So following my deflation last Thursday I submitted to a second scan on Friday.

Actually my first order of business on Fri morning was to visit a dermatologist for a second opinion on whether I really needed to rush into biopsying the shingles scar on my scalp or that mole (which has always been there along with its many buddies) on my forearm. I was suffering from angst and a fair dose of doubt about the biopsies, and not because I feared the results but because I could not understand why either was necessary at all, never mind urgent.

I am a sensible person. And a good patient. But I am not a robot. And when I feel uneasy about a recommendation, be it from the butcher or a doctor, I have to listen to myself. I agitate — sometimes even obsess — I question and then I reevaluate.

The second derm took a look at my shingles scar and my mole and announced that there was “nothing sinister” about either area and that he saw no reason to do the biopsies. So I canceled the damn things. We can always do later if we feel warranted. But I see no reason to subject myself to unnecessary surgical procedures.

Particularly at present when my latest post-chemo symptom is a humdinger of a thumb infection under my totally disgusting, yellow, brown, white and red thumb nail, which hurts like a bitch and makes me think surgery to the right arm in the near future might be ill-advised. Hmmm?

Anyway back to the scan. My arms fell asleep from holding them for too long above my head but other than that it was fine. My radiation oncologist called that evening and told me that we are good to go but that I will still get a little rads to the left “breast” — it will skim the surface of my skin. I questioned her about this and she addressed my concerns. Then I thanked her and hung up.

Of course about three minutes after I had let her go I realised that I was completely freaked out, not okay at all and had a host of other questions and concerns. So naturally I obsessed about the fucking thing throughout the entire weekend. I hadn’t suffered that much angst since after I got my pathology results in the hospital, which revealed that my situation was somewhat more complicated than anticipated. And that was back in February.

It’s interesting; even throughout four months of chemo I wasn’t particularly stressed out. It was at times hard to take, but I got through it and I went to bed almost every night with a quiet mind. Because I had a plan and I was sticking to the plan. I had a routine. This made me feel in control. I recognise that.

What threw me so last Friday and over the weekend? Why did I freak out? Because after eight sessions of biweekly chemotherapy, I was expecting a short hiatus and then to plunge right into the radiation. Day after day, getting it done, killing it. Please sir, may I have another? So when the plan changed and there was unexpected shit I had to contend with, I didn’t like it. And when I couldn’t immediately discuss that shit with the person in charge of my plan, to get to the bottom of it, I really didn’t like it. Because I felt out of control and helpless.

I was derailed; my confidence shaken.

At the same time, my husband was called away on a business trip to Zürich. He hasn’t had a single day off work for weeks now. Not a single day. He’s been faithfully plodding along, working weekends and into the nights, all the while having to deal with his own concerns, anxiety and just burnt-out-ness about my situation. He left last night (Sunday).

The girls and I had Sunday roast at our wonderful friends’ house on Sunday — one of those friends happens to be Bill’s partner (like, at work, not his gay lover, people). Poor Bill couldn’t come. He had to work. So after a delicious and excellent afternoon the girls and I hopped back on the Overground and hightailed it back to Belsize Park so that we could get home in time to spend some QT with Dad-o.

The girls ran up to see him while I puttered in the kitchen with some cauliflower. I was down there alone and that’s when the floodgates opened. I started to bawl. And then of course my nose started to run like a faucet because I don’t have any nose hairs left to hold anything in there. (Don’t worry none got on the cauliflower — promise.) If you want pathetic imagine a crying bald chick struggling to cut cauliflower into florets with the help of a dysfunctional thumb while a string of clear fluid hangs from her nose. Not cool. And definitely not hot.

I felt a little bit better that night because I decided to catch up on Glee episodes and nothing makes a girl temporarily forget her troubles like back episodes of show choir performances and teenage angst. Beats forty-year-old cancer-induced angst anytime.

This morning I woke up and held it together while I made the kids breakfast and sent them off to camp for the day. After the bus drove off I had to face the fact that it was Monday morning and thus time to try and reach my radiation oncologist so I could ask her the twenty things I wrote down over the weekend that almost caused me to chew my own arm off.

I called. I e-mailed. One of the secretaries let me know that the message had been passed along and my doc would call me. I showered (with the phone in the bathroom of course) and got dressed and was putting on my eyes when my friend Gohar showed up with a delicious lunch for me. I burst into tears when I answered the door and saw a friend. She listened while I spewed my anxieties.

Then when Agnieszka showed up half an hour later I burst into tears again. She listened as well and gave me a supportive hug. Then I devoured that yummy lunch (I am rarely too upset to eat).

My plastic surgeon called. He made me feel better. He always makes me feel better even though his primary job is to make me look better. I started to feel a little perkier after that conversation.

After my call I made myself a cup of tea (I have about six cups a day, seriously. This is England, people), my radiation oncologist called. I ran upstairs and whipped out the little notebook where I write down all my medical questions. And answers. I asked the first one. I liked the answer. Check. I ran through the rest. My doctor fielded each question and was patient and honest. I felt the old me bubbling to the surface again. The fragile, teary, angst-ridden me receding.

And as quick as a flash, I am restored, calm, ready for action. My weekend obsession bender is over. Back to business. Honey badger’s back in town.

I am a strong person and I can take a lot, have taken a lot, thrown at me. Curve balls. But that doesn’t mean I don’t falter. Don’t cry. Don’t fall apart. Not often, but it happens. I also have an unfortunate tendency to obsess when I feel that things are unresolved. I know that I do this. I do not enjoy this personality trait. But that’s how I am. I have always been this way. I’ll work on it but I can’t promise I’ll win that battle.

Even as I obsessed I knew that I would start to feel better once I spoke to the doctor and she answered my questions, but this didn’t prevent me from being completely mental right up until the moment when she finally called me back.

Why do I do this? Why am I like this?

You know, it doesn’t matter. As Popeye said, I yam what I yam.

And that’s good enough for me.

Now onward with the fucking treatment plan. I have better things to do, for crying out loud.