One Month

One month from today...exactly. One month, and I will once again find myself under anesthetic and a knife, under observation and on narcotics. Once again, I face surgery. The difference is that for the first time, instead of taking something away, it will be about adding something. For the first time since this all began, I will be receiving instead of losing. Stage 1 of breast reconstruction. I'm not sure if it's really hit me yet. It's such a big thing! When I first came home wearing my mastectomy bra with its glorious C-cup prosthesis, I was on a cloud. Now, I am ready for a more permanent solution. I am ready to be able to wear things without having to worry about hiding my mastectomy bra. Spaghetti straps, bathing suits, plunging necklines...these will be mine again. Even better will be having perfect breasts that will remain so until I die.

I know it might seem hypocritical for a self-proclaimed feminist to be saying such things. However, until you've lost body parts, you have no idea. Am I opting for bigger than my original size? Hell, yes! Does that make me any less of a feminist? No! I was an A cup. So what? I had just become comfortable with my body type when this disease decided to turn my world upside down. I was trying to attend college with a newborn baby. This was difficult in itself. Then, breast cancer??? I won't lie. I thought long and hard about whether going up a cup or two would betray my feminist ideals. I wondered if I was doing it for me, or patriarchy. In the end I've decided this: Fuck it. I lived most of my life as an A cup, experimented with a C cup with my prosthetic breasts, and I've decided that as the expansion progresses, I will stop at the size that makes me most comfortable with my appearance. If it's bigger than my natural size, so be it. I'm not here to impress anybody. This time I get to do what's best for me, and I owe no one any apologies for it.

Words, Movement, Shame and Reflection

Finding time to write has become a little more difficult as of late. Part of this has to do with making jewelry and redoing the Etsy and Facebook pages. I'm not sure if it's going to take off the way Bri and I need it to, but for now I'm just enjoying the craft. It has been keeping me sane and calm.

I've had a surge in anxiety since the removal of my ovaries. This along with brutal hot-flashes has made sleep difficult. Being post-menopausal at 36 is really quite strange. It's not all bad though. No more monthly “visits” from Mother Nature, and eventually things will even out and maybe I won't need so many medications.

I have a dark secret. I was ashamed to admit it for the longest time, having survived cancer twice. I used to be a smoker, which in itself isn't the worst thing I could do. I've been officially cancer-free since my breasts were taken off, and the radiation made sure it stays away. However, I've only been smoke-free for three weeks. I felt like such a hypocrite! I tried to hide it from everyone, save my husband and a few friends. I just couldn't stay away from the cigarettes for some reason. I've been on welbutrin for a while now. I've heard people say it doesn't work, but I seem to be just fine! No cravings, or anything! So I've shed the shame, I'm owning up, and I'm moving past it.

Moving...moving...moving forward. Even though it often feels as though I'm stuck in stagnation, I realized as I was digging through the dryer for pajama pants, that there is no stopping the progression. It's a little frightening, but also a good thing. Breast reconstruction starts in July. I almost burst into tears in Dr. Gabriel's office because up until now, it has felt like a distant dream. As I was standing there, the day after I quit smoking for good, in an open hospital gown, it began to really sink in. I'm entering the home-stretch. I've walked this dream-scape for a year, now. The cancer is gone, but I still don't feel complete. Some days I feel like a broken doll awaiting assembly. But there I was, my barren chest exposed, as he explained the procedure. There I was, shaking like a leaf. It still feels too good to be true, but perhaps the reality will sink in as the date gets closer...July 3^rd. I really don't mind spending the 4^th in a hospital. It's never been a big holiday for me anyway.

Reality. The realness of this. I've had so many people praise me on how I've handled this. I've had people ask me how I've stayed so positive. I'm honestly not sure why it hasn't crushed me emotionally. Sometimes I wonder if it will all hit me long after it's over. Maybe I'll look back and be reduced to tears, maybe I won't. Sometimes I stop and examine last three years of my life; the death of my brother, the disfigurement of someone I care about, the financial fallout, the cancer, and some other things that are too personal to talk about. Once in a while I realize that I've really been through a lot, and it's so strange when I consider the scope of it. In the midst of all this however, my beautiful daughter came into the world. Cancer meant painful and weakening treatments. It meant doctors, surgeries, feeling weak, sick and sore. It also meant that I got to stay home and watch Violet grow. I've been there for almost all her firsts: laughing, sitting, crawling, walking, and talking. Her personality is really showing, and I marvel at her beauty and mystery every day. Even at this moment, as she's riding her rocking horse backwards, I can't help smiling. Cancer sucks, but it allowed me to be with my most cherished treasure and greatest joy. I wouldn't trade this experience for anything.

