The Power of Cleavage

I wonder how many women have debated *not* going through with breast reconstruction after scheduling the thing.  How many women are torn over this decision?  I know there are women - many women - who choose no reconstruction, but my interpretation is that they were NOT torn; that they knew they didn't want a reconstruction at some point *before* scheduling it.  But I don't know that, for sure, I haven't looked.  Maybe I should.

(Some time later...)

So, I did.  I read for about an hour or so.  First thing I learned; it's called "going flat" when you don't reconstruct.  Another thing; most women who "go flat" are doing so after a full-on, double mastectomy.  The few single (one-sided) mastectomies I found that didn't opt for reconstruction, most wear prostheses: rather heavy gel fake breasts.  Some don't, but most are saying no to reconstruction because they are scared of more surgeries, their health won't allow it, or they worry about the complicated, long process that is reconstruction.  And the process is lengthy.  First, there is a major surgery (if you are going expanders and not trans-flap, which I am) during which we will augment the left and place a spacer under the right.  The spacer gets inflated every week for 6 weeks or so.  Once the reconstruction side is the "right size," you wait 3 months - THEN you get the mastectomy side rebuilt.  Then there comes the "do I want a nipple constructed"-type decisions, along with a myriad of other, relatively minor procedures to tweak and perfect.  All in all, at least in the path I've chosen, you are looking at a year to a year and a half of surgeries and recoveries; most small with a couple of bigger ones thrown in for good measure.

Oh yeah, and implants aren't permanent.  They have to be replaced, eventually, for almost everyone.  The "average lifespan" of implants - 10-15 years.

Do I want more breast surgery at 60?

Do I want more surgery now?

These are the times that try a woman's soul, lemme tell ya.

I could be all ragey and say things like, "breasts aren't beauty" and "women shouldn't be defined by their bodies" and "this is all trivial when compared to cancer and chemo" and...  blah, blah, blah and not get the reconstruction.

But the truth is, I've always wanted a breast augmentation.  For as long as I can remember, I've never particularly liked my chest.  And now that I'm one week and two days away from the first "perk" of breast cancer (I can't count how many times I've heard some variation of "well, at least you are getting something out of this), there's this nervous nelly inside of me saying the same thing over and over and over again...  "there's no turning back...  there's no turning back...  there's no turning back..."

And some of the scenery I expect on the next leg of this journey?

A year of procedures - and, most likely, noticeable discomfort.
The myriad of potential complications.
The celebratory well-wishes of friends and family.

There is more I could list, but there are two pieces that threaten to pick up my phone and cancel the surgery.

1.  I am *so tired.*  I am SO TIRED that sometimes, I just don't want to do *anything.*  I don't want to get up, I don't want to eat, I don't want to watch tv, I don't want to read.  "Doing" something always involves a decision.  I'm tired of making decisions.  The way I feel right now, I don't want to decide anything ever again.  And this surgery is a big decision.

And 2.  There are many people that don't care that I have only one breast and they have supported me and walked with me and loved me through this whole process.  When chemo ended, though, there was something of a perception that the journey was over with my last infusion, but it wasn't.  It isn't.  I felt almost...  guilty when explaining to people that I wasn't done, that the road I am on doesn't have an end in sight.  That's really hard for people to hear, though, and even harder to explain - over and over and over again.  Sometimes, though, easier is all you can really do.  I just started agreeing how great it was that I was through with the hard part.

But lying is only easier in the moment.  I don't like lying, and I don't do it very well.  Lying leaves little stains on your soul; it punches you in the gut every time you do it.  It makes me want to cry.  Lying is only easier in the moment.

And I don't want to lie about more than I already do.  I wonder how many people will want to celebrate my new boobs with me when that's the last thing I want to do, because again, it will look like I'm "through the hard part."

Maybe I'm scared it'll be "over" for everyone but me.  Maybe I'm scared there is no such thing as recovery and moving through this.  Maybe I'm scared that I'm going to be scared for the rest of my life and have to hid it behind a smile and a lie.

Maybe I would give anything to have my chest back like it was: saggy, stretch-marked from years of nursing, and a bit too small...

...if it meant never having breast cancer.

Maybe there is nothing that can make me feel "better" about all of this.

When all of this is said and done, maybe I'm scared that everyone's perception of "over" will simply leave me sitting alone in the fear that "over" doesn't exist.

I've always said that "afraid" doesn't apply to me.  Nervous?  Yes, but afraid?  Not me.  I can't say that anymore.  I have now been afraid for 278 days.  278 long, nauseating, exhausting days.  Reconstruction will make me look whole again, and yet, I'm afraid "whole" might no longer be in my vocabulary.  I am afraid the cancer will come back.  I am afraid that no matter how healed I look, I will never feel well again.  None of this makes me feel healed and well and "whole."

