Disassembly of Reason

PSA RE: (1) Survivialism/Survivalist (2) Cancer Survivorship Program

. . . on account of I'm tired of answering the question "What is a Survivalist?"

Those who have been with me for a little while know that back in 2020, I was diagnosed with cancer and had my left breast removed. Just about a month ago, after about 5.5 years, my surgeon declared me "cancer free," and cut me loose from her care.

This makes me a Cancer Survivor (also, apparently, "a warrior"; make of that what you will).

At the Lafayette Cancer Center in Brewer, Maine, when one has achieved 5 years cancer-free, one is given over to the Survivorship Program, which files under Oncology.

The head of the Survivorship program has been called in my hearing the "Survivalist." At the Lafayette Cancer Center, this person is a Certified Nurse Practitioner; there is also a Nurse Navigator attached to the program, and of course the backing of the entire Oncology Department.

The mission of the Survivorship Program is to provide education and support to help cancer survivors maximize their health and quality of life after having had cancer and treatment for cancer. The program is individualized, and covers such things as a yearly examination -- physical, mental, and emotional -- referrals to other specialists sometimes needed by surviving warriors, such as psychiatrists or nutritionists; connections to social services, and support groups. Advice about diet, exercise, and all those other tiresome things is available.

The Survivorship Program also keeps track of my mammograms and orders the next one for me; and is just another cord in what is, in Central and Northern Maine, at least, a Very Thin social health network.

You now know everything I know about Survivalists, Survivorship, and Survivalism.

Here ends your PSA. We now return you to your irregularly scheduled flights of fancy.
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Managed to trim +/- 2,000 words from a section of the WIP which probably needs to lose some more words. There's an "obvious" bit that I can rip out that will lose me another 500 words, but I'm ... reluctant to do that. It's more than I just like the bit (though I do, and "kill your darlings" is not Eternal Wisdom, so nobody go there, 'k?), so the bit gets to stay.

For Now.

Did a little bit of house straightening this afternoon and will shortly be heading out in the Stygian Darkness of 4:30 pm to go to needlework.

Tomorrow will be writing in the morning, some more straightening of the house, and a bit of playing with glass.

I'll say goodnight for now, and see y'all tomorrow.

Stay safe.

Here, have a picture of Rookie overseeing my shoddy impersonation of a working writer:

Monday. Bright and cold.

Breakfast was two eggs scrambled with leftover cauliflower and broccoli, with sausage, and a piece of whole wheat toast. A Big breakfast, but it's a biggish morning.

Trash and recycling are in the garage, preparing themselves for tomorrow's journey to the curb. Dishwasher is doing its thing. Cats suspect that Something Is Up.

I'll be getting on the road to the cancer center and my chat with the Survivalist as soon as I finish my second mug of tea. I'll be early, but I don't have Steve's genius for split-second timing, so better early than late.

I'm having a lot of fun with the Thursday Murder Club, and having never seen the show, only read complaints about how it "did not live up" to the books, despite the excellent cast -- I have Some Thoughts About that.

The voice of the book -- aka "the narrator" -- is hysterical and unless the show (again, never seen it) has a voice over telling you what, oh, Ian's thinking, and how he's thinking it, viewers are missing an important facet of the story, and expecting the actors to carry the whole weight themselves isn't really fair.

. . . and that's my second mug empty, so I'm off.

I hope everyone's having a good morning. I'll see you on the flip side.

Back, having gone the long way home -- through Bar Harbor. I had somehow expected the town to be open. I mean, people live on the island. To be fair, some things were open, for instance the Village Green Cafe, where I got my lunch (grilled ham and cheddar on multigrain with blueberry ice tea), but I hadn't expected the relative emptiness.

Also, I had not come dressed for ocean-side chill, so my window shopping was limited. However, I'm glad I did not just go Straight Home like a Good Do-Bee. And, besides, I need to keep in practice with driving longish distances (that was, eh, 220 miles on the day). She said virtuously.

