I suppose one measure of self-absorption is how soon after your birthday you return to normal life, to stuff you need to do and can’t get out of by saying it’s your birthday and you don’t feel like it. (Tried that yesterday but in our rush to leave for my birthday dinner, it became apparent I’d need to fold some laundry after all.)

The kids were out in Queens for the night. J and I entertained the many possibilities the evening offered. We could… eat! See a movie!  Drink! Ultimately we only had enough energy for the eating (which was fabulous) and one glass of sangria each. We aren’t heavy drinkers and we’re out of practice too. We got back to the neighborhood and considered visiting our favorite bartender at the Latin restaurant down the block, who makes fabulous mojitos, but we admitted to each other we were just too tired.

There was also the matter of two or maybe three helicopters flying low over the neighborhood, shining bright searchlights in the direction of what we figured out was a march related to the Eric Garner and Michael Brown killings. Instead of heading home we walked down the avenue until we saw the cordon of flashing lights, and arrived in time to see a group of a few hundred (or more) people head down a side street of our neighborhood. We followed the marchers (staying on the sidewalk) and then watched an endless procession of paddy wagons behind them (from the reports I read, arrests yesterday, at a march of perhaps more than 40,000 people,  were minimal). I learned today that they marched all the way to a housing project where yet another unarmed man was recently fatally shot in a stairwell by a police officer, for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. That was a ten mile march.

I was sorry once again not to be able to join. I was inspired once again by the refusal to let this injustice get swept under the rug.

I was grateful to think of something other than myself, my age, and my current health predicament. And sort of relieved that my self-absorption has its distinct limits.

We went home. It was quite early. A party raged upstairs, but we hit the hay earlier than usual. It was just enough birthday for me.

I’m 43 today. I don’t have any mental picture or scrawled extrapolation of what I once imagined myself like at 43, because as I’ve said here before, I’m not much of a long-range planner. When I was ten years old and visited New York City for the first time (graffiti’d trains and all) I decided I would live here some day. And now I’ve been living here for – incredibly – almost 17 years. After all that time, I have yet to generate another life dream that is remotely attainable.

If 4 a.m. is “the hour of 30 year olds,” according to Wisława Szymborska, what is the hour of 43 year olds? I’ll venture to say… maybe 5:45 a.m. Just too early for waking up without great pain, though you can remember when you used to get up at all hours for babies, or once in a great while, pre-kids, to run a road race. (My running life – now that seems like ancient history.)

Last night I was up at 4:15 and it took me a while to get back to sleep (if I even managed). I listened to the upstairs neighbor snoring. I wondered if Land’s End was going to drop their prices any more before I buy Young A some new snow pants. I tried to think of nice things like waking up to breakfast on a tray. I tried to think of what I’d write in my “birthday manifesto,” something I have been writing in my journal as long as I can remember.

But all of these things were eclipsed by the unknowable (until January 5th) thing, which is hovering over me like a giant anvil that could squash me flat like a cartoon character. It doesn’t seem to be there during the day. It comes at night, when all is quiet except for snores and stray wails of sirens and the intermittent blast of the ferry horn. I wouldn’t call it fear, sadness, or anger I feel, because there’s this sense of not knowing what I will need to respond to when I get the news. The blank to be filled in. An anxious blank.

But that’s over for today. From the kitchen I hear J puttering, the cheerful noises of impending breakfast, Young A having senseless tantrums and (maybe) helping a little, Young J reading aloud from Tintin with great expressiveness. In this waking world nothing is amiss, and I have to go with that.

I’m having another one of those days where I can’t get moving. This time I blame a wicked hangover from the ONE beer I drank last night.

Last night I ventured out to a reading some friends were doing on the Lower East Side, discovering the J train as a super fast conduit to that part of the city I rarely visit anymore. I had good in-person conversations with people I mostly converse with via email. It was a good night.

