It's time.

     I almost didn't make it out the door with A to get her to kindergarten on time this morning. Woke up (to the cat crying) feeling very puny. A was in bed with me, snoring away. My sister and I took her to the political gathering last night, where she was a big hit and I didn't say anything too terribly vapid, then we all came home and my sister and I drank wine on the bed while A tried to settle down. Needless to say, we were up late. Anyway, I didn't want to wake up A any earlier than necessary this morning. 

     M is off being corporate for a couple of days, but he's almost always the one who gets her off to school. They have their quiet morning routine. When I do it I invariably feel like I'm blumbling through the whole process. Really, A is such an easy child; drop a coin in her slot and she just goes, does what she needs to do, finds her shoes, brushes her hair, puts together reasonable outfits, figures out her own snack, etc. It's like having a roommate who's three feet tall and says adorable things. I'm the one pulling wrinkled shirts from the bottom of the pile, wondering if microwaved coffee from the bottom of yesterday's pot still contains enough caffeine to propel me the three blocks to the elementary school, and marching into the building as though I know exactly where I'm going, when in fact we're all supposed to wait outside until the first bell rings. 

     But there was an additional worry this morning, which I blame entirely for all the stumbling around -- I blame the Republicans, too, while I'm at it -- and that is the queasiness, the dull but distinct ache deep in my belly that is more apparent than it was even a week ago. I felt pretty good two days ago, I think, so I'd better follow the same routine of a huge triple-strength espresso and a granola muffin for lunch. As if my eating habits are causing the trouble. (I mean, I know they're not helping, but having a bowl of buttery pasta at ten o'clock last night did not this pain in the belly make.)

     Before my sister left last night, I told her I am going to call Dr. J today and tell him it's time; try to get some kind of treatment going next week. Some kind of chemotherapy. And while I revolt against the notion of another surgery, I'll take it if that's the best option. I'm still so very, very scared he will tell me there's not a lot they can do, and to keep eating the hydrocodone to mitigate pain until it doesn't work anymore and we'll switch to Fentanyl which will make me comfortable and out-of-my-mind sleepy, and I'll just become groggier and less with it and will miss fucking everything: A and M, writing a novel, writing poems, writing stories, reading. Impossible to read in that condition. That condition being disease progression.

     Anyway, I am sucking up strength today from wherever I can get it. M is in a different time zone and won't be home until late tonight. I'm going to call my sister, or my friend/therapist Amy before I call Dr. J. But first I'm drinking coffee (brewed, not nuked) and reading Huffington Post. (See, I had the presence of mind to make a linky-thing there, not too bad.)