The day before tomorrow
My horoscope today says: "Give your mind a rest -- let your heart and soul be your guiding lights, especially when it comes to personal matters. Logic is great, but it's only part of being a well-rounded human being. Let your emotions speak too." I'd say they were psychic, if I didn't know any better - lol.
Yes, it's a tough day today, but someone has to live it. I have been living in a kind of twilight zone, knowing that the 'black soup' was coming (Hungarian euphamism for really bad times), but managing to keep my head above water and carrying on as if everything was normal.
Last night Jeannie K. took me to the Great Synagogue, the most amazing 19th century architectural gem hidden in the centre of Sydney, to hear the Chief Rabbi of Great Britain, Sir Jonathan Sacks, talk about how "To Heal a Fractured World", the title of his new book. What a great orator, and what a pity he didn't have anything insightful or wise to say. You can't fix all the ills of the world, he said, but you can do your best to do what is right in your own little circle and the ripple effects will be felt later - perhaps much later - but it will surely make a difference in the grand scheme of things.
Well, most of the people in the audience knew that bit of wisdom already. I saw many, many people there, who spend a lot of time and effort doing positive social action, or work in other ways for Tikkun Olam (repairing the world). Surely the Chief Rabbi could have elaborated just one little bit, step out of the square for just a few inches and minutes.......
OK, I digress. Not the first time. So, back to the cancer hole!
Yesterday I went to meet the radiologist, Dr S.P., who will be responsible for the radiation therapy, if that's what I am to have as the icing on the cake, as it were, at the end of all the other therapies. She is wonderful, and I am now happy with the 'team'.
She kept looking at my breast, looking for 'the scars', and that's when I came to realise just how bloody brilliant Dr. A.S. really is. Apparently, most surgeons do a second cut under the armpit to take out all the lymph nodes, but my golden boy did it all through one, not so large aperture in my ample bosom, and that is probably why I am recovering so well. God bless you sir, if you ever read this blog.
Today the expected call came from Prof. M.T. His voice was correct and distancing, making me instantly alert to analysing nuances of meaning. "We have examined all the scans and are ready to discuss our recommendation for treatment. Can you come and see me tomorrow," he said and my stomach instantly went into a Gordian knot of pain, making it hard to focus on what was being said.
"I have an appointment to see Dr. A.S. at 1:45pm," I breathed down the line, as if that could somehow delay the inevitable encounter. "Oh, then can you please call this number and make an appointment to see me before."
The light went dark in the kitchen, the tears fell, bringing no relief from the fear the sound of this man's voice evoked in me. I have heard this tone before, when the other doctors prepared themselves to tell me the bad news: 'you have cancer', 'it's in the lymph nodes'. Is he going to tell me that it's gone into the major organs as well?
I am alone and Freddie the lion, perched quietly on the piano, is of no help at all. I call my cousin Anna in Melbourne, she is used to my tears. But it seems that Suky, who is visiting her daughter Tess in South Carolina from London, has gotten on my psychic channel, feels my pain and calls with words of wisdom. I calm down and the light is turned on again.
I am probably making a mountain out of a molehill, but what, with the 50th anniversary of my father's death, the revolution and our escape (the beginning of my 16 year track as a stateless person), a bit of rare cancer (that's another story) is just a tad too much to bear.
I wish I was a little girl. I wish my mother and father were here to take away the fear and uncertainty. But they are not, so I guess I just have to pull myself up and let my family and friends hold out their strong shoulders for me to cry on. Thank God, you are there guys! I need you a lot and appreciate everything you are doing for and with me. What a balagan (mess)!
Yes, it's a tough day today, but someone has to live it. I have been living in a kind of twilight zone, knowing that the 'black soup' was coming (Hungarian euphamism for really bad times), but managing to keep my head above water and carrying on as if everything was normal.
Last night Jeannie K. took me to the Great Synagogue, the most amazing 19th century architectural gem hidden in the centre of Sydney, to hear the Chief Rabbi of Great Britain, Sir Jonathan Sacks, talk about how "To Heal a Fractured World", the title of his new book. What a great orator, and what a pity he didn't have anything insightful or wise to say. You can't fix all the ills of the world, he said, but you can do your best to do what is right in your own little circle and the ripple effects will be felt later - perhaps much later - but it will surely make a difference in the grand scheme of things.
Well, most of the people in the audience knew that bit of wisdom already. I saw many, many people there, who spend a lot of time and effort doing positive social action, or work in other ways for Tikkun Olam (repairing the world). Surely the Chief Rabbi could have elaborated just one little bit, step out of the square for just a few inches and minutes.......OK, I digress. Not the first time. So, back to the cancer hole!
Yesterday I went to meet the radiologist, Dr S.P., who will be responsible for the radiation therapy, if that's what I am to have as the icing on the cake, as it were, at the end of all the other therapies. She is wonderful, and I am now happy with the 'team'.
She kept looking at my breast, looking for 'the scars', and that's when I came to realise just how bloody brilliant Dr. A.S. really is. Apparently, most surgeons do a second cut under the armpit to take out all the lymph nodes, but my golden boy did it all through one, not so large aperture in my ample bosom, and that is probably why I am recovering so well. God bless you sir, if you ever read this blog.
Today the expected call came from Prof. M.T. His voice was correct and distancing, making me instantly alert to analysing nuances of meaning. "We have examined all the scans and are ready to discuss our recommendation for treatment. Can you come and see me tomorrow," he said and my stomach instantly went into a Gordian knot of pain, making it hard to focus on what was being said.
"I have an appointment to see Dr. A.S. at 1:45pm," I breathed down the line, as if that could somehow delay the inevitable encounter. "Oh, then can you please call this number and make an appointment to see me before."
The light went dark in the kitchen, the tears fell, bringing no relief from the fear the sound of this man's voice evoked in me. I have heard this tone before, when the other doctors prepared themselves to tell me the bad news: 'you have cancer', 'it's in the lymph nodes'. Is he going to tell me that it's gone into the major organs as well?
I am alone and Freddie the lion, perched quietly on the piano, is of no help at all. I call my cousin Anna in Melbourne, she is used to my tears. But it seems that Suky, who is visiting her daughter Tess in South Carolina from London, has gotten on my psychic channel, feels my pain and calls with words of wisdom. I calm down and the light is turned on again.
I am probably making a mountain out of a molehill, but what, with the 50th anniversary of my father's death, the revolution and our escape (the beginning of my 16 year track as a stateless person), a bit of rare cancer (that's another story) is just a tad too much to bear.
I wish I was a little girl. I wish my mother and father were here to take away the fear and uncertainty. But they are not, so I guess I just have to pull myself up and let my family and friends hold out their strong shoulders for me to cry on. Thank God, you are there guys! I need you a lot and appreciate everything you are doing for and with me. What a balagan (mess)!
posted by Unknown at 1:53 PM
1 Comments:
Very moving stuff, & I will be thinking about you tomorrow. I will do as a friend in Tassie used to say and "send Him a rocket" for you.
Your previous posts about your family and history are definitely publishable - do something with your memories when this is all over
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