Five months exactly since I saw the surgeon for the first time. Leaving the tutorial on To the Lighthouse, meeting K. at Barons Court tube station and walking to the hospital and treating him horribly. That infernal wait in the hallway, having left K. in Main Outpatients. Shifting again and again the uncomfortable plastic seat, staring at my polka dot skirt (I’ve not worn it since; it seems a harbinger). Saying I did not want K. to come in when their first question was “Are you alone?” And why were there so many people in the room? The terror of all those eyes.
I feel foolish even still–how she knew. How the pathologists knew my terrible diagnosis–just a checkbox or a word to them, a name on a test tube, an address I’ve left, an improbable birthdate that made me 24. I wonder if it gave them pause. And I ignorant of it all, not even worried, ignorant and aloof and impatient, teaching Virginia Woolf and being horrible to my boyfriend.
They knew then, as they know now. The grading, the damage it’s done. Ignorant with a blue stain on my breast, stitches uncomfortable but no longer painful under my arm. In a few hours, I’ll know too. And I can barely begin to brace myself for the possibility of bad news, that it’s spread to the lymph nodes, because I am too beaten down by everything else to be able to process it.
This morning I picked up Virginia Woolf’s Writer’s Diary, which I’ve returned to periodically, but not for quite some time. There, it was 1927, and she had just completed To the Lighthouse. A strange, accidental circularity. I hope this week can mark an end point to this strange and terrible piece of pirated time, rather than picking up where I’d left off after the last traumatic prodding and pathology.
In the meantime the cosmos continues irrespective of my private tragedy. Physical perspective is always striking–as when my plane began its descent into London, following the snaking Thames, over Tower Bridge, the London Eye, St. Paul’s, Buckingham Palace, all discernible as a postcard. In between such experiences one always forgets, somehow–one’s self, one’s own life, becomes magnified almost to the point of distortion. And then sometimes the hills or clouds or stars or multitudes of people re-position you. You become barely discernible, even to yourself.
We’re in the midst of the annual Perseid meteor shower, our planet passing through debris from the Swift-Tuttle comet. I think of it continually, wonder how people can sit in offices and houses, drudging through little lives not thinking of it–this spectacular reminder of how we are bound by gravity to this planet, circumnavigating the sun. Last night I saw several–a spectacularly clear sky with close-seeming stars–the Greeks’ stars. Identifying what constellations I could (Cassiopeia of course, my marker–and then Ursas major and minor, Cepheus, Draco, Hercules, Pegasus’ body later in the night), I thought of everyone I have ever loved, under them, and of the whole of human history, having shared them. Very cosmical and astounding all of it, even without the occasional meteor; on seeing one I could not help but gasp and squeal. I couldn’t reconcile the incredible, breathtaking outer world of the visible universe with the inner world of tea and television–couldn’t understand, either, how K. could not be as excited as I–how anyone could not.
But I gather the memory inside my private mind, and love it. So next time the anesthetist says “think of somewhere you’d rather be” as he holds the oppressive plastic mask over my face and prepares me for surgery, it will be there–
Tonight’s the “peak” apparently, but in southern and central England it’s expected to be too cloudy to see–
the visible universe obscured, how Blakean.
[Lymph nodes are normal. She asks for a smile.]