Nearly bald soprano passes her PET scan

Atop my head is peach fuzz, getting longer by the day. Chemo is gone from my body and my datebook, as are almost daily visits to the doctor for blood counts. Best of all, the PET scan did not light up anywhere.

So, I'm officially on the road to recovery. It's a slow one, involving a great deal of sleep. Fortunately, sleep is my forte. You might even call it a vocation. Closer still, my true calling in life is as a sleeper. Twelve hours a day? No problem.

Oh, you wanted me awake and coherent? At what hour? Whatever the hour, you can never be sure of how cogent I'll be. I have been known to converse with people -- real, live ones standing next to my bed -- without regaining consciousness. Unconscious telephone calls? Been there, done that.

What are my plans, now that I've been blessed by the medical academy? My plan is not to plan, not now. I have just come through months when planning anything wasn't possible, and, given the strength of chemo fatigue, I don't think this state of affairs will change for a while.

It is interesting, to be in my fiftieth year and once again, have no clue what I am going to do with my life. Ideas float around, one or two in particular, but the execution of them in real life, well, that may take some doing.

I've got the time now, to think -- or not, depending on the day. And blogging? Not so much. Too much focus required, at least at the moment. Yet it's comforting to know, when I'm ready, my blog will be waiting.