Day #141 (b) Writing Through COVID-19: Cancer and Other Cheerful Diversions

Today was my annual breast-cancer checkup in Iowa City. It was July of 2005 that at age 45 I was diagnosed with invasive carcinoma that led to a mad month of surgeries: two dirty-margined lumpectomies before finally my entire breast was removed. At the time, my oldest child had just finished her first year of college. My twins were 10. I remember hoping I could live at least 10 years to see my boys off to college.

Today I told my doctor most days breast cancer doesn't cross my mind. 

This afternoon I was given a clean bill of health, rescheduled for August 2021, and sent happily on my way.

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On the drive home, I listened to "The Daily" on NPR. Reid Epstein of the New York Times examined the difficulty Georgia had with its primary elections in June, when the state broke records for a primary turnout, but also struggled to organize a mail-in election and a face-to-face election simultaneously. People stood in lines for hours. Others who had requested mail-in ballots got them too late to vote.

Running a single election is daunting, the guest explained, but Georgia was charged with essentially running two elections at once (mail-in and in-person), without adequate resources, and during a pandemic. 

As I listened to this explanation, I thought: This sounds like SCHOOL! 

When we open our doors to students in 20 days, my colleagues and I will be running two classrooms: one face-to-face, and the backup version online. Our missing "adequate resources" might include additional preparation time, a second computer to allow us to film our classroom without tying up our laptops, Clorox Wipes to clean desks between classes, and building-wide expectations for masking and distancing. 

I feel like I've written variations of this same concern for three days straight. Bear with me while I chew on this rawhide long enough to swallow it.

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I called my parents on my drive. We talked about my diagnosis 15 years ago, and my mom's mastectomies 22 years before that, her own mother's death to breast cancer at age 53 in 1957. 

Talking about cancer gave us a cheerful diversion from thinking about computers.😬😬😬

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Two weeks into sweetcorn season. 

I think it will last into the weekend.

Life is good.

Enough.

Be well.

Write.

Allison

Wolf's smiles aren't intentional yet, but we get
glimpses of them after his dinner.