Terrified Celebration: The Reality of an Oxymoronic Existence

"Today" (Monday, even though it's Tuesday on the calendar - I haven't slept yet - it's still today) I showed up at Cancer Care Northwest's south office for my final chemotherapy treatment.  It's been awhile since I blogged, and I've beat myself up about that.  I - we - are taking another step into more undiscovered country, though, and I just can't stay away any longer.  I started this blog with the idea to chronicle my search for my inner breast cancer b@d@ss from then on, but it has been sporadic, to say the least.  It has been approximately (exactly) 137 days since that first blog, and there are 7, total.  That has bothered me.  Often and intensely.  Yes, the blogging and the FaceBooking was and is for my emotional health, first and foremost, but I am - at heart - an educator and a story-teller.  So many have helped me along the way that I feel it's important to tell my story so maybe women - and men - who walk this road in the future might benefit from the steps I have taken - good or bad.  It's how we learn, as a species, from our history, both macro and micro.  I also took vows as a Buddhist to dedicate my meditation practice and my life to doing my bit to ease the suffering of all sentient beings.  If the Buddhist belief in reincarnation is really the "way it works," the Bodhisattva vow also includes the promise that, should the vow taker achieve enlightenment, they will still chose to come back and work again to alleviate the suffering of all.  My vow was my promise to God that I would be the best person I could be for as long as I am allowed so that my and others suffering is just a bit less because I lived - that's the goal, anyway.  Really, I can't not tell my story.  It occurs to me, though, as I begin this entry with the goal of blogging every day of my post-chemotherapy life until further notice (for a variety of reasons that include guilt), that I should go a little easy on myself.  I am, after all, one of those sentient beings I vowed to ease the suffering of, if at all possible.  If every living creature on this planet deserves kindness and compassion and the easing of their suffering - and I hold this idea as my dearest, universal Truth - I *have* to acknowledge that *I* am one of the deserving.  And that hurts to say.  I want so desperately to *believe* that statement, and it is *so* difficult.  But that doesn't change the Truth that I deserve the same respect I give others.  It does *not* change that Truth.  It doesn't.  But I so wish it didn't make me cry and feel like I need to keep repeating it to make it a little more true.

Anyway, in respect of the fact that I deserve relief from suffering, I am beginning a quest to view my sporadic blogging is *not* a negative thing (I will have to keep reminding myself this for some time, I'm thinking).  It is a natural thing, really.  Even in the best of times, dedication to the recording of your life is not an easy undertaking mentally, emotionally, or logistically.  And it has its own time and place.  Unless someone wants to chronicle their entire life, there are times when regular, frequent blogging just shouldn't happen.  That's a whole different kind of crazy that gets movies made about them.  Looking at the indescribable impact steroids have had - and are still having - on my emotional control, mood swings, sense of self worth, faith in myself, anger threshold, and pretty much anything else you can think of that involves *moods,* combined with the impact "chemo brain" has had, continues to have, and will continue to have for the foreseeable future on my ability to do my job easily, to organize the many spheres of my life, and pretty much anything else you can think of that involves traversing the *busy* that is daily western life, blogging with any kind of frequency would have been...  well, I want to say unhealthy, but if I'm being honest, it would have been self-abusive.  And if I saw anyone I knew attempting that while going through what I've experienced over the last three months, I would have literally sat on them to make them take a break and rest themselves.  That means I deserve the leniency, if everyone else does too, right?  I so wish it didn't make me cry and feel like I need to keep repeating it to make it a little more true, though.

So I allowed myself that time to rest.  In fact, I didn't feel guilty about resting when I needed to, because I KNEW I needed to recover well so that I didn't end up extending my healing exponentially.  Now that I can see the mending beginning and I am not trapped in the...  mental and emotional... hell that chemo sometimes has been, I feel strangely guilty that I didn't blog more.  I've been wishing I had recorded more of the crazy I experienced.  But I have to believe that if I had been capable of recording it, I would have.  During these meltdowns, every ounce of energy was spent not losing what little hold I had on my sense of stability and sanity.  Don't get me wrong, this wasn't a daily experience, but there were enough of them and they were close enough together that they filled in the few empty cracks left by the steroid-chemo brain train wreck.  I deserved it the breaks; the rest.  And it's nice that it hurts a little less to say that now, because I believe it a little more.