I’m worried about my alcohol intolerance. Giving up caffeine was one thing, but I never intended to become a teetotaler. I guess I should commit to having a nightly drink until my tolerance is rebuilt. That sounds quite exhausting, however.

Yesterday I did a lot and the more I did, the more energetic I felt. I even moved the car for street cleaning at midnight when I got back to the neighborhood. Today, I have accomplished exactly two things. One and a half, even, because I’m waiting for a phone call back on one of the things. There is a teetering pile of dishes to be washed. I now have 45 minutes before school pickup begins. Time for a nap.

I called Nurse Practitioner K yesterday, because my hips and legs and back were all quite sore. Plus I felt like I was coming down with something, so I had spent most of the day in bed. That preventive step (plus chicken soup and a really nice chill evening with the boys) seems to have sent the cold or flu or plague packing. I hope.

She told me, now that I’m off them, that the dark side of steroids is they can cause muscle deterioration. She asked me questions about the pain. She said, “Well, it doesn’t sound like cancer.” (Good to know.) She recommended stretching and exercise to strengthen the affected muscles.

When I finally went to put my rain boots on, to wade out into a rainy and windy Nor’easter to pick up Young A from school, I reached into the other boots I’d been wearing for a few days, in order to transfer my orthotics to my rain boots. That’s when I realized I’d been wearing those boots without orthotics, for days. And walking quite a bit in them. So all of the muscle pain I’m feeling may have nothing at all to do with steroid withdrawal, and everything to do with my shoes. I don’t think there’s any medication for that.

I went back to the gym today. I used a foam roller on my hips and it was magic. Then my awesome teacher M showed me a new thing she’d been doing for hips – pummeling them lightly with the ends of two dumbbells. I did some of that and it felt great too.

Dumb and dumbbells. It’s time to stop living symptomatically!

We’re having the worst kind of Nor’easter today: a rainy one. No relief in sight. There may be two inches of rain before day’s end. I wish we could send it somewhere else.

I enjoyed feeling well for about five minutes before getting that woozy, about-to-get-sick feeling yesterday. J again had to cancel his basketball plans, and go grocery shopping instead. When I am finally out from under this endless streak of sickness, he will finally get to play basketball every single day. (Like it or not!)

Today I feel less woozy but still not quite well. My hips are sore. My back is, too. I did some ill-advised asking of Dr. Google regarding steroid withdrawal symptoms and it freaked me out. No surprise there. Everything feels like a symptom. It takes very little effort to turn it into one.

The best thing I can do is go back to sleep, so I’ll give that a try. The kids encouraged me last night to sleep with my trusty old teddy bear, so I did. It wasn’t bad. He’s a good chap. I hugged him to my chest and remembered sleeping with a newborn that way. (I got nostalgic until I remembered that was the only part of the newborn period I actually miss.)

We woke up super late today, for those keeping score of our Mondays. The unrelenting grayness in the sky coupled with the kids tiptoeing out of their room and not getting into immediate squabbles lulled us. (It may be time for us to consider setting an alarm, honey.) In spite of this, we managed to get out of the house in time, even with Young J on the injured list. He slipped and fell at a party yesterday, and may have sprained his hip. Lucky for him, he was able to ride his scooter to school. It’s easier than walking.

I lay there willing my body to move despite soreness. I accompanied Young A to a birthday party yesterday and its location made it hard to access by bus, so I walked and he scooted, almost a mile each way, the way back up a steep hill. It suddenly occurred to me I had a checkup early this morning with my melanoma surgeon, Dr. S. It’s a formality, at this point. Something I should have been doing as a completely healthy person. And in that sense I am – I’m so over cancers that are only skin-deep. I’m more complex than that. I filled him in on my November ordeal, he told me I seemed completely fine and that I looked well, which is important. He did not make any of his signature jokes, which disappointed me, but maybe he saves that for people who are really screwed.

