Another day of uselessness. Don't think that I'm unaware of what's really going on. It takes a tremendous amount of mental energy to manage that delicate balance between terror and quasi-serenity. The only defense against emotional turbulence and obsessive worry is dedication to minimal synapse firing. In short, I don't work. On the other hand, I haven't had to visit the Ggirl Crying Building in the past couple of days. If I don't accomplish anything other than that, I've already done more than the majority of my co-workers do in a week.
I spend a lot of time fantasizing about my oncology surgeon. It is so not about how he looks. The men (or boys, really) I dated before I met my husband were all good looking, as is Hubby. I was exactly that shallow. On the other hand, if they couldn't keep up intellectually, they were banished in short order. I didn't care much for emotional accessibility, either. As a matter of fact, expecting me to be loving and open counted as a serious liability. Hubby is the only man with whom I've ever been truly vulnerable.
Back to the object of my desire. He's middle-aged, a little paunchy, seriously balding and he wears very thick glasses. I look around and see men every day who are far more attractive, but arouse absolutely no libidinal interest. It's that ineffable something. It's sexual attraction that arises from a primitive part of my brain. Maybe it's those expensive, heavily starched white shirts. (Although I see a lot of those around, too.) Or maybe it's the profound intimacy that develops when someone cuts off one of your breasts and calls you sweetheart, anyway.
My need to fuel this harmless obsession has resulted in some unpleasant consequences. I googled him, of course. (Of course!) Unfortunately, it led me to an article he published a couple of years ago in a medical journal. It impressed on me the seriousness of my illness. I hate it when I come across things that clarify the dangerous extent of my breast cancer.
A couple of weeks ago, I was editing some old entries from when I was first diagnosed. I thought I'd share them with Hubby, since my online friends are the only people who've ever been privy to the daily grind of that period in my life. The unvarnished truth can be emotionally devastating for loved ones. Hubby already seemed very fragile; helping him get through it would have forced me to really confront my situation. It would also have depleted my own energy reserves critical to survival. (See synapse management above.)
Now, I'd like to offer him the best of my literary self in addition to authenticity. In editing those posts, it became clear I'd forgotten the things my surgeon told me after the sentinel lymph node biopsy. It took my breath away. I have a truly world class ability to deny reality when it's too harrowing.
I try to put those things out of my mind, though. I get right back to obsessing about my surgeon. I know what's important. It's that delicate balance that must be preserved. If he's the necessary vehicle for that, I'll step into it wholeheartedly. I just need to be careful about knowing too much about exactly what he does.
Maybe if I Yahoo him, I'll be able to entertain myself for the rest of my work day. If not, I'll have to simply imagine the beauty of what lays beneath his starched white shirt.
