Normal-ish

This is probably a better response than “fine” when people ask, “how are you doing?” Everything feels normal…ish. I have been back at work since last Monday, but have been out several mornings and afternoons for doctors’ appointments. I am on the phone and in meetings with candidates and clients as usual during the day, but in between I may hear from the genetic counselor or the fertility nurse about the progress of my test or dosage adjustments. My nighttime routine now includes injecting my thigh with follicle stimulating drugs in addition to the standard “brush teeth/wash face/remove contact lenses” sequence.

Michael took me for sushi at the glamorous restaurant Koi on Thursday, but anyone listening in would have found the romantic tableau somewhat marred by the discussion of chemotherapy options. He teased me over dinner at home last week that the reason our friend Jacob is staying at a hotel instead of with us on his visit to New York from London is because I have "the lurgy," but later that night he looked at me teary-eyed and confessed that he had been hopeful the biopsy results would come back negative, that the doctor would apologize that this had all been a terrible mistake.

My friends have rallied with invitations to gallery openings, scary movie nights, Tia Pol for tapas, and Halloween street parties, and the hugs we give each other upon arrival are longer, more comforting. Phone calls with my mother still include discussions of Thanksgiving plans, but we spend more time on the roll call of people we have heard from, the generous things they have done and said.

It struck me the other day that even though the worst of the chemotherapy and surgery will be over by springtime, my life has changed forever. I am no longer the girl who can go for her pap smear and call it a year. I can no longer tick the “No” box on all the doctors’ forms. I can’t blithely assume that an enlarged node under my arm is due to a cut from shaving. I will be monitored and studied and hovered over by my family, my doctors and myself for the rest of my life. With apologies to Diana Vreeland, “abnormal is the new normal.”

But given that it’s only been two and a half weeks, I am comforted by the fact that I am over the shock and adjusting to the changes and not hiding under the covers refusing to accept reality or take charge of my life. Although I may never again experience “normal,” I am already grateful for “normal-ish.”