On the way out I waited at the reception desk to wish Quentin, my buddy, a happy new year. I wanted him to know he wouldn’t be seeing me but that it was okay. It’s my small way to take care of the people who care about me. In the elevator on my way up, I rode with a nurse who was coming in to work. I realized after a moment she’d been my infusion nurse, the day I got the Remicade that fixed me. I said, “Hey! You were my nurse! I’m doing great now!” She said she was so glad to see that. And I thanked her. Yesterday, I sent the melanoma team two boxes of fancy pears (to counter the choco-apocalypse I saw in their office the other day). I am looking for ways to say thanks. Because despite the looming uncertainty of the scan, which won’t be resolved for almost a whole month, I feel – finally – fine. And the people who got me there – medical personnel, caregivers, cheerleaders and supporters, readers of the blather posted here – deserve to know.

After my appointment I went for a fancy, late breakfast at a place right near the cancer center which I hadn’t gone to before. I ate a frittata which was accompanied by some salad. SALAD. I didn’t realize it until my first bite that this was my first salad in a month. It was a good one. Minimally dressed, some slices of fennel mixed in, subtle and delicious. I couldn’t stop eating it. I am so happy to return to plant-based eating. All the carbs and protein have been fun, but balance is better. I crunched my salad gleefully, possibly eating it (as the Italians like to say when someone is eating too eagerly) like a morto di fame. Well, guess what? Not so long ago I nearly was starving to death. So get over your etiquette, and if you love me, bring on more of the leafy green stuff.

Tonight Young J and I went to Carnegie Hall to hear the Orpheus Chamber Orchestra. This was our second time going, so it’s now an annual event. Young J saw a mailing I received about an upcoming Orpheus concert last December, and lobbied hard until I agreed to take him. It went fine, except he wasn’t quite heavy enough to keep his seat unfolded so there were multiple Paddington Bear-like moments (minus the marmalade sandwiches).

This year, he had gained the requisite amount of weight, so the seat was no problem. Instead he seemed to be running afoul of the exceedingly strict ushers, who freaked out when I let him go to the railing unaccompanied to look down at the rest of the theatre. I knew he wouldn’t fall, but they didn’t. Also they seemed to be worried about him running up and down the stairs. (I wasn’t.) I took him with me to the restroom before the show, but at intermission they stopped me and said he was too old to use the ladies’ room. I had to wait outside the mens’ room, trying to see when he came out, but unsee the mirror reflection of the men at the urinals. Lovely. Also, this year, like last, the paper cones at the water cooler all leaked and Young J and I giggled, remembering how the same thing had happened last year.

Tonight’s program included cheery, pastoral Grieg, stately Bach, and exuberant Mozart. There was also a new piece, a commission by a young composer named Anna Clyne. I skimmed the program notes and saw the piece was sort of an elegy for her mother. I decided not to dwell on that, instead focusing on the unusual music and how I could find something in it to connect with. I mostly failed until the third movement, which was called Lavender Rain, and which she composed on the anniversary of her mother’s death.

There were rising and falling glissandi, it seemed very dramatic, and I closed my eyes for a moment. Not dozing, just seeing if depriving myself of one sense would sharpen the others. When I opened my eyes, the stage lights looked dimmer. I frowned. I worried my eyesight had suffered permanent damage from the steroids or some other element of my treatment. And then the lights continued to dim, and I noticed small lights attached to the music stands. This was intentional and I suddenly found it tremendously moving. The light ebbing as the piece continued, the musicians fading into blackness, the small lights on their stands like beacons bobbing in the ocean. I hadn’t brought any tissues so I just let the tears slide down my face while I willed myself not to make any specific and unhelpful connections between what I was seeing and hearing and anything remotely related to my situation.

When the lights came back up, Young J seemed curious, but not at all surprised to see my tear-streaked face. He knows me by now, knows how easily I succumb, and that it was only a matter of time before I was moved by the simple fact of attending such a beautiful concert with my firstborn, in a hall as plush and velvety and vast as the inside of a plush, velvet whale, as he grew more and more sleepy and snuggled up in my lap waiting for the tympani to come back in.

