I have been thinking hard about what I wanted to say about my 13th radiation treatment. Maybe too hard, in fact. I keep thinking I should have something profound or insightful or at least vaguely interesting to say. I should be deep and introspective, vigorously mentally negotiating the cancer experience with a vengeance reserved for those of us with years of therapy under our proverbial belts.
But I don't have anything to say. I just don't. My mind is quiet right now. It's soft and gentle and forgiving, which is an enormous gift under these circumstances. I know I had cancer removed from my body, I know it's likely to return (in the same spot or in another/others), I know the radiation process isn't without its own risks, and I know I'm doing the right thing for my body, my long-term mental health, and my short-term vitality. I know those things to be true, for me, right now. I know these aren't the right decisions for everyone, nor would they necessarily be right for me a year from now, nor a year ago.
But right now, I just have this. And it's okay. Today, right now, it's okay. It's okay to be quiet. So that's what I'm doing.