(Sidenote - it is so interesting how the point of a blog often emerges rather differently than expected and it is so fun when it happens.  It's happening right now :-)

My Ego wants to add that there were often days where I felt decent.  Like, really decent.  Decent enough to get things done - with work, with my sons and grandchildren, with my writing contract, with the oh-so-fun vintage eBay store, with my boyfriend of almost a year - who has walked *every step possible* with me, with my videos I want to make for my history classes, the fiction I've started and never finished.  The steroids and chemo brain often leave me unable to complete complex thoughts and tasks, but it wasn't 100% difficult 100% of the time.  Instead, though, I would often watch tv or play Diablo or some other leisurely, unproductive activity.  There were times I could have been "working," but instead, I was playing.  But my Ego is often unfairly hard on me - everyone's is, if you think about it - and it was doing it again.  Don't I deserve to have some fun, I mean, even if I *wasn't* going through chemo, EVERYONE deserves fun, right?  If that is true, then so do I, regardless of chemo.  I prioritized my classes first, and beyond that, all work and no play makes Stacy so much sicker.  I deserved the play time.  And it hurts a little less to say that now, because I believe it a little more.

And so the purpose of tonight's blog was to help me let myself off the hook for the things I seem to feel I *should* have done, which really is simply a false statement.  Because I *did* do what I was supposed to.  I took care of myself as best I could so that I could start getting better as soon as possible.  Even when I slipped and worked too long or stayed up too late, I always came back to taking care of myself.  I deserved it.  I still deserve it.  Saying that makes me smile.  Right now, I have little trouble believing it :-).

postscript: I have been watching "Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants" for the first time ever while writing this entry.  The scene playing while writing that last paragraph was in a store where one of the four main teenage girl characters is making a documentary with the help of a 10 year old girl.  The main character just found out the girl is dying of leukemia.  Normally, the main character is rather irritated by the girl, but today, she's asking her to help her with one more interview.  The girl figures out that the main character learned her secret and looks at her and says, "Are you asking me to help you with the film because I have leukemia?"  Thoughtful, delayed response - "Maybe."  The girl thinks about it and smiles a little.  "Okay."  

:-)

And now I'm making deals?... The Inner Breast Cancer B@d@ss has yet to show her face

The potential of loss over the next 10 weeks became a little overwhelming today.  It seemed to all just hit me at once, although, in reality, it was one lose followed quickly by another, followed quickly by another.  Running to the bathroom between classes almost wasn't fast enough today.  I could lose my hair.  That would start soon.  I could have permanent heart damage.  We won't know until we know.  Osteoporosis - that could happen.  I *am* losing the coordination of my hands, but haven't felt *too* much pain, yet, but I drop *so much* now.  What will that mean for driving?  No cross-stitching.  Don't laugh.  I love it.  I can't figure things out like I used to - and now it is sooooo hard to teach like I used to.  I get lost in my reasoning - but now what I have are pieces with no connections.  I can't lean on my hands *at all* or they are instantly half in pain and half asleep.  There is no closure where there once was a very cozy place for me; a cozy place, in fact, that I only discovered about...  8 months ago.

And my breaking point - my favorite comfort food doesn't taste good anymore.  I spent more than I should have to indulge myself.  My appetite hasn't been great, but it's been steady.  I was so ready to treat myself on payday.  So of this rant - this is what I've lost in the last 24 hours - lost some hand coordination = driving, typing, cross-stitching - lost the ability to self regulate body temperature, especially at night/can't sleep close to anyone or anything - I can't figure things out like I used to, like even yesterday, and it is severely affecting my lectures - leaning on my hands puts them half in pain and half asleep - and closure.  Everyone deserves a little closure sometime, right?  And my favorite comfort food.  It tastes like nothing doused in ketchup now.

So I'm still willing to deal.  One.  Just one.  If I can keep one of these things I am either in the process of losing or in danger of losing, I would be happy.  I promise.  I don't even need to choose.  You pick, and I'll be happy with it.  Really.  I will.  Trust me.

