Well then

Plot twist!

As promised, my final chemotherapy treatment was on Monday and so to celebrate I broke my ankle on Tuesday.

I had spent a chunk of Sunday working on an essay that wasn’t so much about cancer as it was about nostalgia, icons, and the ahistorical cycle of discovery that is the driving force of Twitter. It was one of those ideas that had lodged in the window of my mind, sucking up all the sunshine and blocking all other ideas from bloom. I thought that once I got it out of the way I’d be able to move forward with some other thoughts, but — not today! Perhaps next week.

In the meantime, the facts: I am fine. I lost my balance, slipped on the stairs, and fractured my fibula. It was scary, and hurt like balls at the time, but after five hours in the ER and a trip to the orthopedist today, I’m just looking at six weeks in a boot, no surgery or any other intervention. It could have been a lot worse.

Why did I slip? Who knows. Chemo-induced anemia makes me dizzy. My shoe was a little wet. My feet went out from under and the next thing I knew I was crashing down. The very nice guys who had just delivered our new dishwasher — a long-delayed wedding present — heard me scream, came running back up the stairs, and carried me into the apartment. They even called two hours later to see if I was OK. Four stars, Lowe’s delivery guys.

Here’s where I guess one would insert the lesson: you never know where your story is going, right? I was happy, on Monday, to be done with chemo — even though “done” with the treatment still didn’t mean done with the aftereffects, which will last another week or two still. But I had turned a corner and, with the results of a bunch of new imaging showing the mass in my breast essentially dissolved, and my lymph nodes back to normal size, I was feeling good. Like the past four months of exhaustion, muscle loss, nausea, and digestive distress have been worth it. I still have surgery, and radiation, and another span of various therapies to look forward to in the coming months but the worst was behind me, everyone said.

And yet, I’m still scared. I haven’t talked much about fear. I haven’t let myself. But the fear that the cancer cannot be contained is never that far at bay, wildfire smoke, just over the horizon. We’re not supposed to get dramatic about this. Breast cancer treatment in particular has been honed to a diamond-sharp science in recent years; outcomes are good. Friends tell me stories of so-and-so, who only took a week off for her lumpectomy, or what’s-her-name, who didn’t even have to have radiation. No big deal!

But ever since I sat in that consulting room, expecting the standard “we caught it early” spiel and was confused by words like “lymph node spread” instead, my feet flying out from under as I tumbled down the stairs, I have been scared. It’s a cold, quiet fear that just sits with me, as I scan the test results and nod while the doctors tell me how great I’m doing and how they’re optimistic for a “pathologic complete response.”

Because, I don’t honestly know what happens next. Nobody does! I do know that it might not be tidy and as I clomp around in this big ugly boot it definitely won’t be graceful. Lesson learned. My acupuncturist — herself a year out from breast cancer treatment — said today that her experience already feels like a distant memory, and I’m holding out for that day, when it does come, and my feet are back on solid ground.