I had my doctor's appointment yesterday, and to the surprise of absolutely no one but myself, the doctor concluded that there are no abnormalities at all in my breast and probably the red mark was a bruise.

I would feel silly, but I have been so stressed for the past two weeks that really I feel nothing but relief: I have been intermittently convinced that I was clearly dying and wouldn't make it to next June to go to Japan for my friend Sae's wedding, or to the spring to watch season five of Orphan Black, or maybe even until November so I can vote for Hilary Clinton and hopefully see Trump's candidacy go down in flames.

(On the other hand, in the event of a Trump victory I would have escaped his presidency. That was what you might call a silver lining.)

I've been so stressed that I lost five pounds in the past two weeks. I haven't written anything. Last night was the first decent night of sleep I've had in all that time.

So on the one hand it was a very unpleasant experience. But on the other hand it was actually pretty useful, because beforehand I was dragging along, bearing up drearily under the idea of drifting through the vast gray expanse of fifty years or so without purpose or direction. Well, there is nothing to make those fifty years look precious and desirable and all too short like the sudden fear that they are about to be snatched from you by the cruel cancerous hands of fate.

And now I feel very enthusiastic about life! My problems seem infinitely more surmountable! Of course it's difficult to find purpose and direction and meaningful connection, but the difficulties are infinitely preferable to dying young and terribly. In fact, seen in that light they barely look like difficulties at all: not that I think they will be easy, but nonetheless I am filled with the yearning desire to have the chance to take a crack at them, because that's so much better than the alternative.