TMI - You Can't Say You Weren't Warned

I have never been so scared.  Ever.  Ever, ever.  All I can think is "please, please don't take it all."  Both nipples will be gone, eventually.  But my strength, my stamina, my.... interest.  I won't even call it what it is.  I am talking about my "libido" and the physical experience of intimacy.  My "interest" is higher than it's ever been in my life.  Intimacy has never *felt* better in my life.  I'm not ready to...  lose this, yet.  The treatment I start today, though, could take that away.  All of it.  And I don't know how to do this.  I don't know how to wait and see if my so very young relationship is going to have to try and weather *another* so very unnatural adjustment.  Not yet.  Just please, not yet.  I don't know what bargain I'm willing to make to keep this piece of me just a little bit longer, but I'm willing to talk terms.  Please?  Hair.  I'd be completely willing to lose my hair and both nipples and never complain about any of it if I can just keep this piece.  That's got to be worth something in a sentimental, "rings of Akhaten" kind of way ~ my dreads are past my waist.  Please, consider it?  It's all I feel like I have left to bargain with.

This isn't a very Buddhist reaction.  This is what they would define as attachment, I suppose.  Except I never had this piece, really, to begin with ~ intimacy I could enjoy that wasn't tainted with one of the myriad of events in my past.  Intimacy I enjoyed that didn't make me feel like I was imposing.  It feels so *good* to be with him, and I am not ready to lose that, yet.  Please?  I *like* feeling good.  I don't think I took it for granted.  But just because you treat a thing exactly right ~ never take it for granted, always appreciate it ~ doesn't mean you won't lose it.  It just means that you did it right while you had it.  It's easier to lose something, though, when you have someone to blame - even if that someone is yourself.  Then something can be done differently "next time" so maybe when the loss present itself again, you know better what to do so as not to lose it.  That's the goal behind learning from past mistakes, so the outcome next time around is better.   This is the first time I am facing the possibility of losing something that I did everything within my power to keep alive.  Everyone involved did.  This should be an interesting piece.  Talk about new territory...

It's Not Easy Being Green

Sad is not an easy thing to be.  In the process of trying to cure sadness, we, as humans, have perfected the art of being sad.  I really wonder if we perpetuate it in the process.  Of course, when I look at the simplicity of that statement, it makes me laugh.  Of COURSE we perpetuate it by trying to get rid of it.  So the more interesting "wonder" for me is "why."  Why does trying to make the sadness go away perpetuate the sad?  I suppose failure at striving to no longer be sad would make a person sad.  Trying so hard to deny the impact and power~the very existence~of the thing that makes a person sad, yup, that would perpetuate sadness.

And yeah, I'm talking in third person, because overall, I am not sad.  Not in this moment.  And most of my moments are not sad moments.  I don't know why, but they aren't.  And there has been a *lot* of sad sh!t in my life.  At some point in my life, though, my percentage of happiness began to consistently outweigh my percentage of not-happiness.  Now some of this is relative.  Sad, according to the first result in Google, is defined as "feeling or showing sorrow; unhappy."  That's not the sad I'm talking about, though.  I'm talking about when a person's spirit is sad.  I'm talking about when you strip off the layers of work and school and family and school and everyday life and relationships and the past and the future and...  the weather and everything... and just look at what's left.  That is the space I'm talking about.  That space in me...  is happy.  And I don't think I'm lying to myself.  I...  am happy.  I think I am happy, therefor I am happy.  I don't think that's what Decartes meant, but I like it.

And what spawned this?  I went to work today.  For the first time since my amputation/surgery/cancer/whatever/transformation~into~alter-super-ego.  And still, I inherently feel no different than I did 4 weeks ago.  Well, that's not true.  Four weeks ago, I was walking through Walmart with tears streaming down my face and my arms out with "Chandelier" on the intercom, beelining for a blue tee with a pink Superman logo.  4 weeks ago, my amputation/surgery/blah~blah~blah was in a few hours.  So I inherently feel no different than I did...  on June 18th.  That is the day before I found the lump in my breast.  The sadness and concern on my colleague's faces was...  nice.  It was sweet.  It was honest.  I didn't feel pitied or anything.  I just...  didn't feel like I think they thought I must feel.

