I nearly added a wee bit about underwater basket weaving to the title, but figured that one can only push the Title Police’s patience so far before something vital starts to bleed in regrettable ways. Speaking of wild tangents… if you are visiting for the poetry alone, just skip… skip… skip… skip… skip... to the thinner-tanka.
So, I’m done with chemo and radiation. And I have a couple of weeks before I must start hormone therapy and regular lymphedema therapy. I plan to use that time for, well… planning. I will also make lists, lots and lots and lots of lovely lists: a fixing my blog list, an unpublishing-and-rewriting-and-republishing my shorts list, a plants-I-must-grow this year list (like I said, lots and lots of lists).
Next week, I shall start outlining the cancer book. I know I’ve said that I should stop calling it the cancer book. But... since dear Dumbledore said that “Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself”, I will continue calling it the cancer book. It might not be the book’s true name, but that’s exactly what it is: a cancer book, through my heart and eyeballs. Yes, m’ Luvs, I’ll share progress notes as I write.
Cancer treatment left me with 21 extra-pounds of chunkaliciousness. As soon as my chest wall stops looking like it was kissed by the sun (on a day the latter was feeling particularly frisky), I’ll start working on tightening my sexy flesh. I want my strong legs back. No, I do not need to get my sexy back, Mr. Timberlake, my sexy never left. I just want to be able to do 39+3 well executed push-ups without huffing and puffing, or very likely forcing a sweet Little trio of fairy-told Pigs to squeal, “Does Wolf(y) need her inhaler? Does Wolf(y) need a piggyback ride?”
All this translates to… me boring you to tears (and, perhaps, rather uncomfortable giggles) with prose bits (like this post), and poem bits (like the ones that will soon follow), and short stories (like this one), and pictures (like the one accompanying this entry). Because, well… my dear muse and I prefer to ink (tales) and melt (fat) while friends are watching. Hm, that sounded a lot less creepy in my head.
My hands and feet are still being tortured by neuropathy, but I’m alive. And while I’m alive (and grinning with lots of teeth), the rest is minutiae… (plus list making, let’s not forget the lists, lots and lots of lovely lists).
a thinner-tanka for Wordy Wednesday With Wild Woman: Natural WondersIn my bones,
the darkest of reds
scream of taint,
but nature’s green will
always chant me clean.