Look, HAIR!!! Excuse the color. Lol!

Sometimes it's Beautiful

I had to stop by the grocery store for a couple of things, after a doctor's appointment today. Shortly after selecting my cart and making my way to the desired aisle, I noticed a woman standing with her cart, by the bread. She was older than I am, and had hair so short, she was just past being bald. I thought she looked beautiful. I wanted to talk to her, but I felt a little awkward. Not everyone with such short hair is a cancer patient. Some people just like it that way. Still, I had a gut feeling. I watched her vanish around a corner, then decided to grab the things I needed. When I found myself in the produce section, I looked at the bread again, wondering if she had gone far. I made my way to the back of the store, thinking up things to say. If I saw her again, I knew I would have to talk to her. As I rounded the corner, near the juice, I saw her not far away, looking at some items on an end-cap. Gathering my courage, I approached her. She wasn't looking at me when I said, “You look amazing!” She looked a little surprised, but she smiled and thanked me. Then she said she normally wears a hat, but it was just too warm, today. I told her she pulls off the look amazingly well and that I'd had the same do just a few months ago. She asked to get a look at the length of my hair, so I turned around and showed her the back. We briefly discussed the torture of waiting for our hair to grow back, and I once again assured her that she looked incredible, and that few women look that good in such a situation. I then said I hoped it was going well for her, and she said it was. She was all done with chemo. I smiled at her, said it was good, and told her to stay strong as I made my way around the corner, to another aisle, unable to stop smiling. I smiled at the checkout, I smiled through the parking lot, and I smiled as I got into the car.

It feels good to know there are others surviving the battle, and sharing that positive energy warms me. I hope I was able to brighten her day just a little. She really was beautiful, and I wanted her to know it.

Catching a Breath

It's nice to be catching a breath. Of course, I'm recovering from another surgery, but the meds are doing their job, and I've got a warm cup of rooibos tea to wash down the best shortbread cookies, I've ever had. I've missed writing. I've missed time with myself, and my thoughts. This is a good evening.

Recovery from radiation was rather painful and exhausting, at first. Now, all I have is a section of slightly tanned skin, as a reminder. I started going for morning jogs, then a vitamin D deficiency had me feeling lethargic and depressed. I had no idea that a little vitamin D, or lack thereof, could make such a difference! And then, there was my last appointment with my oncologist. She and I both made the decision that in the interest of prolonging my life, my ovaries should come out as a preventative measure.

So...on Thursday, in an out-patient procedure, the ovaries came out. I wasn't planning on any more children after Violet, so I can live with it. Recovering from abdominal surgery is rather uncomfortable, but I've been enjoying the rest, and time to think.

Violet is amazing. She laughs, and dances. She's starting to learn words, and I show her the alphabet, a few times a week. On good days, we take her to play in the park. A few times, we've taken her to play in the children's section of the library. She likes to point out the letter A embedded in the wall of one of the giant, plastic tee pees. Watching her learn, grow, and develop her personality, is the most incredible thing I've ever taken part in.

I'm learning that even when you beat cancer, it doesn't just bow out quietly. There are more surgeries, and medications. There are screenings, and appointments. I will never be exactly like I was before, and I am certainly okay with that. The journey to a “normal” self is much longer than I realized it would be. However, I'm okay with that, too. Things are what they are, and I do what I can to move forward. I am less concerned with needing to speed ahead than I once was. As long as I'm moving forward, and taking in the lessons, there are things to smile about.  

Feel the Burn

Parking in front of these signs makes me feel like I'm part of some sort of elite club. I've always gotten an odd sense of privilege from it, like I'm special, or something. Weird, I know.

