alternately titled: the only thing i’ve written in 3 weeks that i haven’t deleted.

that is not a joke.  EVERYTHING i’ve written in the last two weeks is purely awful. here’s how it goes: i write a few hundred words, then go back to look over them.  and then i gag. and delete.  and repeat.  basic human courtesy demands that i not publish these sappy little essays, though i could argue that i have shared some pretty bad things over the years, and even this particular post isn’t stellar. but the sentimental drivel of july 2015 will not see the light of blog. you’re welcome.

if you have seen my Instagram the past few weeks, you’ve seen #julyisforcelebrating, a mantra for my 23 day escape from all things cancer, doctor, needles, and treatments.  let’s overlook the fact that i’m probably not cool enough to declare my own hashtag… i did, it’s done, we’ll all just have to accept my inappropriate behavior and move on.

y’all, we celebrated the crap out of those 23 days. 23 days of no doctors, no needles, no treatment. 23 days of no paper robes and ice-cold, half-naked exams.  23 days of ignoring cancer all together.

it was magical.

even though i did not miss them for 23 days, my doctors are pretty great. we met some absolute turkeys when Matt was sick, so i consider it no small thing that we actually like all 5 of the doctors i see regularly. we’ve remarked more than once that, given different circumstances, we might have been friends with any of them.  all the breast exams, needles, & awkward photography (oh yes- that’s a thing) makes that highly unlikely now, but still- good people. smart, interesting, kind, humorous (some more than others), and above average listeners… we are thankful for them.

on that note: no. i’m not done with treatment. i have 2 more infusions of Herceptin, 28 days of radiation, and possibly another surgery (oh and 10 years of hormone therapy). i haven’t talked about these a ton… because really? how often should one discuss one’s boobs? right: not often.

some of you kind people have asked how i’m doing emotionally, especially given the darkness and the crying i wrote about a few months ago. i’m coming into a new normal- peeking out from under the crazy hormone storm that covered everything the last few months. i’m not ‘back to myself,’ but i don’t know that i will be. and maybe that’s okay. thanks for asking- thanks for caring, risking the deeper question, and listening.

i already miss july.  i keep trying to write about how it felt to go home.  i try to describe how so many places are home, and how we have people that are home for us even in new places. and then the sappy garbage writing appears again, and i’m not in the mood for that.  gross.

i will say this: going home means doing everyday things with people you love- jumping right back in as though you never left.  i have 20 examples from our St. Louis visit, but this is one of my favorites: standing in Tim & Bailey’s kitchen, mason jar of sangria in hand, talking to at least 30 of my favorite people. it was a gorgeous party- amazing food, twinkly lights, pinterest-y flowers, and a fabulous backyard water feature. but it was also 100 degrees in the shade, and we gathered where we always do- in the heart of the home, close by the food and the friends we’ve loved for so long. it was such an ordinary moment, and one i will treasure.

thanks for celebrating july with us, friends- you made it magical.