It occurs to me that time flies, whether you are wasting it or not.
I could sit here and pontificate all day long over the definition of "wasting time" and its relative nature. I could rant about society imposing unreasonable expectations and that a bit - or two - of leisure time here and there is a healthy thing. I could wax on endlessly about how one man's castle is another man's prison, but I don't think that's the important piece of what's aching to get out tonight. The important piece is that I'm losing it. I am fairly certain I have never felt more broken, more exhausted, more... unmotivated in my life. And I'm not trying to suggest I think those issues will be rectified by writing, but I decided, as I was lying in bed for over an hour labeling my mind's frantic tail-chasing as "thinking" and desperately trying to "let it go," I thought, it certainly isn't going to set me back any if I get up and do what I should do for myself.
So now I sit here with a Melatonin preparing a lullaby - and I reread that paragraph. It reads pretty nicely, actually, especially for a first draft. A little catchy, with good rhythm, it screams "opening paragraph, chapter 3 of Stacy Kowtko's new book, 'The New, Amazing, Jaw-Dropping, Grand Adventures of the Phantom Nip' with its admission of weakness followed deftly by the correct answer. You, see, that paragraph subtly, subliminally suggests that I'm getting it right.
Now I'll describe what *actually* happened.
After lying in bed for over an hour labeling my mind's frantic tail-chasing as...
Damn. I really don't want to explain what brought me to this post. I literally typed the fifteen words above before I consciously realized I was, again, telling the embellished story. *Here's* what happened.
For an hour after I laid down to sleep, I lay awake worrying about work and family. I planned my forms I need to complete for the IRS concerning our current "interesting" relationship. I stressed about tomorrow's classes. I promised myself I would make a dentist appointment to at least see if they can save my broken tooth and if I will be able to afford the work that will need to be done. I rehearsed the talk I want to have with my doctor that I now have to leave because I messed up and left them out of my bankruptcy. I chided myself for too much gaming and not enough reading or writing. After every self-admonishment, I desperately reminded myself that I do truly believe everything happens for a reason and that this, too, shall pass. But after every reassurance, another self-admonishment would creep into my thoughts, and the cycle would start all over again.
After about an hour, I gave up and got up. When I got up, I instinctively picked up my phone from the bed and had to tell myself to put it down and pick up a book. A page an a half in, and I couldn't tell you what it said. THAT'S when I decided it couldn't hurt to blog.
Then I spent 20 minutes researching a Google "502. That's an error. The server encountered a temporary error and could not complete your request. Please try again in 30 seconds. That's all we know" and enjoyed a little victory jig when I figured out a way around blogger.com's MAJOR access issues they are currently experiencing. I briefly wondered if the universe was trying to tell me something, but when have I ever listened to the universe?
And even now, as I read back through this one more time before I'm done, I have to convince myself not to replace "unmotivated" with something less... damning. Like... drained. Or... empty. Or... lost. Depressed, even. *Anything* but unmotivated. But unmotivated is what I am, so in the interest of honesty and health and recovery, it stays.
And so I close, with the hopes that this gut-spillage will mix nicely with the Melatonin and lull me to sleep before 3. I close with the hope that this release, this sharing, this naming of the enemy will give me some measure of power of it. I close with the hope that this gut-spillage will end up on the screen of someone who needs to read it. I close with the hope of some decent sleep tonight.
And I can't explain it, but I do still believe in those hopes. I have named my captor, and it now has no power over me. (Rest in peace, D.B.) "Wasting time" really is a relative term, if you think about it.
Showing posts with label Diary. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Diary. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 10, 2016
Saturday, April 9, 2016
Cheers and Jeers
Spokane has some interesting drivers. It always has. Over the last few months, though, I've been noticing some... changes. Interesting differences. New weirdness. People parked curbside with their door wide open into the driving lane while apparently pleasantly conversing with a friend on the sidewalk. A truck idling while sitting in the middle of an intersection with cars stopped and waiting on two sides. An SUV lazily turning right. From the center turn lane across two lanes of traffic. Weirdness.
I have a theory. I think it's inexperienced nouveau-stoners trying to figure out how to drive while high. This new weirdness I've been noticing never moves fast. It's not road rage or stress or rush hour. I think they are thinking at half speed. They are certainly moving at half speed. If they are moving at all. I wonder if states legalizing recreational marijuana should conduct an education campaign focused not on cautionary tales of a newly legalized intoxicant, but instead offering judgement-free information on what it feels like to be stoned. At first, it's all millennials and hippies and long hair at the bud bar, but now, about a year into recreational dispensaries, it's fewer stereotypical stoners and more soccer moms, grandparents, and bankers. They are the ones that maybe took a hit or two in college, maybe even three or four, but fell in line with societal expectations by refusing to succumb to the evil Reefer Madness. A year in, and the world hasn't imploded because we legalized pot, so they're coming out of the hot box.
It's not these languid, awkward, probably-stoned drivers that get my jeers, though.
It's me.
Driving on Indiana today, I had the pleasure of observing as the aforementioned SUV turned right from the center lane across two lanes of traffic. Traffic moving in the same direction as them before they decided to turn. Five or six cars, actually, right behind said SUV and moving in the same direction. I was one of those five or six cars.
"Niiiiiice, you dumb b!t@h."
It actually took me a breath or two before I realized *my* voice had said that.
I don't say things like that.
I don't even think things like that. Jeers to me.
Now, I could spend hours puzzling over the source of that unexpected rage. I could write about cancer and finances and anxiety and brain damage and menopause. I could lock myself away in my head and chase my own tail to infinity.
But honestly, I don't care why I said it. I don't care because *immediately* upon realizing that it was ME saying those hateful words, my little inner Buddha began to cry. As soon as I had said it, I knew that it hurt me to say it. I could beat myself up for days for being spiteful and petty and juvenile, but instead, I am so very happy that despite the *hell* of the last two years, there is still compassion in me. My very humanity is bruised and weary, but it's alive. Cheers to that :-)
Well, I obviously wasn't stoned.
