It’s spring. A time for rebirth. To force the metaphor, I’m trying to deliver my love of running, and much like both of my real births, it’s full of injury, trauma, blood, and tears. I think I might have a stress fracture in my left foot. The pain in my abdomen has not abated. It’s not a hernia. The doctor wanted me to see a surgeon, to determine what else this might be. I called and gave my name. The receptionist said 'oh, you’ve been here before’, and when I protested she said 'yes, you saw Dr Cahill in 2013.’

Dr Cahill did my mastectomy, and later botched my reconstruction. After my breast opened up, spilling blood all over the people I hugged at my family reunion, and required emergency surgery, and then after he told me he’d have to charge me for subsequent revisions, going against Michigan law, I decided to never see him again. Also, on the morning he cut off my tits, I noticed he had missed a whole swath of his cheek while shaving. Whenever I think of him, I think of those errant white bristles.

I told the receptionist I wasn’t comfortable making an appointment, in the same practice as Cahill. She pressed me, saying I wasn’t making it with him. I firmly said no thank you. I hung up the phone. I stood in my kitchen and sobbed and wondered when I’d be able to not cry about my health.

I see my oncologist next month. I’ll discuss it with him.

In the meantime, I’m sending out my postcards, and continuing my yoga. I got my first Covid vaccine. The sun is out. I’m trying to be the person I am on my mat, off of my mat, but it’s hard. When it comes down to it, I like being mean, because it’s some of the only power I have in this world; to cut with words. That’s the ugly truth of it. But I’m trying. I’m trying to be better, and to be beautiful, fresh, and new. Like spring.