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what; it is always the sky. A storm can roll through it, an airplane can roar through, and it is always the sky.
    “I am like the sky and nothing can stick to me,” is what I say before every needle now, and it is working.
    She tells me to write a note that my doctor can read to me when he is putting me under anesthesia before my mastectomy surgery. She asks me what I am scared of and then she puts a spin on it. I tell her that I am scared of scalpels. She tells me the scalpel is my friend. I tell her I am scared that my doctors will make a mistake on me. She tells me that I am in a room full of experts. I tell her that I am scared my cancer will come back. She tells me that I am cured. I tell her that I am scared that I will regret the mastectomy after my breast has been cut off. She tells me that I am proud of the decision I made. I tell her that I am so embarrassed at how wimpy I am. I feel like a coward. Everyone tells me that I am brave but I am filled with terror and self-doubt. She tells me the story of how she finally mastered her fear by doing a fire walk over coals. She was terrified. She was doing it with a group of five women as part of a training seminar. Four of them talked nonstop about how scared they were to do the fire walk. How they thought they might get burned. How they might get halfway through and not be able to finish. The fifth woman never said she was scared. She was the one who got third degree burns halfway over the hot coals. The other four made it without a blister. My hypnotherapist is telling me that being scared is brave.
    “It is so courageous to live by your heart. You need to honor your fear.” She explains to me the root of the word courage is coeur or heart. That following your heart is a form of real courage because it is so hard to listen to your heart. I always thought that following my heart was just the easy way out. The idea that it is actually an act of courage, that somehow my fear is strength, makes me feel less weak.
    But since I have been following my heart so much in these past few weeks, it is beating wildly and I can’t tame it. The Ativan helps. And when my medication or affirmations fail, I have still found the best therapy of all. Actually, she found me.
    When I first heard her voice on my answering machine, it was the only time I had heard my future since my diagnosis. Just from her voice, I know that she must be powerful and bold and the stuff of myths. She is an Amazon.
    “Geralyn, my name is Rena. You don’t know me. I’m your friend Jon’s aunt and I had breast cancer years and years ago.” Her voice becomes my lifeline. She tells me about her mastectomy, her chemo, but what she is really telling me is how alive she is all these years later. She signs everything “In Celebration!” She tells me to wear my best jewelry to the hospital. I tried a support group right after I was diagnosed but it didn’t work for me: Everyone was comparing tumor size and estrogen receptor status, and I found myself wanting to solve everyone’s problems in the room except for mine. Rena is different. She wants to tell me everything that helped her and to be my guide. She is convincing me I will have a future. How is she so brave for me? I go onto the Internet and look up Amazons. Women warriors who sliced off their breasts so that they could pull their arrows back further. They were serious. Bad-ass. I channel the voice of Rena and I hear the voice of a warrior. Of a woman who did anything to survive. I know I will cut off my breast, too. But am I Amazon material?
    The Ativan and the champagne have finally settled in as a nice buzz (oops, I remember the warning said not to drink alcohol while taking Ativan, but it is already too late). Will I ever be an Amazon? I am made of the stuff of myths?
    Maybe just lifting up my head is the first step. A small step to re-enter the world I am sure that I have already left. If life is short, I need a sip of champagne and a bite of