Tomorrow, will be my last radiation, treatment. I'm really not sure how to process it yet, as so much is coming to the forefront. Today, as I pulled into the Cancer Center parking lot, I stared at the patient parking sign, and was surprised to find that I was almost ready to cry. Was it relief, sadness, joy, fear? I'm not entirely certain, as I've been feeling a mixture of all these things. The morning was bright and sunny, and while cold, it did not hold the bitter chill I had been expecting. As I traveled in my car, to and from, the whole sky seemed to open up. Something big is happening, something I cannot yet name.

It's difficult to remember life before cancer. It's hard to imagine what it will be afterward. I was already in the throws of massive change, being a new mother, when my diagnosis came. My world was already forever transformed, as well as my body and spirit. While I met the diagnosis with surprising calm, I knew the heaviness of it. People have asked me how I can handle it the way I do. Honestly, how else could I handle it? Perhaps it's because I've had cancer before. Perhaps it's my stubborn determination to fully experience things. I did it with my brother's death, and I've done it with this.

Maybe, once it all reaches hindsight, the meaning will change. Maybe it will look different from the other side. I've been poisoned, had my breasts carved off, I've been burned...the burning was awful. Chemo was a cake-walk, compared to fifteen years ago, but radiation was something entirely new. I have joked about my life as a microwaved burrito, but really...it was very painful for at least a couple of weeks. And of course, having my breasts removed was difficult, but I've gotten used to that. Besides, I'm getting new breasts, later. They will have scars stretching across them. Nothing can be done about that, but I've never minded scars. They tell a story...they are the stitch-work, sewing who we become together.

My mermaid, didn't surface, today. Today, I felt more like the phoenix, preparing to rise from the ashes of my former self. For the first time since this started, I felt a fire within. I felt life, I felt breath. Perhaps that's what prompted the lump in my throat. Tomorrow, I might actually cry, and maybe I'll cry again after that. When this is all done, and I'm threading my new existence, perhaps only then, will I be able to see it in its entirety. In the morning, comes the final burn. There will be a lot to do in my recovery from treatment, but there is still something final about it. It's over. It's really over.

This was actually after the redness and pain began to subside. My skin will be "tan" for a while, however.

"Did my time among the strong.

Some are here, and some are gone.

Did my time among the cursed,

praying that my brain would burst"

~Glenn Danzig

Liquid and Daydreams...

"Feed me, Seymour"

I have yet to meet a little girl who doesn't love mermaids. Of course, I was no exception. I wanted to be a mermaid, especially after seeing Daryll Hanna in the movie Splash. Over the years, I've met or heard of countless little girls named Madison, after her character, and sure enough...the mothers are always in my age group. There's something about the thought of just vanishing into the sea, that seems so freeing; like flying under water.

I used to sit for hours, or sometimes lie in bed, with my eyes closed but not really sleeping, and I would imagine what it could be like. The daydream I visited the most, involved waking up in my own bed, in my own bedroom, but the world would be covered with water. Everything looked the same, only instead of a little girl, I was a beautiful creature with a shimmering tail and flowing hair. I would swim out from under my covers, and instead of being confined to walking to the bathroom, or the living room, or the kitchen, I could just swim there...or, I could just swim out the window, never having to meet the pavement. I could swim over the house, or around it. I could swim to my school, but not have to go in. I could swim right over the top of that, too. Even though the world I knew was still there, being under the ocean made it more beautiful, more limitless.

I've got about nine or ten radiation treatments to go, which should only take a couple of weeks. Even though chemo made me feel worse, this is more exhausting, and the damage to my skin and muscles has become quite painful. The machine is large and strange-looking. It can be intimidating, especially when I'm having to lie perfectly still in a fixed position, as it moves, and rotates it's enormous head around me, getting way too close for comfort, much like a dangerous beast sniffing at a helpless creature, examining it from all sides, while making the decision whether or not to devour it. I recently named the machine Seymour. It's not as easy to be intimidated by something named Seymour. But then...Seymour has had many names.

The bed that I am positioned on, cushioned by a fitted “pillow”, moves up and down, back and forward. It moves me closer to the machine, and I stay in that spot until treatment is done. This takes about fifteen minutes. You can think about a lot of things over the course of fifteen minutes, or you can focus on a few. My treatments are in the morning, so often times, I'm sleepy. Even in my still and tired state, I remain awake, and sometimes...I drift.

