Tuesday, February 11, 2014


I am coming to my one-week mark over here and my doctor has chastised me for trying to do too much. She says that the less I do these first TWO weeks the better. Paul says if I don't come lie down next to him this minute, he'll get out the taser! It’s hard for me to stop my creative, intellectual, social, expressive urges, what can I say?! I am leaning heavy on the strong muscle of the mind to keep myself in check, but first a few thoughts:
I made & froze various versions of my luscious chicken soup before my operation. It seems that’s all I really want to eat these days. I personally have always equated soup with love, yet during this recuperative phase, all I want is my own. I guess it’s true: all love begins with self-love! Thank you, our local peeps, for lovingly making and bringing us soup; trust me that Paul is enjoying it all. Soup related, though a bit tangentially, if you missed probably the nicest gift I ever gave to anyone, and you have a few minutes to waste online, check this out: http://tinyurl.com/muevddp
And on a totally separate note, Sophie, my dazzling daughter, arrives home in a week, lucky that I am. To be delivered February 1st, Sophie sent me a spectacular gift: a refurbished cereal box filled with notes, affirmations, and perfectly appropriate gifts, one for each day of February she would not be snuggled in by my side. 

Okay, it’s true, the apple did not fall very far from this tree, but today’s piece I loved in particular. It was her wondrous list of why February is the very best month for healing. The handwritten line that enthusiastically jumped off the page and grabbed me was: The word February is from the Latin word Februum, meaning purification. I cherish my idea that surgery with all its technicalities and clacking instrumentation was, at its essence, purifying. My experience of the ensuing pain, discomfort, intermittent bizarre sensations and the ways in which I cannot or should not do basic kinds of things for myself yet (the worst!!) are lessening, it’s true, but even from the moment I opened my anesthetized eyes and saw my loving son, Misha, and Paul at the foot of my bed, smiling and with two thumbs up (read: secret code for negative nodes,) this breast subtraction act was all contextualized for me into a clear crescendo of purification.
In the coming weeks, once I’m cleared for a bath (which by the way, a hot bath before bed has long been my centering and peace-giving sacrament; I crave one of those like a junkie looking for a fix,) I will visit a Jewish ritual bath, called a mikvah, and put word and custom to this overwhelming feeling. I am a big believer that it’s good to articulate and mark all the significant events of our lives, even the challenging ones, don’t you think?

And now it’s back to bed with me; should you find yourself walking outside on this yet another stellar day (at least here in the northeast,) take in some deep lung-fulls for me; Paul really does not want me to walk outside or even over exert in any way you would define it (so, I surreptitiously do laps within my lovely home, I am sure I look like a real nut, up the stairs, across the top floor, saunter into Jonah's shrine of a room for a peek, down the stairs, along the hall, dips into the bathroom, check in on the basement, rinse, repeat.)  I think Paul fears I'll fall (even with my superior balance!) and wreck this whole operation!

Love & light,

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