Like a Slate

"Here we are on the last page." (Amy Pond, Doctor Who.)

I've come a long way in six weeks. I feel healed, though not completely recovered. There are pains that skim along the edges of the places that were cut, cauterized, or skeletonized. I still need to rest more than to be active. My body is still working its way through surgical menopause. There are hot flashes that come and go, without warning. There are occasional night sweats, though I always had those. I cry at some of the most ordinary things. Sleep is an even bigger battle than it was previously.

The college financial aid website forms have all been filled out. Once I get through this snag in my own finances while waiting for short term disability to be fulfilled, I will make the calls to have my transcripts released. Then I will arrange to discuss with some school or other why my transcripts from 25 years ago were so messy. I will return to school. I don't know what I'll do. There is only a little time left, now. Not as much as I once had. Yet I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up.

My body feels sturdy, again. I might not be fully healed, but I feel like it's going to be far better than it has been, in years. My brain seems to be healing, too. The potholes where memories and abilities were falling have filled back in. There is loss still bringing me pain, though. The loss of time is the worst. I'd really like to start over again, now. Instead, I can only pick up where I left off, and try to fix what I have. Like trying to fix the tinted window done by a novice. There are too many bubbles. My life will never look smooth and attractive. I can only hope to minimize what I've done.

My slate is stained. Yet I clean and erase it, again. Ever an optimist, no matter how much I pretend to be a pessimist.