It's a beautiful day...

It's not secret that I hate winter. I make no bones about it. If I had my druthers, I'd be living in Austin, Jerusalem or San Francisco - cities where winter is but a passing thought - nothing more than a novelty. That's not to say I'm not a proud New Yorker - any Bostonian can tell you that I'm very proud of my pinstripes and being from the empire state. But I loathe cold weather.

So, days like this weekend ordinarily have me jazzed. I'm out on the bike, I'm out with the kids, I'm outside.

But not this year.

As much as I've been jonzing to get back on the bike, get back into a normal physical routine of any kind, part of me is scared. Well, scared is the wrong word. Apprehensive. Of what? I don't know. I've always been a bit of a tomboy. I've always loved getting down and dirty, getting physical. I've never been afraid to sweat.

And yet, I find myself coming up with every excuse not to go outside.

Perhaps last night's grilled dinner on the deck was my first step outside of my house since the cancer diagnosis. But my doctors have me so nervous about straining myself too much, causing another infection, pushing it, going against my natural instinct to ignore pain and discomfort and power through things that I don't trust myself.

I don't trust that mowing the lawn isn't too much work. I don't trust that doing the desperately needed chicken pick of trash collection (months of garbage being poorly tossed into the garbage cans, raccoons raiding bags, etc, has left bits and pieces of junk on my property) is going to pull the muscle just so, and cause injury.

But I want to go outside. I want to romp. I want to garden. I want to do all the fix-it jobs around the house again.

And I want to ride again.

At what point does the patient truly become the survivor?