the cream in the oreo

i've said it before. along this journey, the in-between, the not-knowing, the limbo, this is the hardest part. when you have a handful of known variables but they all add up to one big pile of uncertainty, it isn't any fun. and the uncertainty pertaining to cancer has a funny and persistent way of bringing all the other uncertainty in life to the surface. as i thought about it earlier today, i re-realized these are the times when i am most keyed up. least likely to lean into my difficulties and accept them as part of life. i am stressed. i am uneasy. it is tough. as soon as i know something, and in my experience that something can either be good or it can be bad, i can relax. i can sit back and develop a plan.

three years ago i was going through the littany of tests and scans that lead up to my diagnosis with lung cancer. it was the worst part of the entire voyage, i think. i can isolate smaller, more difficult moments or days, but as an overall time period, it sucked. life seemed to be unraveling. of course, looking back, i know that life was somehow, impossibly, becomming more simple. but in those waiting weeks i was nervous. a constant hum of energy. as soon as i knew, as soon as i was conscious and aware enough to know what i was up against, i was able to calm down. there was a plan, and we went about executing each of its points.

i am at my best in those times, the cookie part of life. i feel together and with it and my energy is such that i can handle each aspect of life with the regard i think it deserves.

ah, though, the cream between the cookies. it never was my favorite part.

so now, even though the scan results were "good" last week, i find myself waiting and wondering. i literally hold my breath at times when i think about it. what will these nine weeks bring? what is going to take place inside my body. it isn't the same as getting a "clean" scan. my worries then, that of the cancer making a return, are different than now. knowing there are unknown blemishes on the scan makes me more on edge. i recite, over and over, to myself that these spots were nothing. mere inflammation and strange position on the table. nothing. nothing. nothing.

i walk along, as i'll do for the coming weeks, repeating with each step and pedal stroke, as i get into bed and out of it, as i chew my food and do my chores... nothing. nothing. nothing.

oh, the middle. i'm not thrilled to be here again.