Forget the literal-mindedness of mastectomy, chemically induced menopause, etc.:
I would warmly encourage anyone interested in the social construction of gender
to find some way of spending half a year or so as a totally bald woman. As a
general principle, I don’t like the idea of “applying” theoretical models to particular
situations or texts—it’s always more interesting when the pressure of application
goes in both directions—but all the same it’s hard not to think of this continuing
experience as, among other things, an adventure in applied deconstruction.

Eve Sedgwick, Tendencies

newnormal.jpg10 A.M. Driving to Costco. It was an eerie sight. There was both a woman and a dog in the car. They were up front, she in the driver’s seat and the dog in the passenger seat. Their heads were more or less of identical size, orientation and demeanor. Spooky. When I saw them, I thought, “Fcuk. That’s just like cancer. It’s always up front, riding with me. Not me. But beside me. My body double. My constant companion. It’s still here. No one can see me now, separate from it. Cancer.

2 P.M. Walking on the Sea Wall. Since my second opinion consultation in Toronto, I have been wrangling a bad case of blogger’s block. I think I know why. I have my friend Spike to thank for the profound insight. Spike is a stunning blogger who has written brilliant and heartfelt stuff about her experiences with ovarian cancer. We went for a walk on the sea wall. I was so happy for the chance to chat with a friend who has traveled with cancer. There are, I believe, significant similarities across these experiences, and really important aporias (puzzling gaps - I just love this word) of understanding when trying to dialogue with someone who hasn’t “been there”. We didn’t talk a lot about cancer. When we were talking about the challenging time when treatment ends, Spike said something that reverberated deep inside. “People mistake the treatment for the disease, and they interact with you like all traces of the disease are gone when the treatment ends.” Yeah. What she said. I think that I was mistaking the words for the disease, and thinking that if I kept writing this blog, I was keeping the cancer alive. So I changed the blog name, from Big Grrls Do Cry, to Adventures in Deconstruction, which is borrowed from Eve Sedgwick writing about the relationship between academic theory, and experiencing breast cancer. Maybe that will be enough of a talisman to keep me safe, here.

7 P.M. Riverport Movie Theatre. What does it say about my newfound relationship with mortality when the simple act of eating popcorn at the movies feels like laughing in the face of death? They told me, you see, not to eat popcorn. That was the only food that had been singled out as forbidden fruit following my August diagnosis of diverticulitis. But recently, I went to see a gastroenterologist for follow-up tests, and he dismissed any notion that seeds and hard sharp kernals might pierce through the weak sections of the intestinal wall that make up the diverticula. So today, I quenched my thirst for movie theatre popcorn. It’s a ritual I love; sitting in the dark, and reaching compulsively into my bag of popcorn, munching happily in rythem to the sound of the familiar strangers in the crowd. I almost disappeared into the co-present space of bovine, masticative banality. It was brilliant.

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