What do you obsess about during those long moments at the end of your frantic day, as you wait for the sweet oblivion of sleep to rescue you? A grudge against a colleague? An ex that you wish would take you back? A secret fear of something happening to your child? Maybe even an upcoming surgery to remove your lumpy, cancer-prone breasts?

* * *

The pressure builds in my chest and I need to escape the four walls of my apartment that will soon imprison me. It’s May 12, 2010….five days until my double mastectomy. I shrug into a thin spring jacket and lace up my running shoes. The keys shake as I lock the door and pant shallow puffs of air into my lungs until I make it to the beach and taste the salt on my tongue. I wait for the ocean to work its magic, but the lump in my throat does not dissipate.

As I speed-walk away along the path, sweat gathers under my toque. I don’t want to see any, ‘why is that girl bald’ stares, so I grit through the itchiness of wet wool and storm towards my destination. When I arrive at the market on Granville Island, I wait for the aroma of JJ Bean coffee, fresh donuts, and ripe bananas to dull the panic. It doesn’t work either. Instead, the people milling past me suffocate me with their cheery laughter and idle grocery shopping. I want to upend the beautiful display of fresh flowers as I lunge for the exit.

I drag my still weary from chemo limbs up the hill and into the bookstore on Broadway and Granville. For one beautiful moment, I lose myself in the smell of fresh paperbacks as I trail my fingers along the shiny new releases. But soon, even the glossy photos of the latest celebrities in their matching dresses with the “who wore it best polls” don’t provide relief from the voices shouting inside my head: “Double Mastectomy” “No Sensation” “Lose Your Nipples”. I almost flatten a unsuspecting grey haired woman flipping through a gardening book on my race to the door.

I finally stumble into the little park sandwiched between the two entrances of the Granville Street Bridge. Traffic races by as I flop onto the cold cement bench and put my head between my knees. The early May sunshine beats down on me until I am forced to loosen my jacket and can now clearly see my chest. I can’t outrun the fear anymore. So, I sit here in the middle of the city, and breathe through the desire to grip my breasts and never let go. People walk by me, but I keep my head down and allow my shoulders to shake quietly until the vice in my throat loosens. Finally, I wipe my face, lift my head, and walk slowly down the hill towards home; just a tiny bit lighter then when I arrived.

Since that day, eight months ago, I have learned that trying to suppress fear by staying busy all day doesn’t give you solace in those dark hours before sleep. I have learned that the only way to get past the worry, is to dive in and free fall through it. I have learned that the right plastic surgeon can create a little magic, that we are all so much more than our hair, our breasts, our careers, and our achievements and that sometimes our greatest adventures wait for us, just beyond our toughest hurdles (Africa – here I come!)