The Survivalist is a dream. We have a yearly check-in plan in place, as well as an agreement that I may call upon her for various things, and reassurance that I had NOT screwed up by wearing my compression gloves when my hands hurt. And I got points for asking a good question.

I believe I have all my Stuff for Thursday in-house (well, except flowers. I forgot flowers. Oh, well.), so that's good. I haven't gotten a wreath, either, because I just can't make myself buy a wreath before Thanksgiving. It's just ... wrong.

The cats inform me that I missed three -- or possibly four -- check-ins today and that they are not disposed to be lenient. I was immediately tasked with rubbing Tali's ears, and scrubbling Rook's belly, and picking up Firefly for an All-Grown-Up Hug. I draw the line, however, at moving Happy Hour up by an hour and a half.

What did y'all do today?

Today's blog post title comes from The Eagles, "Seven Bridges Road," which I can never resist singing along with the acapella parts, though I really ought to always resist singing.

Didn't get as much done today as I had wanted, mostly because my hands hurt. I actually stopped working at one point, heated up the ol' therapy mittens and watched a bread episode of the Great British Baking Show while they therapeutically warmed my hands.

I'm knocking off for the day, and will be watching Maigret on Masterpiece Theater. It's been decades since I've read Georges Simeon, and while Maigret wasn't a favorite, he'll do in a pinch.

Hopefully, my hands will be less ouchy tomorrow.

On the plus side of the day, I thought I remembered that Jermone Joyita had come from "Wick's World," but I looked it up anyway, and it turns out I was wrong. He came from The Wikesworlds or "The Wickes," but since this was a passing detail in Dragon Ship, I think I can be a little proud of myself.

Rook is marching back and forth in my office, shouting "Yowr!" and Utterly Rejects the notion that he has to wait A! Whole! Hour! for Happy Hour. I gather the idea is that we ought to have TWO Happy Hours on Friday.

. . . and Saturday . . . and Sunday . . . and Monday . . . and --

Yeah. Nice try, kid.

Anyhoot.

Everybody have a good evening. Stay safe. Tomorrow is also a writing day -- glares at universe -- so check-ins may be anywhere from odd-houred to absent.

YOWR! says Rook.

Friday. Blue skies and frost glittering on the grass in the Long Back Yard.

Yesterday was a Writing Day. Today will be more of the same. No, I don't know how it's going. Welcome to my life.

Speaking of which . . .

Those who have been following along for the last while will perhaps have noticed that a little over a year ago, my partner, best friend, co-author, second brain, and emotional support Steve died.

I am not, and I know this very well, the only person who has endured this awful loss. Surviving a beloved partner's death, going forward -- even deciding if one wishes to go forward -- this process is many things, but there's one thing it isn't.

It's not a competition. Having taken the decision to go forward, one does what one must, or at least what seems good and productive to do. As we are all different, your methods will be different from mine.

I have had people who are before me on this road turn and take the time to tell me that I'm doing fine, and that I take as an inducement to courage from someone who has already traveled the rough bit I'm just getting to.

But -- survival is not a competition. I can't say this enough, apparently.

When I was at BaltiCon -- boy, that was a hard thing to do, but it had to be done, I decided, and so I ... managed. I hid in my room a lot. I didn't do the parties; I didn't go to panels that I wasn't on. I recruited myself for necessary tasks.

So, while I was at BaltiCon being a half-coward, a colleague told me that I was doing so well. Much better, in fact, than another colleague who had also recently lost their partner and was being publicly and (in the opinion of the first colleague) embarrassingly noisy about it. Which -- no. There is No Correct Way to Grieve. I've been plenty noisy, and expect to be so again, the road being twisty and misty like it is. Neither I nor my colleague in craft and loss are doing better than the other. We're surviving. Day by day, and sometimes minute by minute.

Life wants to live. If you're still standing after receiving what ought to have been a fatal strike, and you've decided to take the Road Forward, I won't lie to you -- it's hard.

I won't lie to you -- you're doing fine.

We're fellow travelers. Not competitors.