Jig

Another conscious sedation surgery. There's a metaphor there somewhere: sleeping while awake. Or maybe in the new device that lives so close to my heart: an easier way in that seems to make me more fragile than ever.

The surgeon who put it in told me to manage any minor discomfort with over-the-counter acetaminophen. He didn't expect that I would spend the weekend worrying something was wrong, feeling like I got shot with a stupid little plastic bullet.

Friday after the surgery I slept for a few hours, and while I was dreaming some dreams my girlfriend slipped out to meet up with some friends. I was invited to this party, too, but naturally didn't feel up to going. I woke up and moped around the apartment in my pajamas until almost midnight, when I received a text:

"Heading to Banshee. Everyone would love to see you if you're feeling up to it."

I guess I'm proud to say I spent the morning on an operating table with my chest cut open, but at midnight, sore and bandaged, I winced my way to my favorite local pub and danced a jig with some drunk friends who did, in fact, seem very happy to see me.

I think we all felt the same: there's still dancing with cancer. You cut some losses but you don't let anything stop you.

I don't always go to bed early and sick. I don't always lie on the sofa nursing my wounds.

Positivity ranks low in my list of traits (seriously, I took a personality test that confirmed this), but stubbornness ranks really fucking high. So I won't beat cancer with happy thoughts. But I refuse to stop jigging until I am dead.