I have a theory. I think it's inexperienced nouveau-stoners trying to figure out how to drive while high. This new weirdness I've been noticing never moves fast. It's not road rage or stress or rush hour. I think they are thinking at half speed. They are certainly moving at half speed. If they are moving at all. I wonder if states legalizing recreational marijuana should conduct an education campaign focused not on cautionary tales of a newly legalized intoxicant, but instead offering judgement-free information on what it feels like to be stoned. At first, it's all millennials and hippies and long hair at the bud bar, but now, about a year into recreational dispensaries, it's fewer stereotypical stoners and more soccer moms, grandparents, and bankers. They are the ones that maybe took a hit or two in college, maybe even three or four, but fell in line with societal expectations by refusing to succumb to the evil Reefer Madness. A year in, and the world hasn't imploded because we legalized pot, so they're coming out of the hot box.
It's not these languid, awkward, probably-stoned drivers that get my jeers, though.
It's me.
Driving on Indiana today, I had the pleasure of observing as the aforementioned SUV turned right from the center lane across two lanes of traffic. Traffic moving in the same direction as them before they decided to turn. Five or six cars, actually, right behind said SUV and moving in the same direction. I was one of those five or six cars.
"Niiiiiice, you dumb b!t@h."
It actually took me a breath or two before I realized *my* voice had said that.
I don't say things like that.
I don't even think things like that. Jeers to me.
Now, I could spend hours puzzling over the source of that unexpected rage. I could write about cancer and finances and anxiety and brain damage and menopause. I could lock myself away in my head and chase my own tail to infinity.
But honestly, I don't care why I said it. I don't care because *immediately* upon realizing that it was ME saying those hateful words, my little inner Buddha began to cry. As soon as I had said it, I knew that it hurt me to say it. I could beat myself up for days for being spiteful and petty and juvenile, but instead, I am so very happy that despite the *hell* of the last two years, there is still compassion in me. My very humanity is bruised and weary, but it's alive. Cheers to that :-)
Well, I obviously wasn't stoned.
Thursday, February 25, 2016
TMI Alert: One Day in Life After C
I suppose it might depend on your definition of TMI, but whatever...
I am starting to understand more of what people mean when they say, "there will come a point where you *know* you are recovering. There will eventually be more days when you feel more like the 'old you' instead of the trainwreck of the 'new you' that seemed like it would never end."
Ok, so no one painted THAT bad of a picture. And I'm starting to understand why that it, too, but that's not my point today.
What is my point today?
My point is I started off today on a high note - a really high note. I interviewed with The Fig Tree - an interfaith newsletter - to become a volunteer staff member that would help edit, keep the office open, organized community education events, stuff like that. And the interview, it was inspiring. It gave me ideas. It made me feel like I could make a difference.
And I spoke with the Washington Community College Humanities Association today about taking a seat on their board to help further education on the Humanities across the state.
I've gotten a ton of work done, finished some form-filling-out, posted some grades, bonded with my son, and updated my GoFundMe.
And that's the stickler today, I think. A few weeks ago, I started a GoFundMe for myself and my family. This journey through breast cancer has left us on the ledge of financial ruin. After exhausting all other resources I was capable of exhausting, GoFundMe was kind of what was left. It hasn't been very successful yet, but in defense of my circles, most people I know are just as "bad off," if not worse off than my family and I. It's been commented on and shared like crazy and that is just wonderful. It makes me feel so loved.
So what is my point today?
No matter what I do, no matter what I accomplish, no matter how many volunteer positions I agree to fill, it doesn't maintenance the cars, get medical attention for my kitties, get phones and computers that actually work, or pay my bankruptcy lawyer. It keeps me busy. It keeps me from thinking about it all. But it doesn't *fix* anything for us. I can't take another job. I can't guarantee I would have the energy to commit to an entry position. Besides, it's not like I don't make enough money to live on, I just don't make enough money to catch up, pay for immediate needs, AND keep up with monthly bills.
On the downswing of days like today, that's the reality that's waiting for me, and it's hard. It's exhausting.
Most of all, it's humiliating.
I must say, GoFundMe, among many positives, at least offers the opportunity to beg without having to do it face to face or stand on a corner with a sign ~ the 1st, I have done many times ~ the 2nd, I've considered, but haven't resort to, I mean, I don't even know the rules for claiming a corner. I also don't seem to have Kanye's knack for getting people to donate just to shut me up and make me go away, unfortunately.
So boiled down to the most simple point today?
Gratitude.
Thank you, GoFundMe, for helping me and so many others save a little face.
I am starting to understand more of what people mean when they say, "there will come a point where you *know* you are recovering. There will eventually be more days when you feel more like the 'old you' instead of the trainwreck of the 'new you' that seemed like it would never end."
Ok, so no one painted THAT bad of a picture. And I'm starting to understand why that it, too, but that's not my point today.
What is my point today?
My point is I started off today on a high note - a really high note. I interviewed with The Fig Tree - an interfaith newsletter - to become a volunteer staff member that would help edit, keep the office open, organized community education events, stuff like that. And the interview, it was inspiring. It gave me ideas. It made me feel like I could make a difference.
And I spoke with the Washington Community College Humanities Association today about taking a seat on their board to help further education on the Humanities across the state.
I've gotten a ton of work done, finished some form-filling-out, posted some grades, bonded with my son, and updated my GoFundMe.
And that's the stickler today, I think. A few weeks ago, I started a GoFundMe for myself and my family. This journey through breast cancer has left us on the ledge of financial ruin. After exhausting all other resources I was capable of exhausting, GoFundMe was kind of what was left. It hasn't been very successful yet, but in defense of my circles, most people I know are just as "bad off," if not worse off than my family and I. It's been commented on and shared like crazy and that is just wonderful. It makes me feel so loved.
So what is my point today?
No matter what I do, no matter what I accomplish, no matter how many volunteer positions I agree to fill, it doesn't maintenance the cars, get medical attention for my kitties, get phones and computers that actually work, or pay my bankruptcy lawyer. It keeps me busy. It keeps me from thinking about it all. But it doesn't *fix* anything for us. I can't take another job. I can't guarantee I would have the energy to commit to an entry position. Besides, it's not like I don't make enough money to live on, I just don't make enough money to catch up, pay for immediate needs, AND keep up with monthly bills.
On the downswing of days like today, that's the reality that's waiting for me, and it's hard. It's exhausting.
