I cannot believe it is already February. So many things have happened in the past two weeks. I have taken three hip-hop classes and realized two things: it is a lot of fun, and I am incredibly stiff. I have been trying to practice at home, learning new steps such as the Roger Rabbit, cabbage patch, and the Reebok steps. Sometimes I feel really stupid jumping around among youngsters, but at other times I think, who cares? This is what I like, and I will continue doing it.
There are also many other things being added on. Since I stopped walking my dog out of fear of encountering coyotes in the dark, I started using a stepper at home. Now I read while stepping, and I do feel that it is a bit more difficult than simply marching in place.
I visited my plastic surgeon’s office and was released to any and all physical activity I wish, as if I had not already been doing so. Being officially cleared turned Sunday into a really, really hard-working day. In addition to the first two hours of walking up and down the hills in Griffith Park, I spent several more hours working in the yard, cleaning the outdoor sitting area after the winter.
This journal entry image is an old Soviet-era poster from 1976, calling people to participate in a communist subbotnik. Subbotniks were organized periodically in schools, factories, and virtually all institutions of Soviet life. It meant that on Saturday people were expected to come out and work, usually without complaint and without much choice. Often, this involved cleaning—especially in schools—where students washed windows, wiped dust, and did all the things the everyday cleaning staff did not normally do. After being released to any physical activity, I felt that I really should stop guarding myself, stop negotiating with my body, and dive straight into hard labor—as if proving something, perhaps to myself. Today, cleaning my garden corner became my own personal, voluntary subbotnik. I used every possible tool and household device: vacuum cleaners, blowers, brushes, dustpans, garden hoses—everything short of heavy machinery. By evening, it felt as though there was not a single muscle left in my body that was not aching, and the irony of willingly recreating a compulsory Soviet workday was not lost on me.
By the time I checked my Fitbit, I had logged 252 active minutes and finished the day with over 21,000 steps.
Walking with my son and the dogs in Griffith Park has made me realize how much functional capacity I lost during the year of treatment. I never stopped walking entirely, but I did not walk hills the way I do now. These days, I get tired and need to stop and rest for about 15 seconds. Still, I feel that if I keep doing this consistently, I will eventually get back to my usual self.
The last two weeks have also been filled with my newly found relationship with ChatGPT. While I am establishing this relationship, I have been teaching it to create certain sections of my clinical notes and reports—sometimes successfully, sometimes not so much. Still, it is amazing how much it can help with work if used appropriately. Just like now, I am using ChatGPT to transcribe my dictations because it does so much faster than I can type. I do not need it to fill in the blanks or add words—I have plenty to say myself—but it is certainly useful for transcribing, organizing, and following rules. While I am establishing my relationship with ChatGPT, I keep forgetting that it is not a person, and I find myself saying “please,” “thank you,” “this is perfect,” “I like this,” and then, “now I really want you to redo that,” and so on. It is funny enough.
I also had a Zoom meeting with DeepScribe, an AI-based scribe for physicians, and I realized that it cannot do what I truly need. It would not populate my entire note, and so instead of paying $180 a month, I opted to pay $20 for ChatGPT and teach it to play by my rules.
I am back on my full supplement regimen, and it is becoming progressively more difficult to follow because there are more and more capsules to take. It almost feels as though all the taste mechanisms that were suppressed during treatment—allowing me to swallow virtually anything in any amount—have now woken up. I am refusing to accept a whole quart of tea a day or certain powders. Every day I tell myself that I need to take another look at the regimen and organize it in a more structured way. I need to schedule a consultation with my herbalist, but I keep postponing it. Perhaps this is also because my schedule is now full to the brim, and by the end of the day, I feel completely exhausted.
I am also entering another new project. I am planning my mom’s birthday, which is one month away. I am working on two large backdrops. One will be inspired by Camp Lazlo, and the other by a cartoon-style ocean theme, where I plan to collage members of my family along with my dogs, hummingbirds, and goldfish. I tried creating these images with ChatGPT, but it keeps distorting faces, and I have not yet managed to preserve accurate facial likenesses. Most likely, I will have to resort to old-fashioned paint or Photoshop—whichever proves easier to work with. Still, I feel that I need another project and that continuing to work on something is important for me.
I still feel the void left by my cancer treatment project being practically over. I find myself somewhat lost, unsure of what I am supposed to do next, because I know I can never fully return to my previous normal. I live in a new normal now, and I am not yet sure what to do with it. In fact, I am trying to be more than normal.
My cancer twin recently went to Florida. We met for dinner before she left, and it felt strange to realize that a very difficult year is truly behind both of us—and that we both made it. Our trajectories are quite different, yet there is something powerful about feeling bonded to people who have gone through the same experience. I feel this bond as well with a couple of other women I met during my chemotherapy sessions. We started chatting, then texting, and we are still keeping in touch. I would not say they were my other cancer twins, but they were certainly companions in adversity. There is a bond that forms when you go through something together—because those people understand all your ups and downs, all your highs and lows. They know how you felt, without needing much explanation.
Last week, I went out with my friends to a Greek restaurant. It was packed for a Saturday lunch, and it felt strange to realize that this is normal for people—to go out, to have fun—while my entire prior year was focused on survival. Getting back to normal feels strange. It is not easy. Thoughts about what happens next, how long I will stay healthy, and how I can ensure that I remain healthy keep plaguing my mind—sometimes lingering, sometimes zooming in and out on the horizon of my thoughts, like a snitch during a Quidditch game.