There are ever-lengthening periods of physical disability, in which trips between the couch, the door, and my bedroom are more like small odysseys (yesterday I broke a sweat walking to my mailbox). Relentless cycles of drenching sweats, chills, and hot flashes lead to sleep deprivation, which leads to several days of babbling madness, blubbering tears, and generalized hopelessness. In addition to introducing a menagerie of weird-ass, miserable, and creatively torturous side effects, going through chemo induces a sort of psychological twilight zone.Īll I want to do is work, except this massively narcissistic ailment keeps finding new ways to monopolize my attention. Surgery, and the subsequent recovery from it, was a comparative cakewalk. “Drains out, brains out!” I was looking forward to telling everyone, thinking that once the last few feet of irksome medical tubing were pulled out of my body, I could more or less be “normal.” This stretch of 2021 is the longest I’ve gone in my adult life without working, and the adjustment has been rocky and humbling.Īfter my mastectomy in May, I made plans to mark my triumphant return to the keyboard clacking class. I have been writing professionally since I was 17 years old.