And then we interviewed three people for a new history position and over the next few hours, in the back of my mind, this sadness thing started to take shape.  I may be wrong, but I seem to feel a sadness in most people I know.  A deep sadness, I think.  I could be wrong.  But I don't think I am.  Not in most cases.  But I want them to be.  I want the people I care about to be... happy.  Surface happy and spirit happy.  I want to help.  I want...  the liberating freedom of this kind of clarity for everyone without them having to go through what I did to find their clarity.  I feel so helpless, though.  I want my presence in their lives to make their lives easier.  Brighter.  Happier.  But I so often feel that the opposite is true.  Sad is not an easy thing to be.  In the process of trying to cure sadness, we, as humans, have perfected the art of being sad and I wonder if we perpetuate it in the process.  Of course, when I look at the simplicity of that statement, it makes me laugh.  Of COURSE we perpetuate it by trying to get rid of it.  So the more interesting "wonder" for me is "why."  Why does trying to make the sadness go away perpetuate the sad?  I suppose failure at striving to no longer be sad would make a person sad.  Trying so hard to deny the impact and power~the very existence~of the thing that makes a person sad, yup, that would perpetuate sadness.

I guess that means me striving to help could perpetuate the very problem.  Sad is a necessary state of being.  It is also transitory.  People have been there for me when I was sad.  Surface sad and spirit sad.  I can be there for my people, too.  If nothing else, I've learned you don't cure sadness, you just live it.  Maybe we live it all the time, I don't know.  Maybe it's just a process of rewriting the dictionary.

So much to learn... So little time?

Well, I didn't expect that.  Yesterday, we went to our 2nd opinion consultation.  I've never gotten a 2nd opinion for anything.  Now I'm wondering if there is more I should've gotten a 2nd opinion on.  The difference between two doctors can be stark.

But that's not what I didn't expect.  (Great syntax, eh?)  I think I had convinced myself that we had gone through the worst of this.  That we had done enough and that Tamoxifen would be it.  Ooooo.  That was a bit o' good news.  Tamoxifen only *mimics* menopausal symptoms.  It's not actual menopause, even though it limits your estrogen production and blocks those estrogen receptors.  That is good news.  It didn't outweigh the rest of the day.  The rest...  Yeah.  Not so good news.  This doctor said some of the same things.  Grey area cancer.  Recommendations for treatment are harder because my cancer doesn't squarely fall...  anywhere.  I shouldn't be surprised.  That describes my whole life, pretty much.  I've always said I didn't believe in black and white.  That there are no absolutes.  It's nice being right sometimes, I suppose.

But to hear from a second person that chemo is the traditional, accepted, really unavoidable recommendation...  That sent me into a tailspin.  That's what I've been wanting, though, a definitive answer, right?  There is a "chemo~lite" option ~ a less intensive, less toxic chemo route that would still give me the benefit of Herceptin ~ the HER2 protein blocking infusion therapy ~ while experiencing less of the usual chemo side-effects.  But everything had looked so...  promising.  So f#cking promising.  So much...  easier, finally.

All I could feel was "haven't we done enough?"  This has been so hard.  Couldn't it have been...  hard enough, already?  I couldn't even vocalize that for half the day.  I was freaking out inside, but in the middle of it, I couldn't have told you why.  Well, the chemo part, that's kind of a given.  Who wouldn't freak out about toxic poison intentionally injected into your veins, yeah?  Once a week for 12 weeks?  Yeah.  That's definitely "freak out"~able.  But it felt bigger.  Deeper.  More encompassing.

So we let ourselves break down for a little bit.  I just folded into the embrace and sobbed for a bit.  I really wanted this to be over.  All I could think was, "I don't wanna do this."  That's pretty much been my mantra since this whole thing started.  Not really a great mantra for my inner breast cancer badass, eh?  Maybe that's part of the superhero origin story that we rarely hear~or that we don't *want* to hear.  When it's hard~when it's scary~when it's exhausting.  We don't wanna do it.  And I can only assume that everyone who has gone through something hard~something scary~something exhausting, feels that same thing, if only for a little bit.  It just so happens that all the options under the heading "not doing it" are...  not options.  Not for me.  They are just whimsical thinking~whimsical, and apparently delusional, thinking.  So yeah.  "I don't wanna do this."  One step closer to looking that BC badass in the eye...

