I’ve spent the last few days knee-deep in cardboard, newspaper and packing tape, boxing up an entire kitchen’s worth of stuff. And not just any stuff—the heavy, awkward, why-do-I-even-own-this stuff. The Cuisinart, the crockpot, the juicer. Cast iron pans that could double as weapons. The KitchenAid. The Le Creuset. And that’s before we get into the glasses, plates, china, and barware collection that could supply a small hotel.
Tomorrow, we get the truck. Movers haul it all to storage. We scrub the apartment clean, find a realtor, and list the place.
And somewhere in all of that… I’m having surgery.
Two Tracks, Same Train
Justin will stay in Connecticut while I drive to Virginia to put the car on the Autotrain. I have pre-op testing and my final doctor’s appointment. In those two weeks, he’ll be patching, painting, meeting with the realtor, and trying to sell or rent our place. He will be driving the remaining boxes and our car to Miami a few days before my surgery.
It’s déjà vu from the last time I went under the knife. Back then, we were leaving New York, I was recovering from the distal pancreatonomy and splenectomy, with boxes everywhere, trying to wrap up one chapter while preparing for another. Now, I’m having surgery in Florida, but the pressure, the chaos, the moving parts (pun intended)—all feel the same.
I guess that’s just how life rolls.
The Guilt
The guilt that comes with cancer is strange. The first time I had it, when I had to tell my father and brother, I felt awful. We had lived through Mom’s five-year illness—it felt like I was putting them through it all over again. I was so sorry. So sad. At the time, they told me to stop thinking like that.
This time, the guilt is different. Now my pancreas has derailed our plans for a fresh start. We weren’t supposed to be scrambling like this. The final move was planned for the end of September—not the end of August. Again, Justin told me to stop thinking like that. I don’t know what other cancer patients feel, but for me, guilt hits hard and fast.
We worked through it, though. We’re stronger together. Always.
Not in the Cancer Tunnel
Five years ago, when I was diagnosed, I entered what I call the cancer tunnel. Life narrows. All you see is the next thing. Next surgery, next treatment date.
My chemo was every other week for six months—12 rounds. By the end, I was literally only focused on getting to the next treatment session, somehow. It wasn’t that I wanted the chemo. I just wanted to check off another session done. Check the next box. Life boiled down to work, treatment days, and recovery days.
I honestly don’t know how I worked. Chemo brain was in full force. I couldn’t focus, couldn’t keep timelines straight (me, the queen of timelines). When I came back full-time, literally right after my last treatment, I promptly was put on a performance plan. Looking back, I should have taken disability leave. But I was stubborn. And unaware. And almost lost my job because of it.
This time, the tunnel isn’t in sight. Surgery is the focus. Last time, surgery didn’t scare me—chemo did.
Now, five years later, medicine has moved forward. No fentanyl drip in my spine this time. I’ll have nerve blocks instead.
Fentanyl withdrawal was the worst thing I’ve ever gone through. I couldn’t breathe, speak, move, or walk. I remember leaning against a hospital wall, tears streaming down my face, telling Justin not to visit that day.
So no fentanyl?
That’s a win.
Let me know if any of this resonates, or helps. You are not alone.
Meredith's Musings 
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