Most of all, it's humiliating.
I must say, GoFundMe, among many positives, at least offers the opportunity to beg without having to do it face to face or stand on a corner with a sign ~ the 1st, I have done many times ~ the 2nd, I've considered, but haven't resort to, I mean, I don't even know the rules for claiming a corner. I also don't seem to have Kanye's knack for getting people to donate just to shut me up and make me go away, unfortunately.
So boiled down to the most simple point today?
Gratitude.
Thank you, GoFundMe, for helping me and so many others save a little face.
Wednesday, February 24, 2016
Last Published...
...on Oct 17, 2015. So much for the ability, drive, motivation for consistency, and my Inner Breast Cancer B@d@ss...
I wonder if I had blogged regularly through this... whole thing, if I would have felt stronger...
...or if it would have drained me more.
I wonder if I had blogged regularly through this... whole thing, if I would have felt more sane...
...or if it would have made me crazier.
I wonder if I had blogged regularly through this... whole thing, I would have been able to avoid the current financial crises I find myself facing...
...or if I'm just *that bad* at the daily life stuff.
I wonder if I had blogged regularly through this... whole thing, reality would look more like the grand ideas in my head...
...or if I want to blame cancer because I am a dreamer, not a doer.
I wonder a lot of things. I would say I wonder how important my wondering even is, but I know from experience that making a difference, even to one person, it's important. It's not just important to that person, it's important to our community, our society. Not only do we "get back" what we "put out there," what we send out creates ripple, whether we witness them or not.
I want my ripples to look like smiles. I want my ripples to sound like sighs of relief. I want my ripples to feel like company.
And that can't happen sitting on my couch guzzling Candy Crush Saga. I'm not sure how it DOES happen, but it won't happen in the cocoon of a cell phone screen.
I wonder if I had blogged regularly through this... whole thing, if I would have felt stronger...
...or if it would have drained me more.
I wonder if I had blogged regularly through this... whole thing, if I would have felt more sane...
...or if it would have made me crazier.
I wonder if I had blogged regularly through this... whole thing, I would have been able to avoid the current financial crises I find myself facing...
...or if I'm just *that bad* at the daily life stuff.
I wonder if I had blogged regularly through this... whole thing, reality would look more like the grand ideas in my head...
...or if I want to blame cancer because I am a dreamer, not a doer.
I wonder a lot of things. I would say I wonder how important my wondering even is, but I know from experience that making a difference, even to one person, it's important. It's not just important to that person, it's important to our community, our society. Not only do we "get back" what we "put out there," what we send out creates ripple, whether we witness them or not.
I want my ripples to look like smiles. I want my ripples to sound like sighs of relief. I want my ripples to feel like company.
And that can't happen sitting on my couch guzzling Candy Crush Saga. I'm not sure how it DOES happen, but it won't happen in the cocoon of a cell phone screen.
Saturday, October 17, 2015
The Most Fearsome Thing
...is the enemy unseen.
I sit here at the computer wanting to write about the crazy. I feel like, if I could just describe a bit of the anxiety, put a name to the unknown, maybe that could weaken its hold on me; not a lot, just a little. Just enough to let me breathe. But, nooooo. I am frozen at the keyboard. All I want is to bleed the voices out of me - just a little - so that maybe tomorrow will be a little easier than today. But I don't know where to start.
And now, I come back to this screen after almost 20 minutes of staring at NBA 2K14 and no new words have magically appeared. Imagine that.
So I focus on my irritation. I focus on (what I perceive to be) the obstacle that so deftly, so expertly, so intimately keeps me from writing. Calling that obstacle "voices" was just... uninspired. Complacent, if we're being honest, because I don't really have voices in my head. "Voices" is a cop-out. "Voices" is me being lazy. The only actual voice in my head is mine. I know how many there are - one - and I know whose it is - mine.
That's not the problem.
Here's the problem.
Voices in your head, no matter how many there are or who they sound like, are not constrained by the restrictions of the physical body. Space and linear timelines are anachronisms in the realm of head-voices. Just because there is only one voice doesn't mean there aren't a million tracks of that one voice all playing at different speeds and volumes, reflecting a million different moods and voicing a million different opinions. Just because there is only one voice and it happens to be yours doesn't mean you can trust it.
Hell. Just because there is only one voice and it happens to be yours doesn't even guarantee that you can understand what it's saying. With a million different tracks playing simultaneously at different speeds and volumes while concurrently sampling a million different moods and proclaiming a million different opinions, the end result is a cacophonous clamor. A discordant drumming. A raucous racket.
My own personal Tower of Babel.
There is some kind of pseudo-intellectual, faux-philosophy connection between the biblical story of Babel and my current state of insanity, but I can't quite verbalize it, at the moment.
Oh, but if I could.
The most fearsome thing is the enemy unseen.
True dat.
Hells to tha' yeah.
Fo'sheezy.
Daaaaarn tootin'.
I sit here at the computer wanting to write about the crazy. I feel like, if I could just describe a bit of the anxiety, put a name to the unknown, maybe that could weaken its hold on me; not a lot, just a little. Just enough to let me breathe. But, nooooo. I am frozen at the keyboard. All I want is to bleed the voices out of me - just a little - so that maybe tomorrow will be a little easier than today. But I don't know where to start.
And now, I come back to this screen after almost 20 minutes of staring at NBA 2K14 and no new words have magically appeared. Imagine that.
So I focus on my irritation. I focus on (what I perceive to be) the obstacle that so deftly, so expertly, so intimately keeps me from writing. Calling that obstacle "voices" was just... uninspired. Complacent, if we're being honest, because I don't really have voices in my head. "Voices" is a cop-out. "Voices" is me being lazy. The only actual voice in my head is mine. I know how many there are - one - and I know whose it is - mine.
That's not the problem.
Here's the problem.
Voices in your head, no matter how many there are or who they sound like, are not constrained by the restrictions of the physical body. Space and linear timelines are anachronisms in the realm of head-voices. Just because there is only one voice doesn't mean there aren't a million tracks of that one voice all playing at different speeds and volumes, reflecting a million different moods and voicing a million different opinions. Just because there is only one voice and it happens to be yours doesn't mean you can trust it.
