This week I met with two oncologists: the medical one and the radiology one. The medical one is Russian-American and a petite woman. The radiologist one is American- American and super-tall-big guy who barely seemed to fit in the room and flipped pages and said "nowadays" a lot, like a farmer would.

I don't really understand my hormone receptor results yet, but it seems like hormone-receptor drugs probably won't work for me.

It seems like I'll have higher-dose radiation for 3-4 weeks instead of the 6 I was anticipating.

I'll start radiation after the vacation we planned when I got my job and we thought 2016 was all we had to put behind us.

By August, I should be over this obstacle.

Sometimes I feel like God is plotting my life to make sure it's worth reading, because obstacles make for better books. Or that's my chosen interpretation.

Otherwise, it might seem like a tough row to hoe.

Better to see it as a solid plot.

Next Friday is my lumpectomy. I admit I'm slightly worried about imbalance, because my rack is not all that large. Subtracting a tablespoon could make a difference. But would I really say don't take it out and get clean margins? No.

I feel like a medical specimen and not a woman, I admit. My breast has become a medical ham hock, and I am just attached to it. It was not impressive to begin with, and now it is diseased.

Not really looking forward to any of this but having it over. My friend Ann once gave a speech about her breast cancer being perfectly ordinary, and I get it now. Except for the bizarre and realistic ladder dreams, breast cancer feels like middle school gym class. Smelly and inconvenient and useless to my big picture.

Just get through it.

Onward.