Terrified by O'Henry

It's time for more blood work (I've really started to love the sound of that), so I'm seeing my oncologist today. I can't stand that guy, but what with the rescheduling of the rescheduled scheduled nipple reconstruction, I haven't gotten around to finding a new one. Okay. It was also because I always, always avoid thinking about breast cancer, if at all possible. So I've procrastinated.

Before I was diagnosed, I never procrastinated. It's not a thing that comes naturally to me and it used to make me anxious. In the past two years, I have become a pro. I am a world class procrastinator. Make a hotel reservation in Houston? I wait until the week before the appointment, even if the Houston Live Stock Show and Rodeo are imminent. Talk with M.D. Anderson about changing physician notification? I've been "meaning" to do it for about six months now. That, my friends, is an accomplishment. I find I've topped myself. Not locating a palatable oncologist wins me the gold (thanks, Mitt) in the Olympic Procrastination event.

I've been coping with my anxiety by being giddy all day. I've been a source of great amusement to all of the denizens of Crazy Land. They wish I could have Oncology Day every day. Hilarity abounds. We had a birthday celebration today and I was absolutely manic. Not to take credit or anything, but I laughed at everyone's jokes, encouraged their camaraderie and spread love as if it were high grade margarine. It was a remarkably festive event. Oh for the days of Little Miss Sunshine, when I was willing to put in that kind of effort every day.

Yesterday, Crazy Employee and I rescued a couple of puppies from our next door neighbor. Lillian has allowed her two dogs to repopulate the entire neighborhood and she's been doing a mighty fine job of reproducing herself. Luckily, other people rescue her human offspring. The puppies and I had an immediate Love Connection the likes of which even Chuck Woolery would be impressed.

I'd love to share with you why I'm so exhausted. I've started keeping track of my physical fitness work every day. Yesterday, after reviewing all the work I've done in the past three days, it was clear to me why I drag myself out of bed every morning feeling like I've been run over.

I've had a dream two nights in a row. I've just started the new year in high school, have been assigned a homeroom and a locker. I've also been assigned the topic for my senior honors English class thesis. It's O'Henry...I think. I get sick after the first day of school and I'm absent a long time. When I go back, I'm anxious about finding my homeroom again. The worst part is that I can't remember if it's actually O'Henry who's supposed to be the subject of this enormous project. I frantically try to write a paper in an hour that was supposed to take all semester. While I'm writing it, though, I'm thinking, "Why O'Henry? I hate O'Henry. Surely that can't be right." I wake up drenched in sweat.

I may be the only person I've ever known who's found herself terrified by thought of William Sydney Porter.