Hell. Just because there is only one voice and it happens to be yours doesn't even guarantee that you can understand what it's saying. With a million different tracks playing simultaneously at different speeds and volumes while concurrently sampling a million different moods and proclaiming a million different opinions, the end result is a cacophonous clamor. A discordant drumming. A raucous racket.
My own personal Tower of Babel.
There is some kind of pseudo-intellectual, faux-philosophy connection between the biblical story of Babel and my current state of insanity, but I can't quite verbalize it, at the moment.
Oh, but if I could.
The most fearsome thing is the enemy unseen.
True dat.
Hells to tha' yeah.
Fo'sheezy.
Daaaaarn tootin'.
Sunday, September 20, 2015
The Hubris of the Scholar
sen·ior·i·tis
sēnyəˈrītis/
a supposed affliction of students in their final year of high school or college, characterized by a decline in motivation or performance and can be, although not always, accompanied by an absolute certainty that there is little left to learn.
As time pushes me ever closer to, once again, being a "senior," the reminders that I do *not* know everything seem to be getting more pointed.
The most recent?... "Oh, L@@K," she said, all triumphant and confident and smiling, "I found her! My Inner Breast Cancer B@d@ss was with me all along! The Schol@r inside was just biding her time until I was ready. And ready, I am!" [Imagine arms up and out, with palms turned up towards the sky and head thrown back as the words burst from my very being] "I LOVE AND EMBRACE MY INNER BREAST CANCER B@D@SS!"
My naivety is a never-ending source of entertainment and consternation for me. And probably those around me.
I was so happy to be in a place of "ok." I was so relieved to find some peace. I was so thrilled to feel *good* more frequently than *bad,* that I believed the hype. I swallowed it all, hook, line, and sinker. Chemo had ended *6 months* before. All signs pointed (and still point) to complete and utter destruction of any detectable cancer. I was moving through the reconstruction surgeries with relative ease. With my rose-colored glasses adding a lovely hue to the whole scene, I allowed myself a congratulatory pat on the back for coming through this hell of a cancer journey with my sanity (largely) in tact. I just *knew* that finding my I.B.C. B@d@ss was my first major step into "life after cancer." I treated myself with a rare bit of pride and admiration at how far I had come in a year that was at once maddeningly long and anxiety-inducing short. I may as well have been practicing my "Pomp and Circumstance" walk and decorating the mortarboard I would soon pin to my hair.
I thought chemo was hard. Well, to be fair, chemo *was* hard. But there is a luxury in being the kind of physically ill that is painfully obvious to you and anyone around you. No one (including yourself) expects much of you when you are getting a toxin designed to destroy human cells pumped into you every Friday. And that, I have come to see, is something of a luxury.
The chemicals we put in me now don't make me puke, won't make me bald, and can't, technically, kill me unlike the weekly Taxol injections. There are few visible signs of the chemical battle raging inside me. But this, what I do now every day, this is harder. Every day I get up, and I look in the mirror. The way I look and the way I feel are so discordant, so opposing that cycle of physiological anxiety begins anew, just like it did the day before and just like it will tomorrow. I look... good. But I feel... indescribably terrible. So much for my short-lived senioritis.
Monday, June 8, 2015
To Be Or Not To Be...
It kind of really is the question. Should I be "this thing" or this OTHER thing? Should I watch a show or play Diablo? Should I start planning classes or start writing a book? Should I get out of the house today or...?
Or stay inside like I have for months now? I remember having energy... I remember looking forward to *do things.* Anything. EVERYthing. Everything takes so much *energy.* There's a quote I included in my ScholarRevelationEntry that was supposed to inaugurate the "new" blog and it goes...
"I am an old scholar, better-looking now than when I was young. That's what sitting on your ass does to your face." ~Leonard Cohen
It's a nice sentiment. I don't think he's right. Not when I look in the mirror. Sitting on my ass is probably just... flattening my ass. The Invisible Scholar is just sitting here on her ass, stewing in a lack of motivation and often overwhelming lethargy. Just last night, all of the amazing, strong women of Spokane's 2015 "Listen to Your Mother" got together again to celebrate our experience this year. I didn't go. I spent all day holding myself and everything together and just... had no happy left to share at the end of the day. Little desire to celebrate something that now feels like a lifetime ago. I've lived a lifetime in less than a month, it seems.
That statement is rather self-pitying. And false. And self-indulgent. I could only be so lucky as to live *my* lifetime of experiences in less than a month. I've had some pretty damn awesome experiences.
Some of them even occurred on this couch that is currently hosting my ever-more-flattening ass. So the answer, then, is "to be." To be what? My Inner Breast Cancer Badass asks a most important question. "Does it really matter," she whispers.
Or stay inside like I have for months now? I remember having energy... I remember looking forward to *do things.* Anything. EVERYthing. Everything takes so much *energy.* There's a quote I included in my ScholarRevelationEntry that was supposed to inaugurate the "new" blog and it goes...
"I am an old scholar, better-looking now than when I was young. That's what sitting on your ass does to your face." ~Leonard Cohen
It's a nice sentiment. I don't think he's right. Not when I look in the mirror. Sitting on my ass is probably just... flattening my ass. The Invisible Scholar is just sitting here on her ass, stewing in a lack of motivation and often overwhelming lethargy. Just last night, all of the amazing, strong women of Spokane's 2015 "Listen to Your Mother" got together again to celebrate our experience this year. I didn't go. I spent all day holding myself and everything together and just... had no happy left to share at the end of the day. Little desire to celebrate something that now feels like a lifetime ago. I've lived a lifetime in less than a month, it seems.
That statement is rather self-pitying. And false. And self-indulgent. I could only be so lucky as to live *my* lifetime of experiences in less than a month. I've had some pretty damn awesome experiences.
Some of them even occurred on this couch that is currently hosting my ever-more-flattening ass. So the answer, then, is "to be." To be what? My Inner Breast Cancer Badass asks a most important question. "Does it really matter," she whispers.
