My Body, Like My House, Is Under Construction

My Body, Like My House, Is Under Construction
  “I had another chemo nap,” I told my husband recently. “I know,” he said. “We ate dinner without you.” That’s when I realized I had slept for four hours. I see other breast cancer survivors putting in full days at demanding jobs and then taking care of their families at night, shuttling kids to school in the morning, and volunteering for charities in their spare time. I wonder if I’ve allowed myself to become self-indulgent. How are they doing it? Nearly three years ago, we moved from lush Northern California to the dry Southern California desert. After the marijuana laws changed in our state, pot growers slowly began to surround our rural home, and with cultivation came guns, cash, mean dogs, and other drugs. After a neighbor was shot and killed on a Christmas morning — one grower robbing another — my husband, Gary, and I decided it was time to move. I was fresh out of treatment for breast cancer, still a little skinny and weak, but we had to go. At first, we thought we’d spend a year in the Yucatan and so we enrolled our daughter Lauren in a school there. I visualized Gary and me drinking piña coladas and all three of us becoming fluent in Spanish, a language which reminds me of tropical breezes and bright colors. From our hotel in Mexico, we found a tenant to rent our house in California. Then, we picked out a furnished place to live on the beach and headed home to pack our bags. But a funny thing happened on the way to the airport in Cancún. An unscrupulous cop pulled us over and threatened us with all sorts of nastiness. We paid him off and he let us go, but 20 seconds later, after we were back on the road, the same thing happened. Different cop, same scary story. On the plane ride home, Gary and I decid
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