Today was my last psyche sesh before surgery. I’ve dipped in and out of counselling throughout treatment and recovery, but when I acknowledged that I was worried about not waking up from my op it was clear I needed a more regular schedule to stop me from tripping into a mental ha-ha. The fear isn’t something new: it played on my mind last year when I had my skin-sparing mastectomy. Then I wrote a letter to my husband telling him how privileged I was to have shared my life with him, and that he would be the last thing that I would hold in my heart and breathe into my final being. Yeah, it was as much a head-fuck as it sounds. Today I discovered an assuredness of survivability, right in my belly. I’ve lived and survived every breathe and moment over the last 40+ years to bring me to this point. I can do this. If I don’t make it, you can weave this post into the bio-mythography of my death. But that’s not gonna happen. Not today.