16 August. Each morning, I wake up thinking “I have lung cancer.” I have no symptoms, but since I’m highly suggestible, I feel pain in my left lung. I have no idea what my treatment will be. I have no idea what the effects of the treatments will be. Though a trained librarian, as well as a writer, I don’t conduct my own research. For now, the unknown is preferable to what I might discover without guidance online. I’m angry because the oncology department didn’t provide information or support. I worry about needing help. I have so many adverse drug reactions. What if I can’t take care of my dogs, clean my house, cook my food, drive my car?

I saw my shadow yesterday. If I die, I’ll have no shadow. Can I be a groundhog and hide because I saw my shadow?

I’m working on a rewrite of a mystery novel. I’m trying to be disciplined, but there’s that lung-shaped arborvitae tree outside my window: it’s eaten up by bagworms. Metaphorically, it is my lung and the stripped foliage is my cancer. I didn’t catch the bagworms in time and lost the tree.

Get a grip, Lynne!

My grandson Ryan promises to accompany me to any procedure where I’ll need him. My grandson Jeff says that if I have surgery and need help, he’ll try to drive down from the Chicago area and work from my house for a few days. I am blessed.

My dogs, Schatzi and BoPeep, hover. BoPeep seems more intuitive than Schatzi; she climbs into the Big Chair, comes close to my face, and stares, perhaps asking; are you okay? When my dark mood lifts, the pups return to their daily routine—eating, sleeping, walks, playing, and cuddling in the Big Chair I bought to hold us all. At twenty-three pounds, Schatzi has always been a determined lap dog; but BoPeep, who came to live with me as a puppy, thinks she’s still a puppy and wants on my lap, too. She weighs over forty pounds.

Occasionally, Ryan visits with newborn son, Colton. Sitting in the rocking chair, I sing songs to my great-grandson that I sang to my own children and to some of my grandchildren. The songs have never gone from my heart and a baby in my arms is a natural fit. The past swoops up, and though I don’t let my thoughts linger on my children, from whom I’ve been long estranged, the muscle memory is there.

Since I’m on a truth-telling mission, I’d have to say I do think of my children, and their infant faces swirl like reflected images in a kaleidoscope.

Next post: The PET Scan