I wrote one thousand words on my novel this morning. That’s not a stellar word count, but it’s enough to reassure me that the looming mastectomy hasn’t knocked me off track yet. If I can produce a thousand words, I’m still a writer and not a patient. It’s a small victory, but one that I need to repeat on as many days as possible over the next few weeks.

I got good news on the MRI. Other than the honking big tumor at two o’clock on my right breast, they didn’t find anything abnormal. Thus far it looks like I won’t need chemotherapy or radiation after the surgery. I’ve sat with family members during chemotherapy and I fear it more than surgery. I can deal with the knife, but spare the poison, please.

Tomorrow I meet with the genetic counselor. I haven’t made the final decision on lumpectomy vs. mastectomy. The surgeon said that with the lumpectomy, my lifetime cancer risk still approaches 50 percent. If the genetic counselor concurs with that, then my decision is made. Twice in the past two years I’ve been through the mammogram-ultrasound-biopsy routine. Thank you, but I have better places to park my anxieties. I’d rather go back to worrying that no one reads my novels.