It started so well.

With my internal clock still trapped somewhere over Iceland, my eyes popped open at 5am. I had plenty of time to sip coffee and write at my kitchen table while soup stock from the remnants of Thanksgiving dinner simmered beside me. As the clock crept towards 9am, I reached for my cozy down vest and put it on for the first time this season. I stepped into the crisp fall air and finally felt happy to be home.

As I walked along the footpath beside the water in False Creek, I stopped to fully appreciate the moment. The sound of chirping, happy birds layered over the distant hum of traffic. The glassy water shimmered almost iridescently. What looked like toy cars zipped over the Cambie Street Bridge and the sky-train snaked its way to the big ball in the sky that still takes me back to Expo 86. I could smell the non-city like perfume of dewy grass and ocean air and wanted to bottle it up. I looked at my watch and realized that admiring the vivid fall colours or the sail boat neighbourhoods for a moment longer would make me late.

I hiked up the hill to the Leslie Diamond Medical Center and clutched tightly to the feeling of inner peace that I had confidently trapped, only a moment before. But, as I walked in the doors of the facility, I noticed it start to slip through my grasp.

As the elevator doors glided open on the 8th Floor, I stepped into the Neuromuscular Disease Unit and left my Zen behind. Instead, anxiety and frustration tugged at my pant legs and hurried to keep up with me.

After an hour of allowing doctors to interrogate, poke, and electrically prod me, I finally got my answer.

‘I am sorry, Theresa. There is nothing we can do.’ I nodded politely. Smiled. Waited for them to leave the room.

A part of me had suspected that they would tell me this. That I would have to suck it up and learn to live with the pain and numbness in my left arm. The doctors had cheered because I had no major nerve damage. I hadn’t joined them. The fact that two of my fingers permanently feel like the jaw of a drooling, post-filling patient and that my arm aches every single day does not feel minor to me.

I had known the risks. The surgeon who saved my life had to remove the lymph nodes that could have carried toxic breast cancer cells to the rest of my body. The fine print in the pre-surgery guide told me about the potential for pain and numbness. When I woke up to this new sensation, I had banked on temporary vs. permanent damage. As the doctors conferred around me, I knew. Almost a year had passed. If the symptoms hadn’t subsided by now, they probably wouldn’t ever get better.

I zipped up my stupid down vest and yanked open the door. I had to get out of the room filled with machines and the smell of sickness. I kept my head down and ran to the elevator.

I stepped outside and the sunlight momentarily blinded me. I quickly wiped away the hot tears that had started to slide down my face and walked away from the questioning eyes that milled around the outside of the building.

I hated the beautiful fall day. I hated the sunshine. I wanted to go back to rainy Istanbul. At least in Europe, I could eat too much chocolate and drink wine with my lunch. I wouldn’t have to go to Doctor’s appointments, worry about the future, or think about recovering from my next surgery two months from today.

As I stood there, under an October periwinkle sky, positive Terri started to give me a pep talk. Reminded me that other people experience far worse calamities in life. But, I told her to spare me the speech. I didn’t want to hear it. I wanted to go home, shut the blinds, and escape into a TV induced coma.