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.
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
Friday, August 8, 2014
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...
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...
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
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/
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/
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