I struggle with having to bear my mortality so close to the surface. These periodic checkup scans, which serve to remind me of the precariousness of my health, and of the sheer luck of it, don't help. It's more basic than that, though. In fact, my tongue reminds me at every single moment, because I can feel it, and it is still alien – hacked and transformed and handicapped and so clearly not really my tongue.
Think about how we use our tongues constantly to probe the insides of our mouths. It's unconscious, and reflexive, and evolutionarily ancient. Watch a baby, some time, discovering the world through her tongue. Watch a rodent cleaning its fur. Watch a snake tasting the air.
Now imagine that every time you go to touch that familiar spot behind your teeth, or steer some piece of food you're chewing, or go to speak a consonant, you use a tongue which requires focus and conscious effort because it's not the same tongue that you first learned those skills with.
I cannot ever forget that I have been transformed, and that I'm a survivor of a traumatic experience.
I would prefer to forget.
Anyway, my bad feeling last night was not confirmed today. The CT scans have spoken. I continue to have a clean bill of health, from the oncologists' perspective. That's good.
What am I supposed to be doing with this time against fate which I've bought?
[daily log: walking, 9.5 km]