Sunday, June 7, 2015
52 Days Later...
And I still have nothing to say? Right. I've taken notes on so many "wise," "insightful," "inspired," thoughts and ideas. They are all over the house - stuffed between book pages, tucked into drawers, and ferreted away among so many other treasures. So many personal revelations - innumerable "occurrences," and yet here I sit. With nothing to say. And a million things screaming to be let out. My Inner Breast Cancer Badass - the "Invisible Scholar" - seems to be sitting down on the job. Or scared to death. One or the other. But then, what other option is there? Plenty. Just not many I am *capable* of executing. That is a much more positive statement then it appears. What is it they say about talking to yourself? As long as you don't reply?...
Thursday, April 16, 2015
THE Search is OVER! Just Keep Reading...
...and the connection to the search for My Inner Breast Cancer B@d@ss will become clear. I tell my students the very first day of class; just stick with me. It may not make sense in the middle, but just stick with me. I almost always come full circle. I should have probably said that in my very first blog entry. Better late than never, I suppose.
<Scooby-Doo rewind to a few hours ago> I am explaining to my son that I would give anything if I could magically make people feel about learning and education the way I did as a student and do, now, as a professor. When I was in school (like starting in elementary school), it was the first thing I wanted to do when I got up and the last thing I wanted to do before going to bed. The same is true now, except I now learning through teaching, both through what I try to teach students AND through what students inevitably teach me. If everyone could feel that about learning - even just a little bit - I think they would struggle with school so much less. It's what got me through the courses I absolutely hated - finding something within the subject I wanted to know.
It is the guiding principle of how I organize my classes. I try, in the short span of ten weeks, to offer as many examples of how to approach history as possible, so that even if the student *hates* history and is just taking the class to graduate, I have the best chance of offering even just *one thing* that hooks them. I love it when I learn I have students that hate history. They are so much easier to please, if nothing else ;-). I should start a teaching blog. No.... a learning blog.
NO TANGENTS! (cue amused laughter/eye-rolling/head shaking/sarcastic retorts of former students)
I am explaining this to my son because he just started his third quarter of college. He is a running start student, which means he is a junior in high school and a freshman in college simultaneous. He's taking an online math and on-ground Japanese class through his high school and plant biology, philosophy of religion (200 level), and American multi-cultural lit (again, 200 level) classes at his college. By far, this is the most intensive, in-depth quarter in school for him, so far. By *far*.
And it's only the second week of the quarter, so he hasn't had time to find the rhythm of his new classes, yet. This is one of the hardest areas of transition for running start students - for all students, really - having to adapt and adjust your *entire daily routine* every ten weeks to the demands of an completely new schedule that is usually radically different from any other that came before AND most often under the command of three frequently widely-differing bosses who NEVER coordinate their requirements, AND who, odds are, you either have never met before, or, at the very least, don't know very well. People give students crap all the time, especially community college students and within that group, ESPECIALLY running start students. "I mean, it's community college. How hard can it REALLY be? You aren't even out in the real world yet." Those people have either never done it or have forgotten.
NO TANGENTS! (cue amused laughter/eye-rolling/head shaking/sarcastic retorts from everyone, now)
<Second Scooby-Doo rewind> He stands at the end of the couch with heavy eyes. (Paraphrasing) "I am so tired. I still have more homework. And it's philosophy." (We just had the discussion about the brain-sucking, thought-sapping, mentally-draining experience that is philosophy class yesterday.) I mentally scramble for the words that will impart this little piece of wisdom to him. I want, in some way, to describe my passion to him about learning - how it makes me feel - so that somewhere in all of the craziness that is his life for the next nine week, he can find hooks that make him want learning to be the first thing he does when he wakes up and the last thing he does before he goes to sleep. It's the only way to get through college AND get something out of it. If he could just see a little of what it is like for me... not was ~ *is*....
And as I look around the room at the stations I have set up for me to help me through recovery, it occurs to me that I am lying.
*We had just finished watching an episode of Modern Family, our latest favorite "feel good" show - there are so few, and this one is SO good - and the tv holds its breath in a pause screen of credits.
*The vintage eBay stuff to my left and right - left being stuff that doesn't have pictures, yet and right being items with pictures divided into posted and not-posted-yet piles - waits in baited anticipation.
*My book and syllabus for the faculty learning community I am part of this quarter sleeps at my knee.
*My box of vintage magazine pictures and its accompanying boxes of empty vintage frames (I make framed collage art out of vintage magazines) lounge at my feet.
*The curriculum I've created for "Intro to Gender Studies" taps its foot in a hidden window on my screen.
*My cross-stitch bag with the dragon I've put over 350 hours into - so far - cuddles up to my 4 ft Valentine's bear, who keeps me constant company on the couch.
*My "Listen to Your Mother" piece I'm reading in front of God and everybody in less than a month is pacing back and forth in Word, just waiting for me to practice.
*The non-fiction book I'm reading keeps company with my wallet and keys in my purse.
*My phone with my brain games to help with the chemo-brain recovery sucks juice from the charger on the chance I might play a session or two.
*Outlines of the pieces I am writing to partner with the pre-surgery portrait session in the hopes of creating an art exhibit and to use as voice over in the documentary are back row students, sitting next to the Gender Studies curriculum and LTYM.
*The grant proposal files I am going through to distribute to the Northwest International Education Association Board - on which I am the VP and the Grant Coordinator - haven't given up on me, yet.
*Living Richly and Fully - my chronic illness support group on FB - prefers the next to last row.
*LR&F is becoming great friends with my breast cancer research and blog drafts.
*And my list of free, online MIT course I want to start get the position of honor, perched triumphantly right next to me as the only learning opportunity I had taken advantage of all day, gloating over the rest... and that only received maybe an hour of my attention.
And I know. I am lying.
Premise A: If someone made me choose one activity to do for the rest of my life, I would choose learning (and not in a scape-goat, twist-of-words-you-learn-from-everything-you-do-so-I-learn-from-doing-nothing kind of way). Premise B: If learning is the first and last thing I have *always* wanted to be doing every day. Then Conclusion: I am lying. I am not doing it. I've had all of these options surrounding me all day, and I devoted maybe an hour to all of them combined. Now, don't get me wrong. I had major surgery two weeks ago tomorrow. My left breast was "augmented," and the side we cut off now houses an expander placed underneath the pectoral muscle. Since the surgery, I've gone into the office twice to have a total of 100 cc's of saline injected into my right lump so the expander will slowly stretch the pectoral muscles to allow them to cradle the eventual reconstruction of my right breast. I will go in three or four more times for saline "fills," and then, when my bump is big enough, I will sit with that for three months in an effort to assure a successful reconstruction comprised of a breast implant combined with lipo-ed tissue from other areas of my body. It would be fool-hardy to "work" from the time I get up until the time I go to bed. I have to be rested and healthy, if I want to continue this journey and be the best version of me possible on the other end.