(By the time we left the ushers loved him.)

I popped my last, minimal (2.5mg) dose of Prednisone this morning. I’m ready to restore some order, to stop being sleepy, stop medicating my headaches with high doses of sugar, and get back to eating my long-lost vegetables. The only vestige of my November ordeal is I haven’t taken up caffeine again, and I’m not planning to. It will make fasting (before scans or on Yom Kippur) much easier. I do still drink coffee. I have begun my quest for affordable and good-tasting decaf beans.

I sensed a strong undercurrent in that WSJ article about cancer super-survivors is their uniformly positive attitude. The interviews showed people who seem unafraid. I feel pretty much the same. I was telling a friend the other day that maybe part of this is, I’ve never been much of a long-range planner. It never occurred to me before that this could be a positive. I’m focused on January 5 and trying to visualize as much tumor destruction as possible happening inside my lungs until that day.

I’m not focused on things like, “OK, immunotherapy may give me another ten years.” Because… in what universe would that be even remotely long enough?

I didn’t know I’d been waiting for it but I really have been. Yesterday’s Wall Street Journal ran a long, detailed story on immunotherapy for melanoma and lung cancer. Included are video interviews with long-term survivors of melanoma and lung cancer who were treated with immunotherapy drugs (like the one I had, and others being considered if I do need further treatment).

I have admittedly been very remiss in seeking support for myself and my family in the past few months. I scared myself off from visiting Gilda’s Club by imagining that my showing up there, feeling well (as I was before things got really bad) would be akin to showing up at a Weight Watchers meeting when I want to lose 15 pounds and everyone else in the room wants to lose 100. And then, suddenly, I was too sick to go anywhere. I rationalized that taking my kids there would expose them to the true, evil nature of cancer, by introducing them to kids whose parents are worse off than me (or even dead). My kids are still so young – I haven’t even found a way yet to speak to them about Eric Garner, or Ferguson, not to mention global anti-Semitism or the climate. So laying a heavy trip on them, one that is very directly connected to me, a constant and (as the past few weeks have proven to me) stabilizing force in their lives, doesn’t seem fair or right for us right now.

As for myself, yes, I enjoyed and benefited from the sessions I had with the social worker at the cancer center. I noticed when I was there this week that she runs a support group for those living with melanoma – but as is typical of me, I neglected to note when it meets. I continue to reject the identity overlay of melanoma patient as permanent. (The overlay is not even Mylar, it’s filmy as onion skin. Or made of that packing material that dissolves when you put it in water.)

So a friend sending me a link to that Journal story was the best thing to happen (other than the delicious baked ziti she also brought us this week). I got to hear from My People, but I didn’t have to engage in dialogue with them. Given my newly-discovered propensity to be a bit of an ass when it comes to cancer conversations, and my “empathy fails,” I think this story is the best kind of support I could receive right now. People all over the country are dealing with the same type of thing, and they’re surviving and even thriving. What a gift. Thank you, science.

I’m in transition. From steroid-addled scribbler to civilian with – maybe – a touch of cancer. (But still, a Sagittarius.) I’m lost in translation. Young A has stopped flipping his jacket like a toddler, and now gets into a fury when he chases his errant jacket sleeve around and around himself, like a dog whose tail forever eludes him. I try hard not to laugh. I try hard, at other times, to laugh. It’s good for the kids to see me laughing (not at them but with them). Young J gets furious when our conversation shifts to the 7 times table. There isn’t a way to turn it into a joke that I have found – at least not yet. I’m relearning how to sit at my computer instead of just using my phone, but the piles of papers on my desk sometimes make me flee, crawl back into bed. I have 25 minutes to prep chili ingredients and it’s going to happen. It can’t not happen. The boys were promised chili for dinner, and there tends to be hell to pay when my dinner promises are broken. Eating is serious business. It’s the only business I know right now. I’ll get out of bed now and prep, anticipating the hugs I’ll get at dinnertime.