Impossible Dreams

Welcome to my subconscious

I was diagnosed with lung cancer a few years ago. After the surgeons removed a chunk of my lung, I was declared cancer-free, and was told that the only ongoing treatment I required would be six-month checkups for a number of years. It’s a pretty good outcome of a pretty bad problem.

Photo by Henrik Dønnestad on Unsplash

I’m a very practical person, a soldier, disinclined to fixate on things I can’t control, dice-throws I can’t influence. I certainly have the capacity to worry, but I have a big on-and-off switch that I can throw when I have to. I don’t think about this situation (I prefer “situation” to “illness,” being someone who really doesn’t like to feel like a victim) very much. But as the time approaches for my six-month checkup, my subconscious gets busy.

I don’t fret about the appointment, which would be (as they say in the movie business) too “on the nose”. But fret starts worming its way into my being. It took a few cycles of this six-month checkup before I figured it out. For instance, in the weeks before my appointment, I begin having worrying dreams about my friends and family. I dream that they’re sick, or in danger, and the dream involves me being very upset upon hearing this news. These are the sort of terrible dream that leaks over into daytime; even though I know it was just a dream, I still feel vaguely upset for a day or two afterwards, without quite remembering why: It’s like walking through a ruined village after a hurricane, aware that something bad had happened but not being sure quite what it was. The problem, too, is that you don’t want to call the friend you dreamed about and tell them that you had a dream that they were sick; you don’t want the dream to be contagious. I usually don’t remember my dreams, so it’s always unnerving when suddenly I do. And it’s almost always in this period running up to my checkups.

I’ve noticed, also, that I often develop a nagging, barking cough in the pre-checkup weeks. I don’t induce it; it’s a real cough, and it annoys me to no end. I’m not sick and have no other symptoms except for this tickling in my chest. It’s probably pollen, or maybe just some banal irritation (too much talking, too many airplanes?) but it does seem to pop up right around these appointments. This symptom is so plainly psychological that it barely merits further analysis, but it’s fascinating to see how much one’s body is a slave to one’s mind. Somewhere I’m worrying about my checkup but I’ve sublimated it, but like all sublimated things it has popped up somewhere else—in my case, in my chest. Also, how appropriate to have a cough before a lung cancer checkup. Oh, I can read myself like a book these days. Years ago, I was teasing a friend about being repressed, and he said, “I think repression is highly underrated.” I have come to agree. I’d rather have a naggy little cough for a few weeks than to worry explicitly about my checkup; it seems like good repression at work.

My checkup was yesterday, and my saint-like doctor beamed when he announced that everything looked great. “Live your life!” he said, sounded as pleased as if the results had been his own. “I’ll see you in six months!” He made it sound like a playdate, a festive occasion to mark on the calendar. I like his style. I will continue to repress with delight, and (knock on wood) live my life. Seems like the right way to go.

SHOW NOTES

—I’m going back to London next week, and I desperately need a show as good as “One Day” to binge on the flight! Send me your suggestions.

—I just got the Brooke Callahan tie pants that people keep raving about. There are a million colors; I got them in orange. In a way, they’re like very nice cotton pajama pants, but the cotton feels incredibly light and airy, like you could wear them on a very hot day and be comfortable even though they’re full-length pants. I’m going to try them on a few more times before I commit to keeping them, but they seem like they deserve all the raves they’ve gotten.

—I’m deep into the darkness of “London Falling”. It’s so good but it sure makes me look at London with a more cynical eye. But that’s the point, in a way: beneath the glitter is something sinister. Anyway, it’s totally compelling.

—I ordered the Lipault “Lost in Berlin” suitcase and am impatiently waiting for it to arrive. I had hoped it would get here this week, since I’m off to NY and then London—the small apartments that made me want a top-opening suitcase. Grrrr!

—I am falling back in love with department stores. I recently needed a pair of jeans, and instead of going from one single-brand shop to another (an annoying prospect if you add in parking and so forth) I went to BLOOMINGDALES. It was perfect: they carry about twenty jeans brands and I could compare them all, without moving more than a couple of feet. One dressing room, one time stripping down to my undies. (For what it’s worth, I ended up with very nice straight leg jeans from Mother.) Why did we fall out of love with department stores? They’re so great! And so efficient. I hope we fall back in their thrall.

More soon. Thanks for reading. If you’re a paid subscriber, you’re helping make this possible. Thank you. xSusan