My body is ghostly, hardly touching. The missing breast is both wounded and healing. What is left is my white skin and the stretch marks from nursing like a gift I get to keep, after all. The diagonal blue scar in all its ugliness still seems like a clock. It is mending and it is ticking. My life is on hold for now, but it will need tending.
Grief is like a filmy gray scarf, just brushing me lightly. The blue birds are actually black and wild, and they tend me as I rest. They offer me blue, and I think of the bluebird of happiness. They know I need blue, but I need their wildness too, like medicine.
I am resting, I am quiet. The clock ticks and wait for the day when I fly.
Today is February 26, 2017. Thirteen days ago I had a mastectomy of the right breast. I am healing but it seems like a very long process. Some days I hurt enough to take pain medication, some days I think I can clean the entire house. Well I cannot, it doesn’t matter who is coming over to see me. The house has to wait.
Sadness darts in and out of my consciousness. The clouds outside are wet and dark. Then I look closely at my blue glazed China pots, and spring is in full swing. All of the bulbs I planted last November are banging out of the ground. The early crocus are blooming yellow and purple. The incorrigible fruit trees are blooming. Pussy willows.
I go outdoors no matter what. My golden dog approves. My paints beckon me. Who cares if my body is shaky – I might get an interesting effect. Who knows?
It is just about spring and slowly day by day my creative life sort of reels me in. My cancer free future comes into focus, fades a bit, focuses again.
There is no way to hurry this natural healing process. “Healing has its own schedule,” says my mother.