But I'm being ripped off. And I'm the one doing the ripping off. I am denying myself - consciously, for the most part - activities that I enjoy. No, not just enjoy; these are activities I love. Am I trying to punish myself? Am I depressed? Am I just damned lazy?
I could drive myself crazy trying to answer those questions. Does it even really matter why I didn't do much of any of these treasured opportunities today? I guess you could argue "yes," it is important. It makes sense that knowing the root or cause of a problem takes a huge step towards fixing said problem.
But I'm also a firm believer in the first step to overcoming a problem is identifying it. My problem is that I'm not consistently doing the things I love. At any given time, I am sure all of the possible explanations apply. Sometimes, I am punishing myself. Others? I am depressed. There are times where I am truly not physically able to work on anything that takes any brain power, you know, what with two major surgeries, radioactive tests, and chemotherapy (to name a few) since July, it's bound to happen. And sometimes, I am just damned lazy.
So now I've identified it AND explained it well enough. Now, I fix it.
And there she was, surrounding me the whole time. Since the beginning of this journey, really. My Inner Breast Cancer B@d@ss was always with me. I didn't have to search for her. She started doing her thing immediately. The earliest days of this experience were filled with research and posting, research and posting, research and posting. I had to learn about this new entity in my life - this parasite, a living thing, that had taken the opportunity grow in me. And then I had to talk about it, to tell people what I was learning because I knew I needed help - and I knew I wanted to help anyone I could. My Inner B@d@ss has been with me my entire life. She has carried me through every dark day of my existence. First, we learn. Everything we can. Then, we talk. To anyone who will listen. She is a philosopher, a biologist, a historian, an author, a child, a sociologist, an artist, an entrepreneur, a performer, a supporter, a professor, a student.
I found my Inner Breast Cancer B@d@ss. She is a B@d@ss Scholar.
Scholar:
1. a learned or erudite person, especially one who has profound knowledge of a particular subject; one who learned and analyzes
So she is a teacher.
2. a student: pupil
3. a person, especially a child, who studies
And a student.
4. savant
And... a little bit crazy.
The Search is now officially ended. Elvis has left the building. (That one's for you, Aunt Sheila ;-). I hear the fat lady singing. (I REALLY don't like that phrase) Stick a fork in it. Roger, over... and... out.
It's time for a new blog.
P.S. This Search has given me FAR more than it could *ever* take away. The one thing I *can't* say.... good riddance.
<voice from the future whispers> "I wish you the best of luck. You're going to need it."
<Scooby-Doo rewind to a few hours ago> I am explaining to my son that I would give anything if I could magically make people feel about learning and education the way I did as a student and do, now, as a professor. When I was in school (like starting in elementary school), it was the first thing I wanted to do when I got up and the last thing I wanted to do before going to bed. The same is true now, except I now learning through teaching, both through what I try to teach students AND through what students inevitably teach me. If everyone could feel that about learning - even just a little bit - I think they would struggle with school so much less. It's what got me through the courses I absolutely hated - finding something within the subject I wanted to know.
It is the guiding principle of how I organize my classes. I try, in the short span of ten weeks, to offer as many examples of how to approach history as possible, so that even if the student *hates* history and is just taking the class to graduate, I have the best chance of offering even just *one thing* that hooks them. I love it when I learn I have students that hate history. They are so much easier to please, if nothing else ;-). I should start a teaching blog. No.... a learning blog.
NO TANGENTS! (cue amused laughter/eye-rolling/head shaking/sarcastic retorts of former students)
I am explaining this to my son because he just started his third quarter of college. He is a running start student, which means he is a junior in high school and a freshman in college simultaneous. He's taking an online math and on-ground Japanese class through his high school and plant biology, philosophy of religion (200 level), and American multi-cultural lit (again, 200 level) classes at his college. By far, this is the most intensive, in-depth quarter in school for him, so far. By *far*.
And it's only the second week of the quarter, so he hasn't had time to find the rhythm of his new classes, yet. This is one of the hardest areas of transition for running start students - for all students, really - having to adapt and adjust your *entire daily routine* every ten weeks to the demands of an completely new schedule that is usually radically different from any other that came before AND most often under the command of three frequently widely-differing bosses who NEVER coordinate their requirements, AND who, odds are, you either have never met before, or, at the very least, don't know very well. People give students crap all the time, especially community college students and within that group, ESPECIALLY running start students. "I mean, it's community college. How hard can it REALLY be? You aren't even out in the real world yet." Those people have either never done it or have forgotten.
NO TANGENTS! (cue amused laughter/eye-rolling/head shaking/sarcastic retorts from everyone, now)
<Second Scooby-Doo rewind> He stands at the end of the couch with heavy eyes. (Paraphrasing) "I am so tired. I still have more homework. And it's philosophy." (We just had the discussion about the brain-sucking, thought-sapping, mentally-draining experience that is philosophy class yesterday.) I mentally scramble for the words that will impart this little piece of wisdom to him. I want, in some way, to describe my passion to him about learning - how it makes me feel - so that somewhere in all of the craziness that is his life for the next nine week, he can find hooks that make him want learning to be the first thing he does when he wakes up and the last thing he does before he goes to sleep. It's the only way to get through college AND get something out of it. If he could just see a little of what it is like for me... not was ~ *is*....
And as I look around the room at the stations I have set up for me to help me through recovery, it occurs to me that I am lying.
*We had just finished watching an episode of Modern Family, our latest favorite "feel good" show - there are so few, and this one is SO good - and the tv holds its breath in a pause screen of credits.
*The vintage eBay stuff to my left and right - left being stuff that doesn't have pictures, yet and right being items with pictures divided into posted and not-posted-yet piles - waits in baited anticipation.