Maybe it's as simple as wanting to look as broken and scarred on the outside as I feel on the inside.  Looking at all of the ink on my body, it's easy to see that I wear my pain "on my sleeve" for everyone to see.  Why should this be any different?

The DMZ

I have been staring at a blank page for...  ever, it seems.  I have *so much* swirling inside me - churning, really - that I have the overwhelming, rather irrational, urge to throw up.  It's as if vomiting would expel all of the retching, putrid filth inside, leaving me refreshed, energized, and above all, empty.  Lighter.  I would give anything to feel a gaping void where there is currently a roiling cesspool of anxiety.  I'm not going to write about the myriad of issues pertaining to my current crisis, although my continually evolving relationship with cancer certainly contributes to this nausea.  What sits like a rock in my gut is the crushing reality that there are *so precious few* in my life that do not have a major quantum shift taking place in their own worlds.  I almost can't count the number of people I consider near and dear to my heart that are now in the midst of their own painful transformations, and it literally makes me sick to my stomach.

I suspect my turmoil might be a result of what can only be described as raging empathy emerging from my still-infant Inner Breast Cancer B@d@ss.  I have become intimately familiar with raw, unbridled terror through this journey.  It is a facet of everyday life.  Now, though, many people I love the most must stare into the eyes of their own fearful beast.  Just typing that makes my mouth water and my stomach turn.  It really is harder to watch it happen than to live it.  People shake their heads at me when I say that, but...  well...  they are wrong.  I would rather live it any day of the week (and twice on Sunday) than sit meekly on the sidelines, powerless and impotent.

This empathy emerges, I think, from vivid memories of the worst of my meltdowns.  I remember lying in bed at night, muscles rigid, trying to minimize my tremors so that Brian could sleep.  Eventually, I would creep into the living room, curl up on the couch, and simply sob for hours.  I worked so hard to keep the tiki mask in place.  I couldn't let the people I love see me like that.  It wasn't embarrassment.  It wasn't a lack of trust.  It was because there is so much pain and suffering in life; I could *not* add to their burden.  In the dead of night, though, masks often get dislodged. Never before had I felt so helpless, so broken, so incapable of drawing another breath.  There were times when I begged the fear to consume me; I longed for it to own me, to take away all control, so I could just let the current sweep me out to sea.  Never in my life had I *not* believed in my ability to weather the worst.  I knew me.  I trusted me.  I believed in me.  Until this.

And again, I quell the urge to hurl.  The gorge that rises in my throat, though, is not the floating scum of my own terror.  It is the helplessness I feel knowing that many I love are now taking those same steps.  Their story may be different than mine, but the result is the same ~ same, same, but different, all f#ck!ng over again.  I know they are trying their damnedest to lie still at night, so others can sleep.  I can feel them sneaking into their living rooms to rage and cry where no one can hear, even if only metaphorically.  They are shaking and quaking on the inside while desperately trying to keep the tiki mask in place to protect the ones *they* love, because they see no other option.

But they are wrong, just as I was wrong.  There is another option.  They are not the first, and certainly will not be the last, to traverse the shadowy landscape of fear.  They are a very few among so many that have fought and will fight these battles, time and time again.  A single soldier, though, cannot win a war; it takes an army.  So just in case someone reading this is standing in the middle of their own personal combat zone shivering and weeping and scared shitless, I thought I'd remind you; I've been through basic training, and I am still standing.  I may not be a battle-hardened warrior (just yet), but I have stared down the most evil of demons and the scariest of enemies, and I have a lot of fight left in me, yet.  You don't have to walk this alone.  You don't even have to ask.  I am here, if you want, and I will cross this minefield with you.  It would be my honor.

And my salvation.

Just as long as we get to stop, sometimes, so I can throw up.    

Let's Face It...

I'm lazy.  Every time I get in this thing, it is glaringly obvious that the time between blogs keeps getting longer and longer.  And it's always some version of the same ol' bullshit.  "It's been awhile.  I feel bad about that.  I should look at that.  Some other time ~ I have more important things to write."

But, do I?  I have ideas.  Goals.  Wants.  Needs.  Desires.  Lazy doesn't do any of those things any good; it doesn't bring them any closer.  There are times to be lazy and there are times *not* to be lazy.  Lazy is easier.  It is quieter.  It is less exhausting.  Lazy is all kinds of things, but one of those things is *not* healthy.  I cut off my left breast so I could be healthy again.  I went to chemo every Friday for 12 weeks so I could be healthy again.  I "willingly" instigated full-blown menopause at the tender age of 45 while in a *brand new* relationship so I could be healthy again.  I am offended.  I am insulted.  I am disappointed by my laziness.  I deserve more respect than that.