I don't remember how many sessions I'd had before it happened. Lying there under the machine, I returned to my mermaid self. I watched Seymour turn and move and hover, and realized that if the world was covered in water, I could just swim away. The bed would not have to resume its prior position. It would not have to move at all. Even with the machine resting right above my face, I could just swim.

This daydream came to me in the middle of the afternoon, today. I was coming home from visiting my physical therapist. We had decided that my burns were too severe to be able to perform the exercises needed in order to regain full use of my left arm. On Andresen, as I was pulling forward through a green light, first in line, an SUV blasted through a red light, right in front of me. Had I not hit my breaks immediately, it would have been devastating. I'm sure I would have survived, but not without being badly hurt. The car would probably have been totaled. Managing to miss the collision entirely, as the irresponsible SUV driver sped down the road, I continued my journey, and soon the world was under the ocean, with beams of light peeking through the clouds, reaching down. Looking at the glow from above, I found myself somewhere between ocean and sky, remembering how I used to sit watching the robins in the back yard. How I had envied them. How I had longed to fly. It was then that I wondered, if there was much of a difference between flying and swimming. The freedoms seem the same, after all. I could dip, dive, twist and soar just as easily under water, as I could in the sky. Perhaps there is no difference. Maybe the ability to flow freely is not confined to a specific climate or shape. Maybe that's where the magic is. So many things happen to our bodies, and we find ourselves in the strangest of places. No matter where I am, I suppose there will always be that place behind my eyes, where I'm as free as a bird, and as graceful as a mermaid.

"I guess I'm an underwater thing, 

so I guess I can't take it personally.

I guess I'm an underwater thing,

I'm liquid running.

There's a sea secret in me.

It's plain to see it is rising,

but I must be flowing liquid diamonds"

~Tori Amos

The Year the World Didn't End

Wait. Where did the year go? I remember bits of the beginning. I had a new baby, I was a student, and everything had changed. In January, my milk stopped coming in. I cried a lot over it, at first. Nursing Violet was one of the most amazing things I have ever done, next to carrying her in my body. I really did grieve over losing that. February, March, April went by while I worked at balancing school, and caring for a newborn. Then everything changed, again.

Spring has become such a strange time for me. My brother died in the spring. Finances plummeted the spring after that. And then I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I can't recall the exact date, but it was sometime in May. For the last few years, it seems that catastrophe always strikes when the grass is new, and the trees are covered with blossoms. I've always loved spring, but now it carries a slight sense of dread.

What is so strange about having cancer for the second time, is that I was prepared for it. The treatments have been more drastic, and my body has been permanently altered, but I accept it. Sure, I have stressful days, but that's mainly due to losing income, rather than the illness itself. I can't count how many times I've stated that if cancer and Violet were all I had to worry about, I'd be fine. Fortunately, we've had a lot of help along the way. This year, I have learned a lot about how amazing people can be. Friends, relatives, and even strangers have rallied around my little family, helping us in ways I could not have imagined.

Christmas was amazing! As usual, things were extremely tight, and we weren't sure if we'd be doing much of anything. I really didn't need a lot. All I wanted was a tree, and something for Violet. I did not anticipate that there would be so much more. Without warning, gifts, money, visits and an overwhelming abundance of love came pouring in! We hadn't asked, it just came. Violet was showered with incredible gifts, as were we, and we even had a little for Daryll and I to do something for each other. Humbled is an understatement.

Maybe it makes me weird, but above everything else, I feel lucky. I have been the recipient of so much love, how could I not? Of course I have bad days. Things are tight, and so much will remain uncertain until I can get back into school or work. We'll be okay, though. We'll survive. After all, it's what we do.

In a couple of weeks, radiation ends. Then, all I have to do is heal, build my strength, and prepare for reconstruction. That could be a lengthy process, but the cancer treatment itself, is almost done. It's kind of difficult to wrap my mind around that, just yet. Like everything else, I'll take it as it comes.

It's been crazy, tumultuous, and at times, just beyond any description. Over all, it hasn't been a bad year. I'm alive, I've got the most beautiful daughter in the world (which didn't end), and there are a lot of people who care about me. So really, I can't complain too much.