I was thinking this morning as I took the dog to the park and almost felt like a normal person that, yes, I actually am feeling a bit better. Haven't thrown up in a few days, don't feel quite as light headed, haven't lost anymore weight (a subject to be discussed later) BUT, and there's always a but, isn't there...BUT, for the first time in my grown up life I don't actually have any plans until the end of the year. What I'm saying is, the better I feel, the more I realize that at this moment in time I don't seem to have any identity. Who am I right now? You know how you get up and go to work or take your kid to school or maybe you're in a theater company, as I was once, and you spend all day thinking the next play you're going to do. Well now, at this moment, I guess I am a convalescor ( a word I believe I made up). I am a person who is spending most of their waking hours just getting better. But the more conscience I become the more anxious I get about what I'm actually going to do once I'm completely well. And this is what makes me even more neurotic, if that's possible, and that's the notion that what I have to do, of course, is write something. And I think that's why I was relaxed and calm in the hospital and all through chemo because I could give myself a break and not write anything except my blog. I could put off that novel and that play and all the things that I want to do more than anything but as I get better my excuses fall by the wayside. The little conscience on my shoulder is starting to talk to me again.
"Trish, what are you waiting for? Time is of the essence here. You've got to sit down everyday and turn out those pages, you lazy bum."
"I'm not lazy. I'm sick. I have (had) cancer, for God's sake."
"Oh please. You're not really sick anymore. You walk, you go to the store. Come on! Get off your lazy ass and write that...That...Book, or whatever."
"See! That's the problem. What am I writing? A book? A whatever? I have no idea what to write. A play? A one person show? WHAT SHOULD I WRITE?"
"Just make a decision and write it? You're not twenty, you know."
"I hate you...Hello?...Hello?..."
Okay, now that I'm alone again I can talk about weight which I know I've hit on before but isn't it a subject that never gets old? I remember now why I never had a scale. Because they drive you crazy! I have not lost a pound since I've been home and that is exactly what should be happening. But something is not right. I'm hardly eating a thing. Oh yeah, a spoonful of peanut butter, a teaspoonful at that. Some cheese. A bit of fish. A papaya. That is a day's worth of food. Shouldn't I look like Kate Moss? I guess that would mean I'd have to grow a bit taller but isn't this weird? I know this is going to sound crazy but yesterday I was walking towards the scale and I SWEAR I saw it change it's base weight to be up a couple pounds. The scale was playing a mind game with me. I'm telling you, they're alive. The scales have a mind of their own. Every time I walk past him I feel him staring up at me and...Laughing. Yes, laughing...And no, I am not losing my mind.
"Trish, that's insane."
"You know, I'm not talking to you anymore. You are just a downer"
"And by the way, nobody wants to know about your issues with the scale. They just read this stupid blog to find out about DeNiro."
"Oh, come on. My friends are much more compassionate than that."
You know, maybe I'm not quite as well as I thought I was. Maybe I should relax and give myself more time to mend. Yes, that's what I'm going to do. Put off that novel just a few more days...Weeks...I've got to get my strength back. Then I'll remember who I am. What I was. What I was doing before all of this started. Right now I'm watching a spider crawl along the top of my moniter. I think he's making eye contact.
I think I need a plan.........................