Discipline

Why has it been so hard, I wonder, to get back in here and do this blogging thing.  I *wanted* to share this experience.  I *needed* to share it.  It's been days and days and days since I blogged.  I publicly wondered why on FB yesterday and received a variety of honest and creative answers.  None of them were right, I've decided.  It's because I don't have the discipline.  Anymore, it feels like I used all of my "let's get this sh!t done" ability in graduate school.  I would like to say I know that isn't true, but if the last 4 or 5 years or so is any indication...  Well...  3 or 4, I guess.  I used to say it was time, or lack thereof.  I never have the "time" for whatever it is that I'm not doing, in that moment.  Lie, lie, lie.  Discipline would have made the time - or at least provided a more honest answer.  The universe gave me all the time I need weeks ago.  Well, three weeks ago, to be exact.  Full right radical mastectomy at 45 in a *very young* (at the time-blog for another day) relationship.  All the time in the world, it gave me.  So THIS is the lesson in this, eh?  Discipline and dedication?  Ugh.  It was so much more entertaining having so many things going on that I could flit from one thing to the next, never staying in one place too long - especially never long enough to *finish* the thing.  Ok...  ok....  I get it.  I'll slow down.

Really, it forced both of us to slow down (ok, short reference to that not-so-new-anymore-relationship).  Maybe it saved us.  Not that we needed saving, but on the flip side of that statement, doesn't everyone?  One of many continually evolving results of this slow down?  I've never felt this strong...  this confident...  this capable...  or this attractive, actually.  I've always known that, for me, confidence - appropriately placed and well-balanced - is sexy.  I've also always considered myself a rather confident person, but I've never really felt "sexy."  And I'm not going all base and carnal and instinct here.  If I say someone is "sexy," I'm really saying they are...  intriguing.  Interesting.  Engaging.  Attractive, but DEFINITELY not just physically.  Magnetic.  Mysterious.  If I call someone sexy, I'm admitting that they have a factor of "irresistible" for me that includes both inner and outer qualities.  Basically, I guess I have to know someone before I can determine if I consider them "sexy" or not.  I've never thought of myself that way.  I've never felt that any of those words described *me.*  Until recently.  Maybe I'm finally getting to know myself a little bit.  Or maybe I've engaged the ultimate self-esteem protective mechanisms~denial and delusion, and someday, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, maybe next year, it will all come crashing down around my head, and I will look in the mirror, finally seeing the 'mutilated freak' that many have seen in their own post-mastectomy mirrors.  It's a possibility.  In some dimension, I suppose.  But I've looked in the mirror *a lot* over the last three weeks.  I've taken pictures and looked at them.  I've even zoomed in to see the changes up close.  And unless I've *always* been a mutilated freak and just never known it, that's just not what I see.  I see me.  And I like what I see.

I know many women who have had to go through a mastectomy would not agree.  And that's perfectly fine.  I do hope not to be judged by any of my new BC family, but it could happen.  I grabbed the "mutilated freak" phrase from a breast cancer discussion board.  A post-surgery woman wrote something to the effect of, "of course I am wearing a prosthetic until I can have the reconstruction - I would *never* leave the house looking like a mutilated freak..."  I have chosen not to wear a prosthetic.  I will have a reconstruction, when it is medically feasible, but...  I'm almost going to miss this step - this stage.  I like me more now than I ever have in my life.  But if my breast wasn't part of my self-esteem calculation before surgery, it shouldn't be now, either.  Basically, it shouldn't matter what my chest looks like or if I have the reconstruction.  Hmmmm.  I like looking at it that way.

But that still leave thousands - maybe hundreds of thousands - of women out there that are *not* comfortable with how they look post-boob-removal.  I'm not even going to speculate on that.  There are *so* many reasons for that, and none of the reasons are really my concern.  I did read an article recently, though, that got me thinking about this issue of body, health, and self-esteem.  At Salon.com, I ran across an article called "You Don't Have to Dance at Your Mastectomy."  It's about an OB/Gyn who asked her OR - and the entire nation - to dance with her for 5 minutes before laying down on the operating table to have a double mastectomy.  As the author points out, it's the kind of feel-good, oh-I-could-never-be-that-strong-but-thank-god-someone-is kind of story that eventually makes it way onto Lifetime or the Sundance Channel, inspiring reporters covering to quippingly ask "What do you do before a double mastectomy?  Dance, of course!"  The author's response to that answer?  "Blow me."