A wise man once said, “Reality denied comes back to haunt.”  That is the truetrue.  But a different wise man also said, "A person who has never made a mistake has never made anything."  I am quite accomplished at mistake-making.  I am so excited to see what is made of more recent mis-steps.  But if the accomplishment of "making" something necessitates mistakes, (def. a act or judgement that is misguided or wrong) can you really call it wrong?

Oh, To Be Behind The Camera

I haven't been on here.  Again.  I'll explore it, I will.  I promise.  There's something more immediate I want to process.  Isn't there always.

Whatever, so anyway...

We took portraits yesterday.  We had this idea awhile back that a zombie picture shoot would be cool - it would be fun - with a healed mastectomy scar surrounded by way-too-much-left-to-prepare-for-the-reconstruction skin, we could make some *sick* looking wounds.  And we had limited time - mere months - because the reconstruction surgery would take away this unique opportunity.

Well, time flies.  The surgery is April 2nd, 2 weeks and 5 days away.  In preparation, we started brainstorming other themes we might want to include that might take advantage of my soon-to-change-again chest.  If nothing else, it would be a treat.  It wasn't initially planned to explore breast cancer and its impact, in my mind, we were doing it to take advantage of a unique and soon-to-disappear physical state that now rules my daily life.  The more we talked, the more I came to see, though, that the themes that really attracted me were more than simple fangirl infatuation.  The themes we settled on were zombie, warrior (duh, isn't every cancer diagnosee a warrior?), and steampunk.  Steampunk was my idea.  I love steampunk.  It fascinates me.  It inspires me.  It excites me.  Steampunk, to me, is a literary genre born of creativity and genius and innovation...  and necessity and desperation and often last recourse in the face of adversity.  And it was discussing this piece - and the accompanying, self-written essays that will be read when (hopefully) this photo shoot becomes an exhibit - when all the pieces of this shoot fell together in my head.  From diagnosis on June 30th, 2014 to sometime in August (before I began research on my treatment options); that was my Zombie phase.  I couldn't think.  I couldn't reason.  I couldn't communicate.  I couldn't do anything but go where I was directed and do what I was told to do.  All someone had to do was make the right noise, and I would follow along in a haze.  If you don't get that reference, you should try "the Walking Dead;" it's a great show.

The second phase was my Warrior phase.  She's exhausted.  The Warrior made all of the decisions about surgeries and treatments.  The Warrior got out of bed every Friday for 12 weeks to go to the chemo suite for 5 to 6 hours.  The Warrior got up every day (almost every day) and went to work.  The Warrior had to make the command decision to stop lecturing in class because she couldn't get from point A to point B in her lectures coherently, much less intelligently.  The Warrior counted the days until she could take off her armor and put down her sword and simply be.  Like I said, she's exhausted.

The third phase, which I am now heavy in the middle of, is the Steampunk phase.  This is a time of reinvention, of improvisation, of ingenuity.  I don't *have* to reinvent myself; I am choosing to reconstruct post-surgery Stacy into something new.  It's exciting, enticing, intoxicating.  Sure, it's a bit nerve-wracking, but how many people get the opportunity to consciously orchestrate the definition of themselves?  We are all doing it with every action, every decision, every stumble, and every fall, but it happens without really noticing, if you think about it.  I can't *not* think about it.  I COULD choose not to act, but I would have to conscious miss appointments.  I would have to actively refuse treatment.  I would have to look at one breast in the mirror every day and be reminded that I had opted out of reconstruction.  I am doing none of those.  I am going to write and speak and recover my way into a new expression of me.  And because of opportunities like Listen To Your Mother - Spokane, 2015, the ongoing creation of documenting my experience on film with a brilliant former student - and now, dear friend - Mikayla Daniels, a wonderful photo shoot made real through the efforts of many special people, and other project still in their infancy, the potential exists for many people to hear my story and watch it unfold.  What more could an educator want?

To not be in front of the camera, that's what.  To sit in the relative safe space behind the lens and watch someone else do this.  I am beginning to see what many have intimated to me in various ways - it's a bit unsettling to share so much.  It's a bit unnerving.  I have always chosen to leave myself exposed, knowing I could weather any resulting storms.  I would like to say this is no different, but...  the Warrior is *so* tired.  Who am I to ask her to continue marching bravely into these storms?  I think she really wants this to all be over.  It's sitting behind the Warrior's eyes in the portraits, almost like she's pleading with me.  Just let it be done.

"If you wish for peace, prepare for war."  Thanks, Flavius.  In the Warrior's defense, she may be exhausted, she may have taken a knee temporarily, but she's been repairing her armor and sharpening her weapons while in this eye of the storm.  Tired doesn't mean done.  Wiser?  Yes.  Slower?  Absolutely.  Experienced?  For sure.  Grayer?  Hehehehe, yes.  But done?  Not by a long shot.  It makes me sad to acknowledge all of that, but happy would be incomprehensible without sadness as its reflection.