41 is not mid-forties

I've never been comfortable being the center of attention. I'd just as well stand on the side and chat about what's happening over there in the spotlight. Okay, maybe, some not mean spirited gossiping from the side. But definitely the side.

So that combined with all my cancer-driven mortality angst and the natural reflections that come with a birthday ... I don't even know how to describe it... make for an intense couple of days.

Plus I have a right ankle that aches. I have nausea. I have fatigue. Signs of my age. Or signs of the crazy year. Or signs of progression. Hard to know. Especially, if you are like me and disinclined to ask.

Happy Birthday. I smile, say thank you, change the subject, count how many days in a row of pain or nausea or fatigue (hundreds) and wonder whether to check in with the doctors.

But this is all me and my crazy.  My birthday was lovely. Beautiful, funny, ridiculous cards. Lots of Caps shout-outs and a game seven win. A visit from New Hampshire. So many texts and calls and checkins from friends. Fruit baskets, banana bread, little bouquets from the garden, little gifties dropped by the front door, cookies made by the boys, brunch with family, dinner and movie date with Jim.

Ian whispers the sweetest Happy Birthday, Momma. Miles pouts and refuses to yield his birthday celebration to mine, telling his brother, Happy Birthday, Miles. Everyone gobbles up dessert. Jim grapples with the unvarnished family birthday experience - early, mediocre family dinner, homemade desserts, kid cards, bad family photos, crying and whining galore. What's not to love?  I can't wait for sticky-icky, Mother's Day breakfast in bed....

Having cancer helps you remember what matters. Not was dinner on time, delicious, orderly, pleasant, without a discussion of poop, but was there dinner and did you make time to enjoy it?  It seems that's what makes the memories.

This week has been hard but you gave me a handful of small moments, subtle kindnesses, and sly, shared smiles that helped me enjoy it.

Only two days in, but so far the best thing about 41 is that it is cancer-free. Assuming my ankle, nausea and fatigue are nothing of consequence, I plan to spend the next few weeks before the next cancer check with my family, at work some, exercising and thinking about what I want my next year to look like.

Some have inquired about the hair.  Nothing to report except I still prefer bald to brown and as the result of some fluke of radiation physics, I'm a dead ringer from Marcin Gortat. Lucky girl.

Pace. Fidget. Try not to snap.

Ironically, and I believe this is the correct use of ironically, late stage cancer has given me the gift of time.  I have slower days. I have mornings with my kids. I pick up Miles from school more often. I cook dinner on occasion.  Not well.  And I still much prefer to be cooked for, but I knock around in the kitchen some.  Tonight, I grilled tofu and vegetables. Jim cleaned the kitchen and ordered in.

Some of the slower days are harder. Today, I found myself sitting on my back porch, watching the rain, biting my nails and actively not thinking about anything.  Jim and I went for a walk this morning. He explained he wasn't talking to avoid upsetting me.  Yes, I nodded.  There is nothing to say.  Scans yesterday.  Results later today. Pace. Fidget. Try not to snap.

I was always a little superstitious.  Working in sports cemented it. In 2000, when I sat for the bar in the fine Commonwealth of Virginia, all applicants were required to take the examination in suits (no pants for women!).  I snuck in a little of my marginal defiance to boost my confidence. Under my navy Ann Taylor suit, I wore a gift from a friend - a sparkly superman T-shirt. Look at that. I passed.

A few weeks after the brain surgery, a friend sent me a super-Kelly t-shirt to help kick cancer's ass. I bet Jim, who spent the day with me, doesn't even know I wore it today.  Look at that. Two for two.

Tests were substantially clear. I say substantially because they always say something to the effect of "we aren't really worried about your ankle."  Why are you talking about my ankle then?

After the news, Jim asked how I felt.  I feel emotionally exhausted without any resolution. It's hard to adjust to our reality of wait and see is the best news we can get. It doesn't feel bad, but it sure doesn't feel good either.

This cold, hard day ended with two moments of light. First, I bumped into a neighbor who has been so supportive during my journey.  She had recently been diagnosed and was battling cancer. What a tenacious beast cancer is. But I love a friend in the fight and look forward to helping her on her path.

Second, what could be more precious?  After putting Ian back to bed his crib twice, I relented and rocked him to sleep.  The weight of his body when I pulled him into my lap.  His sweaty, chubby arms thrown around me. His little pant on my neck. His sweet smell. Me savoring, knowing there was nowhere we'd rather be.  God, what a gift.

Four weeks later

I continue to appreciate, rely on and draw strength from your support. I am quiet because ... I am quiet these days.

I remember last spring.  Everyone outside, enjoying life. While I trudged back and forth to chemo. Before surgery. Before radiation. What a hell of a year I've had.

This spring is better than last.

We took a trip to Puerto Rico last week.  We had time together.  We played. Relaxed. Laughed some.

Miles' fifth birthday was so joyful.  So hard. Just impossible to think about not being here for six.  Could my boys not know my mannerisms?  Not hear me and see me in their own everyday actions. It can still be so staggeringly hard.

Physically, I feel good. Rested after radiation. Clear. Strong.

Got my footing and this week we restart the game.  Is it here?  Is it there?  Can I relax for a month?  Two?  Am I back into the fray?

The unreal is my real.