I can definitely see how most people would not dance into *any* surgery involving the word cancer.  But I can also see how some would.  I might even venture to say "have to."  But just as a dancing mastectomy shouldn't worry about how others in similar situations behave, shaking, scared, crying mastectomies shouldn't compare themselves to the dancers.  I'm willing to bet~largely based on personal experience~that the dancers have their own hidden demons, they are just different than the ones that make you shake and cry and freak out in the face of cancer.  They are the demons that make some people dance, instead.  But don't let them fool you.  They are still demons.

http://www.salon.com/2013/11/08/you_dont_have_to_dance_at_your_mastectomy/

Why so serious...

Today, I am tired.  After several days of "I feel better than I have in SO long," I am flipping tired.  And I am uncomfortable.  I have *no* idea how chronic pain people do it.  This recovery hasn't so much "painful" as it has been consciously, continually, unavoidably uncomfortable.  Before I went to my first post-surgery check-up, I had started stepping myself down off of the oxycontin.  I felt like 10 mg every 3 hours was a bit much after the first couple of days.  I expected my doctor to step it down even more to Vicadin, but to my surprise, he was pretty insistent that I stay on this until he would see me again.  He wrote another script for 5-10 mg every four hours and sent me on my way.  I've never had a doctor react like that.  I didn't know what to think.  They've *always* started stepping it down by now.  Am I magically feeling less pain than everyone else?  I've always claimed a high pain tolerance, but seriously...  My surgeon is one of the best in the region; there's no way he would be careless with something as strong as oxycontin.  Then I thought...  here's this lady who just had her entire breast amputated and lymph nodes removed.  If I were a doctor, looking at what she's already gone through and what may be coming, oxycontin withdrawal might be the least of my concerns for her.  That realization was a bit sobering.

But today, I think I was just...  naive.  Or hopeful.  I am 12 days post-surgery, and today, the *only* thing that has allowed me comfort and rest is my pain medication.  I don't know why this is different from my partial hysterectomy or my tummy tuck.  I don't remember feeling like this 12 days after surgery, and both of those surgeries were WAY more invasive.  Maybe it's because of the physical location and impact of this particular procedure.  Maybe it's the fact that I am a bit older than I was for either of those.  Maybe it's the fact that I went into this surgery with weeks of stress build-up, and this surgery is just the first step of treatment over the next year and the first weeks of fear of reoccurance, which will last the rest of my life.  Maybe it's the psychology of this recovery that is the key factor.  Maybe I think too much.  Maybe I'm just tired.  It's not like it's been the most usual of months.

I do know that I feel differently today about "wake me up when it's all over."  The next line in the song is "when I'm wiser and I'm older."  That song has always grated on me.  If you sleep through "it," whatever "it" is, you won't be wiser when you wake up, just older.  I am an experience whore.  I crave new experiences, and I *love* learning from them.  I have traveled halfway around the world to find them.  I've driven thousands and thousands of miles guided by the flip of a quarter to find them.  "I am the happiest when I am in unfamiliar territory.  When everything is new and different and unknown.  When I am nervous and bit scared.  I am so *alive* then."  Welp, I got what I asked for.  And right now, I get the song a bit better.  Please.  Wake me up when it's all over.  I don't give a sh!t if I'm wiser or older, just let me sleep through this.  I am so tired.

And the worst part?  The piece of all of this that *really* sucks, but ultimately doesn't?  I got lucky.  I got *so* lucky.  Contained cancer, no radiation, no chemo, I mean, really.  Herceptin might give me the flu for a year, but I get to keep my dreadlocks and some semblance of what my life used to be.  And that is one major reality (of several) that keeps me from sleeping through this.  Who am I to waste this opportunity?  What would I do if my prognosis were worse?  I don't know.  All indications point to me never knowing...  if I'm lucky.  I have been, so far.  So I won't sleep through this.  I may b!tch and moan about it sometimes.  I may sit and cry because I miss 44-year-old-never-had-malignant-cancer Stacy.  But I won't sleep through it.  That's what I keep telling myself.  Today, I am just so tired, it's harder to form the words, that's all.

