JAY LENO

It's almost time for my bilateral mastectomy. (It's not often a girl gets to say that.) So how the heck am I supposed to stop my mind from going there (wherever "there" is)? And how do I keep calm when I know in a matter of hours my boobs will be removed, along with the cancer that resides in the right one?

I know this sounds counter-intuitive, but if you're like me, you go to a Jay Leno taping. 'Cause there's nothing quite like the healing power of humor.

My sister got Leno tickets several months ago — way before she knew I had cancer. The fact that the show date happens to fall 14 hours before my surgery is, as you can imagine, initially very stress inducing. How can I sit still in a chilly television studio with several hundred strangers and watch Jay Leno make jokes the night before I'm going under the knife? Shouldn't I be at home resting or worrying or not eating or drinking or something?

Wait a minute. This may actually be a brilliant idea. I mean, it's not like I'm going to get a good night's sleep anyway; I'll be wired for sound and the Zzzz's will be fleeting. Plus, I have to be at the hospital really early — 5AM. (That means getting up at 4AM.) There's no reason I shouldn't at least try to forget my troubles, right? I'll have plenty of time post-surgery to lay in bed and worry.

So off to the taping I go (sister and mother in tow).

We spend all afternoon (and part of the early evening) at NBC Studios. We actively participate in a pre-show crowd warmup. I even toy with the idea of telling the studio audience that I'm about to have a double mastectomy and this is the last outing my real boobs will ever have. But I chicken out and settle for a CD of that night's musical guest instead. (Turns out cheering really loudly wins you free stuff.)

Before the actual taping begins, Leno walks out to greet us in his street garb — jeans and a T-Shirt. He's kind and friendly and familiar. When he reemerges in a suit and tie, the crowd goes crazy, on cue. Jesse Eisenberg is fresh off his Oscar nomination for The Social Network, so it's cool to see him in person (even though he's a little — OK, a lot — nervous). My mom, my sister and I have a blast. We laugh a ton. It turns out to be the perfect way to while away the worry hours.

For half a day, not only do I forget about my surgery, but I actually forget I have cancer. 

And that, my friends, is the healing power of comedy.

HUMPTY DUMPTY

Surgery day is getting closer, and I'm beginning to worry about everything. (If you knew me, you'd know I have been worried about everything for forever, so how could I possibly worry any more? Well, I do because I can. Or is it I can because I do?)

My older sister has flown into town to help with whatever is needed while I'm having surgery and recovering. YAY! She is also here on business (she has a client nearby), but will provide the greatest benefit by assisting my mother (who no longer drives and is dependent on me). In theory this is a splendid idea — move the load of responsibility off my shoulders and onto my sister's. 

However, sister doesn't know how much there is to be done. She tells me in an email that she will call me during the car ride to her work appointment to discuss any details. There is no  way we can go over everything on the phone and without her writing it down. 

So I write up some lengthy notes and take them over to my mom's. The three of us — me, mom, sis — sit at the kitchen table as I try to explain everything that I'm worried about: my mother's medical appointments, her upcoming taxes (which haven't yet been started), her bills (which I facilitate paying), her bank statements, her prescriptions (which I pick up) ... the list goes on. Both my mother and sister tell me the exact same thing: do not worry about anything. Huh? Aren't they listening? I'm the only one who knows how the bills are currently being paid. I'm the one who knows what's currently happening with my mother's health. (My mom, bless her heart, tries not to think about any of these details and therefore does not remember much about any of them). 

But somehow, I'm now supposed to simply stop worrying and focus on my surgery. Everything will be taken care of. Just like magic.

Well, I'm not buying any of it. 

Because here's what will happen: I will be out of commission for a few weeks while my mind is on my own healing. My sister and mother won't know (or recall) what is supposed to be taken care of if I don't tell them. Things will fall through the cracks. And when I finally re-surface, I won't remember anything either. Then my sister will fly home and I will be left with the fallout and the pieces.

What, me worry? That's crazy talk.

Maybe if I allow them to help me solve a small problem I see on the near horizon, they will "get it." So I tell them how friends and neighbors want to bring me meals, and that I would love that, but if I can't make a sandwich for myself, how will I be able to get out of bed and go downstairs and answer the door while also getting our two adorable but ferocious barking machines (otherwise known as dogs) to go outside so I can let "person with the food" inside without their being pounced on (or worse, if the barking machines don't like them, nipped at). OH, they say. That IS a problem!

These are but a few of the details I am stuck on in the days preceding my surgery. I am consumed with worry about everything because I somehow feel everything is my responsibility to worry about.

Then it hits me. Things are going to have to change or I will never get through this ordeal. I'm going to have to learn how to let go. I'm going to have to give up worrying. Cancer's going to have to "cure" my desire for control.

Right. Just like Humpty Dumpty learns to effortlessly dance along the edge of a brick wall.