*My book and syllabus for the faculty learning community I am part of this quarter sleeps at my knee.
*My box of vintage magazine pictures and its accompanying boxes of empty vintage frames (I make framed collage art out of vintage magazines) lounge at my feet.
*The curriculum I've created for "Intro to Gender Studies" taps its foot in a hidden window on my screen.
*My cross-stitch bag with the dragon I've put over 350 hours into - so far - cuddles up to my 4 ft Valentine's bear, who keeps me constant company on the couch.
*My "Listen to Your Mother" piece I'm reading in front of God and everybody in less than a month is pacing back and forth in Word, just waiting for me to practice.
*The non-fiction book I'm reading keeps company with my wallet and keys in my purse.
*My phone with my brain games to help with the chemo-brain recovery sucks juice from the charger on the chance I might play a session or two.
*Outlines of the pieces I am writing to partner with the pre-surgery portrait session in the hopes of creating an art exhibit and to use as voice over in the documentary are back row students, sitting next to the Gender Studies curriculum and LTYM.
*The grant proposal files I am going through to distribute to the Northwest International Education Association Board - on which I am the VP and the Grant Coordinator - haven't given up on me, yet.
*Living Richly and Fully - my chronic illness support group on FB - prefers the next to last row.
*LR&F is becoming great friends with my breast cancer research and blog drafts.
*And my list of free, online MIT course I want to start get the position of honor, perched triumphantly right next to me as the only learning opportunity I had taken advantage of all day, gloating over the rest... and that only received maybe an hour of my attention.
And I know. I am lying.
Premise A: If someone made me choose one activity to do for the rest of my life, I would choose learning (and not in a scape-goat, twist-of-words-you-learn-from-everything-you-do-so-I-learn-from-doing-nothing kind of way). Premise B: If learning is the first and last thing I have *always* wanted to be doing every day. Then Conclusion: I am lying. I am not doing it. I've had all of these options surrounding me all day, and I devoted maybe an hour to all of them combined. Now, don't get me wrong. I had major surgery two weeks ago tomorrow. My left breast was "augmented," and the side we cut off now houses an expander placed underneath the pectoral muscle. Since the surgery, I've gone into the office twice to have a total of 100 cc's of saline injected into my right lump so the expander will slowly stretch the pectoral muscles to allow them to cradle the eventual reconstruction of my right breast. I will go in three or four more times for saline "fills," and then, when my bump is big enough, I will sit with that for three months in an effort to assure a successful reconstruction comprised of a breast implant combined with lipo-ed tissue from other areas of my body. It would be fool-hardy to "work" from the time I get up until the time I go to bed. I have to be rested and healthy, if I want to continue this journey and be the best version of me possible on the other end.
But I'm being ripped off. And I'm the one doing the ripping off. I am denying myself - consciously, for the most part - activities that I enjoy. No, not just enjoy; these are activities I love. Am I trying to punish myself? Am I depressed? Am I just damned lazy?
I could drive myself crazy trying to answer those questions. Does it even really matter why I didn't do much of any of these treasured opportunities today? I guess you could argue "yes," it is important. It makes sense that knowing the root or cause of a problem takes a huge step towards fixing said problem.
But I'm also a firm believer in the first step to overcoming a problem is identifying it. My problem is that I'm not consistently doing the things I love. At any given time, I am sure all of the possible explanations apply. Sometimes, I am punishing myself. Others? I am depressed. There are times where I am truly not physically able to work on anything that takes any brain power, you know, what with two major surgeries, radioactive tests, and chemotherapy (to name a few) since July, it's bound to happen. And sometimes, I am just damned lazy.
So now I've identified it AND explained it well enough. Now, I fix it.
And there she was, surrounding me the whole time. Since the beginning of this journey, really. My Inner Breast Cancer B@d@ss was always with me. I didn't have to search for her. She started doing her thing immediately. The earliest days of this experience were filled with research and posting, research and posting, research and posting. I had to learn about this new entity in my life - this parasite, a living thing, that had taken the opportunity grow in me. And then I had to talk about it, to tell people what I was learning because I knew I needed help - and I knew I wanted to help anyone I could. My Inner B@d@ss has been with me my entire life. She has carried me through every dark day of my existence. First, we learn. Everything we can. Then, we talk. To anyone who will listen. She is a philosopher, a biologist, a historian, an author, a child, a sociologist, an artist, an entrepreneur, a performer, a supporter, a professor, a student.
I found my Inner Breast Cancer B@d@ss. She is a B@d@ss Scholar.
Scholar:
1. a learned or erudite person, especially one who has profound knowledge of a particular subject; one who learned and analyzes
So she is a teacher.
2. a student: pupil
3. a person, especially a child, who studies
And a student.
4. savant
And... a little bit crazy.
The Search is now officially ended. Elvis has left the building. (That one's for you, Aunt Sheila ;-). I hear the fat lady singing. (I REALLY don't like that phrase) Stick a fork in it. Roger, over... and... out.
It's time for a new blog.
P.S. This Search has given me FAR more than it could *ever* take away. The one thing I *can't* say.... good riddance.
<voice from the future whispers> "I wish you the best of luck. You're going to need it."
Sunday, April 5, 2015
Look Right Through Me
Menopause - /ˈmenəˌpôz/ - noun
the ceasing of menstruation; the period in a woman's life (typically between 45 and 50 years of age) when this occurs.
Okay. Well, that definition is pathetically simplistic. Let's try a medical dictionary.
Definition: Menopause represents the end of menstruation. While technically it refers to the final period, it is not an abrupt event, but a gradual process. Menopause is not a disease that needs to be cured; it is a natural life-stage transition during which women often make decisions about "treatment" options, such as hormone replacement therapies.
Now we're getting somewhere. That one reads more like the opening of a conversation. Unfortunately, it's a conversation, it seems, no one is having, not with any kind of full-disclosure honesty or in-depth exploration. Or maybe it's too complex and unique for a true conversation; I just don't know.