n00b

So...  First day with your new blog?  Yeah, I am a n00b.  To so many things.  In this blog, in this space, I am a breast cancer n00b.  Well, I *was* a breast cancer n00b, let's see, approximately 27 days ago.  On June 30th, 2014, I was diagnosed with stage II Infiltrating Ductal Carcinoma in my right breast.  Fast forward to today, and I am 15 days post-radical right mastectomy.  I am 45 years old, 7 months into a new relationship, and I am a n00b.  I chronicled my early days and weeks on FB, I vented to friends and family, I agreed to do a documentary of my journey, and talked at least 16 people into feeling the lump in my breast before they cut it off.  I have been told I am brave, strong, undefeatable, wise, and courageous, in response to sharing my story.  I have also been told I'm a bit crazy, as well.  It was the only way I knew how to do it.  I am a history professor, by trade.  I research and teach for a living.  It's the world I know.  The world where I am most comfortable.  And on June 30th (the day I found out the lump WASN'T a tumor), I was dropkicked into a new, alien, uncomfortable world.  I was scared, and that is a word I *never* use lightly.  I could even add "to death," which I don't think I've *ever* used, not seriously.  So I dragged my uncomfortable-ness into my comfortable world and started posting.

Over the next week, after we received the "call," consulted with a surgeon, read everything we could find on lumpectomies, mastectomies, radiation, chemotherapy, estrogen, HER2neu proteins, cure rates, and the 12 MILLION (exaggerated perception) different kinds of malignant breast cancer, which can only be determined definitively through analysis of the removed tumor and 3-4 "sentinal lymph nodes," I spiraled into a quickly changing, completely unpredictable, dynamically expressive series of dramatic mood fluctuations.  My partner, Brian, (you know, the previously mentioned 7 month relationship) rode (and is STILL riding) every wave with me.  My children, to a lesser extent, rode many of those waves with me, as well.  And because I chose to post my journey on FB with the overt goal of educating complacent men and women into REGULAR SELF-EXAMS EVERY FOUR WEEKS BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT SAVED MY LIFE, I found that ultimately, it was for me as much as it was for anyone and everyone who would listen.

But as time went on, the posts became less completely about the medical reality, options, downsides, and decisions and more peppered with the immense challenges of adjusting to the reality of being a 45 year old woman in a new relationship who was chopping her breast off in a week or so...  I could sense a sutble (and sometimes not so subtle) shift in people's reactions, responses, and maybe even willingness to delve into the rabbit hole me and mine were tumbling down.  At first, I was a bit put off.  The love and support and prayers and thoughts were precious - invaluable - in getting through the medical quagmire of information we had to absorb and digest in order to make life altering decisions in a matter of days.  But what about the rest of me?  My heart - my soul - everything that is *I* was screaming at the top of my lungs - THIS IS F#CK!NG CRAZY!  THIS CANNOT BE HAPPENING TO ME!  But it was.  It is.  It will always be.  So what did I expect from all these wonderful people who came out of the woodwork to support me, to thank me, to pray for me, to help me, but didn't necessarily feel the desire/need/capability to jump in with both feet with me, and really, should they?  Could I, if the shoes were switched?  Yes, I *could,* but would I, if it were a past friend, a previous professor, a social contact...  really, anyone but my partner or my kids?  No, I wouldn't.  Because I couldn't.  That's the way society is supposed to work.  We can't care all the time - deeply, intensely, personally - about everyone in our lives.  We have to save those reserves for the times when they are most important.  Like this one for me and Brian and my two sons.  That makes sense.

But that doesn't change my want - my need - to share *all* of this journey - heart, mind, body, spirit, and missing breast.  I need to do it for me.  Maybe no one will read this now, while it's happening.  Maybe they will, it doesn't matter.  I *know* this will help me heal, so I am doing it.  But maybe, just maybe, someone I know will end up where I am.  1 in 8 women will be diagnosed with breast cancer.  In the next two decades, predictions suggests that more than 50% of diagnoses will be women under the age of 50 instead of the current over the age of 60.  Maybe down the road, my chronicles of cancer will provide some....  comfort or...  companionship or...  distraction for someone suffering.  Maybe.  But it doesn't matter.  I am doing it anyway.  What is the harm, right?  Well, that has yet to be seen, but I don't really believe in "harm" in this context.  I mean, I'm looking down at the plane of what used to be my right breast.  It's all relative, in the end...

And so I sit here - same person, same heart, but different body.  Same, same, but different.  It's a phrase I learned in Cambodia.  It means, "yeah, this book is a bound photocopy of the original.  It has the same words, the same ideas, the same pictures, the same story, it's just...  different."  Yup, it is different.