I’ve fallen really far behind on the thank you notes. Maybe so many of you aren’t bird-dogging the mailbox awaiting a pretty folded card, but I feel like a heel. I have some doozies to write, and given my near subterranean level of thanks, the process will be a Holy Spirit bender requiring a box of Puffs. How do I thank April, and Nicole, and Zealot Sister, A-Ma, or my mother? Sending all of them to St. Barths with unlimited massages and umbrella cocktails might go over well. That certainly would be easier than a tearfully grateful itemization of the many times these women have dropped everything to help me and my family. Because I’m finally well enough to go out for school events and coffees, my guilty subconscious (Paige calls it “The Devil”) tells me I don’t deserve to have any fun until I’ve written the thank yous or attended to the growing piles of crap I’ve ignored in the name of Cancer. I have a sneaking suspicion The Devil will attempt to foil my enjoyment of lots of things for a while.
Even as I put on my “hair” and awkwardly re-enter society, I’m just overwhelmed with love and gratitude. I’m hugging non-huggers and over-sharing like everyone’s favorite drama friend. And I feel it quite profoundly when I say, “it’s really good to see you.” Having been sequestered in my air-filtered, Clorox wiped prison for the past few months, it really IS good to see you. But I have all of the poise of a golden retriever puppy that finally got off the leash. Hi Hi Hi Hi how are you? How are YOU? Hi Hi Hi Hi Hi Hi Hi. I’m so happy to get out of the house, and yet I have nothing interesting to say. Four months of surgery, drugs, and prosthetic hair is crappy cocktail conversation. I need new material.
When guilt and flagging wit are the problems, surely champagne is the answer! I haven’t resumed abusing my beloved bubbles yet. I guess I’ve been waiting for the last bit of poison to clear my system before I test my liver and tolerance, and with a few lingering side effects from the chemo, my whoo hoo moment hasn’t arrived. Also, celebrating too soon will jinx everything, celebrating at all smacks of ungratefulness, and spoiled bald girls with messy rooms and unfinished thank yous are grounded! (The Devil is a real bitch.) Through this entire ordeal, I’ve learned that God helps me tune out negative blather. He’s actually in favor of parties (“whenever two or more are gathered in my name…”) and reminded me that His Divine Inspiration can be found in all beautiful things, like the fancy shoe department. So the Devil be damned it’s time for parties and plays and playdates and Pradas. And in order to pen these thank yous, which I feel from the depths of my Cancer-free existence… a bit of Prosecco. Boozy sentiments of love and gratitude arriving by post soon.