What I do know is that 3 months ago, one of my favorite nurses at CCNW looked at me and said, "Well, you are fully post-menopausal, so we don't need to do anything there." Uuuuhhhhhh, WHAT? Before chemo started, I wasn't even PRE-menopausal, and now, less than 4 months later, I'm fully POST! What the F@CK!?! Couldn't SOMEONE have thought to mention to me that my hormone levels were changing so drastically that I would be through menopause in record time? Maybe there's a meditation practice I could have done to ease the symptoms. Maybe some gentle yoga. A pill with no harmful interactions? SOMETHING? I thought I was *losing* my mind. I really, seriously thought I was going crazy and that I wasn't going to come back from it. At least if I had known it was menopause, I could have focused on the.... temporary nature of the mood-swings and physical changes. I figured my care team would KNOW to say something about it, but no one thought to say anything. No one thought to mention it. I felt so invisible that day. So trivial. Glossed over and unseen.
And now I'm going through it again. Not menopause (I don't think), but the great, invisible Phantom Nipple strikes, this time. The weight of misunderstood assumption is *so heavy.* I completely understand why anyone in their right mind would look at breast reconstruction following malignant breast cancer as a positive, celebratory thing. Maybe I'm not in my right mind (ha. ha. ha.) but it doesn't feel that way. I just hurt. Badly. Not as bad as I did after the mastectomy, but almost. And definitely more widespread. This pain is temporary, though, I know that. Who, (there's that phrase again) in their *right mind* WOULDN'T celebrate their return to looking "normal?" Apparently, not me. I am on my way to the full breast augmentation I have wanted for *years,* and I am not happy about it. And I don't know why. I'm sure I will be, eventually, but right now, in this moment, no.
There's a sense I get that many might think I am now on the road to "over;" that I am officially on the road to "recovery" with this first surgery. Maybe that's what's pissing me off, because I don't feel the "over" - the "recovery" - that so many seem to see. I still have Herceptin infusions through September. I still have many minor and at least one more major surgery between now and February of next year. I have Tamoxifen pills (the ones that will KEEP me post-menopausal) for a minimum of 5 years, or 10 years, if the current studies say 10 years is better. Maybe I'm pissed off because I can't seem to see this step like others do - for me, this is one of twelve thousand steps I simply never wanted to *have* to take, one of many pills I never wanted prescribed, one of many chemicals I never wanted injected, one of many surgeries I never wanted to have. I can't seem to find the "at least" in this, yet.
And underneath it all, every time a migraine sets in, or my damaged heart starts pounding too quickly and too hard, or my vulnerable lungs show the slightest sign of ache, I will have to fight the urge to beg for more tests - just to *make sure* IT hasn't come back somewhere else. Just to make sure I don't have to start this *hell* all over again. I now know, intimately, how much this experience sucks. And I can never *not know* that again.
Ignorance is bliss. And in this, I am not blissful.
(In honor of my dearly departed cousin, Ashley Carol, age 52, who passed away on Good Friday. Your pain is relieved, your fears are allayed, and your suffering is at an end. God speed and take care of you, "Sis." You've earned it.)
What I do know is that 3 months ago, one of my favorite nurses at CCNW looked at me and said, "Well, you are fully post-menopausal, so we don't need to do anything there." Uuuuhhhhhh, WHAT? Before chemo started, I wasn't even PRE-menopausal, and now, less than 4 months later, I'm fully POST! What the F@CK!?! Couldn't SOMEONE have thought to mention to me that my hormone levels were changing so drastically that I would be through menopause in record time? Maybe there's a meditation practice I could have done to ease the symptoms. Maybe some gentle yoga. A pill with no harmful interactions? SOMETHING? I thought I was *losing* my mind. I really, seriously thought I was going crazy and that I wasn't going to come back from it. At least if I had known it was menopause, I could have focused on the.... temporary nature of the mood-swings and physical changes. I figured my care team would KNOW to say something about it, but no one thought to say anything. No one thought to mention it. I felt so invisible that day. So trivial. Glossed over and unseen.
And now I'm going through it again. Not menopause (I don't think), but the great, invisible Phantom Nipple strikes, this time. The weight of misunderstood assumption is *so heavy.* I completely understand why anyone in their right mind would look at breast reconstruction following malignant breast cancer as a positive, celebratory thing. Maybe I'm not in my right mind (ha. ha. ha.) but it doesn't feel that way. I just hurt. Badly. Not as bad as I did after the mastectomy, but almost. And definitely more widespread. This pain is temporary, though, I know that. Who, (there's that phrase again) in their *right mind* WOULDN'T celebrate their return to looking "normal?" Apparently, not me. I am on my way to the full breast augmentation I have wanted for *years,* and I am not happy about it. And I don't know why. I'm sure I will be, eventually, but right now, in this moment, no.
There's a sense I get that many might think I am now on the road to "over;" that I am officially on the road to "recovery" with this first surgery. Maybe that's what's pissing me off, because I don't feel the "over" - the "recovery" - that so many seem to see. I still have Herceptin infusions through September. I still have many minor and at least one more major surgery between now and February of next year. I have Tamoxifen pills (the ones that will KEEP me post-menopausal) for a minimum of 5 years, or 10 years, if the current studies say 10 years is better. Maybe I'm pissed off because I can't seem to see this step like others do - for me, this is one of twelve thousand steps I simply never wanted to *have* to take, one of many pills I never wanted prescribed, one of many chemicals I never wanted injected, one of many surgeries I never wanted to have. I can't seem to find the "at least" in this, yet.
And underneath it all, every time a migraine sets in, or my damaged heart starts pounding too quickly and too hard, or my vulnerable lungs show the slightest sign of ache, I will have to fight the urge to beg for more tests - just to *make sure* IT hasn't come back somewhere else. Just to make sure I don't have to start this *hell* all over again. I now know, intimately, how much this experience sucks. And I can never *not know* that again.
Ignorance is bliss. And in this, I am not blissful.
(In honor of my dearly departed cousin, Ashley Carol, age 52, who passed away on Good Friday. Your pain is relieved, your fears are allayed, and your suffering is at an end. God speed and take care of you, "Sis." You've earned it.)
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
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?
(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?
Monday, March 16, 2015
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?
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?
Saturday, March 14, 2015
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 2, 2014
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."
:-)
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."
:-)
Thursday, September 25, 2014
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.
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.
Friday, September 12, 2014
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...
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...
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
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.
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 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/
Sunday, July 27, 2014
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.
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.
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