild, but still. Unfortunately, another super cramp seizes me during the night. Dayton tries to prop me up against the headboard, but I can't sit, he tries to get me up to walk, but I can't stand, I just collapse into a heap. This is getting so old. It's an hour before I crawl back into bed and sleep again. And this is with the Vicidin. Three more weeks. I can do this - maybe.