"CancerCon Part 4: What Is the One Thing That Surprise[d] You the Most During Cancer?"
You mean, besides the Cancer?
It's a HuffPo article, very well written (despite the typo in the title), and it includes a broad range of answers. Those interviewed span the spectrum, from suffocating hopelessness to revitalizing rebirth. I am somewhere in between the two.
What hit me from the article, though, was a comments reply. "Finishing treatment is not the end of cancer... merely the end of when people care about your cancer." Wow... she nailed it. So true. Everyone thinks it's over and all is well once treatment is over. In reality, 'after-cancer' is often worse than the cancer. I wasn't prepared for 'after-cancer.' Nope."
Even *I* thought - for the entire three months of chemotherapy and the following nine months of intravenous protein treatment - that "after cancer" meant "after treatment." It doesn't. Not for me. Not at all. Nope.
My last treatment was in November of 2015. Here's a run-down of a typical week 7 months later.
On an average of 1 to 2 days a week, I wake up with an extremely light-sensitive migraine. If it's a weekend, I am in luck. Monday through Thursday, though, I have to weigh canceling class for 60+ students versus figuring out what I can present in class and still make it make sense. All while ice picks are stabbing at my brain.
On an average of 1 to 2 days a week, I have a frontal lobe headache by the end of the day. Yay. I made it through class, only to not be able to grade, answer emails, or write assignments, usually putting me behind for the next day.
Even time my head hurts, I am reminded that my kind of cancer most often shows back up in the lungs.
And the brain.
On an average of 3 to 5 times a day, I have to find a way to adjust the temperature around or the clothes I am wearing so the prickly heat that makes it feel like someone is pouring acid all over me stops. And so that I feel like I can breathe.
This phenomenon will, from this point on, be referred to as The Amazing Acid Wash.
On an average of 5 to... oh, hell. Averages don't work with this one. Because my cancer feeds on hormones, treatment put me into chemical menopause that we are now doing everything possible to maintain. Unnatural, induced menopause has left me unable to control my physiological responses to stress, frustration, embarrassment, and anger. This meaning crying in public is a weekly - and often daily - issue.
On a daily basis, I am reminded of the cognitive damage of chemotherapy. The blank looks on the faces of friends, family, and students are now the signal that I am no longer verbally communicating effectively.
...Or maybe I'm speaking another language.
In trying to walk at least 30 minutes a day 3 or 4 days a week, I've had to map routes in my head so that when The Amazing Acid Wash hits (and it will hit), I have a quick route indoors so I can make it home/back to my office.
(This isn't so much of an issue anymore. It's now in the 90s everyday, so The Amazing Acid Wash hits before I get from my back door to the car. Oh, to still qualify for a handicapped parking pass.)
What a thing to long for. A handicapped parking pass for a perfectly healthy looking person.
Any day that I stand on my feet for more than about an hour or two, I must be prepared for the next 12 to 24 waking hours to feel like I am moving through jello.
I now understand more fully the definition of "fatigue."
If the shower/bath water temperature more than a few degrees lower or higher than body temperature, I can't stay in the water because the pectoral muscles holding up the silicone sack of my reconstruction begin waves of contractions resembling the birth scene in "Aliens."
And skipping the emotional, relationship, friendship, parenting, spiritual, and financial impacts, every time I'm asked if I would like to join a committee/volunteer/go to lunch-coffee-dinner/go to a party/hang out at the bar, or anything else that isn't happening "today," I have to equivocate. I've committed to things and people I love and miss so many times, only to have some mix of the above force me to back out, embarrassed, with apologies and explanations on the outside and a humiliated broken heart on the inside that I've stopped saying yes. How long, then, is it, until people just stop asking.
What it boils down to is two options. Either I go out and face the world, knowing that the appearance of any of the above recurring recovery facets will elicit some mix of pity, sadness, frustration, cluelessness, disbelief, and/or fear on the faces of those with which I will interact - or I shut myself in and face only myself.
I wonder which option my family would choose.
Both options make me want to start screaming and never stop.
Showing posts with label Fear. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fear. Show all posts
Monday, June 6, 2016
Tuesday, May 10, 2016
Blogging Through the Back Door
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.
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.
Thursday, April 7, 2016
The best bridge between despair and hope...
...is a good night's sleep, they say.
They also say, "don't burn bridges."
Two nights ago, I couldn't sleep. I can't really point to the reason, but I just couldn't sleep. "They say" insomnia is a common complication of cancer treatment. "They say" it can last for years. I made it through the night and the next day, though. I used to sleep 4 or 5 hours a night for weeks on end - and that's a maximum. It wasn't as easy as it used to be, but I made it through.
Then last night, sometime around one am, when I could barely hold my eyes open, I got the hiccups. For the last few weeks, I've been getting these bouts of hiccups that seem to have no cause (although that's fairly common), but new for me, they also seem to have no cure.
Fast forward to 3:45 am - less than 12 hours ago. I'm laying on my back on the couch, still hiccuping, with tears streaming down my face and filling my ears. For many years - the last couple of decades or so, anyway - I've lived with night terrors born of my past. As a result, for most of my adult life, I never really enjoyed a "good" night's sleep, not on a regular basis. Except for a four or five month period before my cancer diagnosis. My life and my state of mental health aligned in such a way that I began sleeping through the night. Every night. For nights on end. Then I had to get a breast cut off, and that screwed everything up.
Now, two years later, my surgery wounds are healed, but chemical menopause, acid washes (I refuse to call them hot flashes any more), and an apparently malfunctioning diaphragm rob me again and again and again. "They say" the best bridge between despair and hope is a good night's sleep.
I wish my bridge was more than a precarious, Indiana Jones-esque, frayed rope mockery of a contraption.
They also say, "don't burn bridges."
Two nights ago, I couldn't sleep. I can't really point to the reason, but I just couldn't sleep. "They say" insomnia is a common complication of cancer treatment. "They say" it can last for years. I made it through the night and the next day, though. I used to sleep 4 or 5 hours a night for weeks on end - and that's a maximum. It wasn't as easy as it used to be, but I made it through.
Then last night, sometime around one am, when I could barely hold my eyes open, I got the hiccups. For the last few weeks, I've been getting these bouts of hiccups that seem to have no cause (although that's fairly common), but new for me, they also seem to have no cure.
Fast forward to 3:45 am - less than 12 hours ago. I'm laying on my back on the couch, still hiccuping, with tears streaming down my face and filling my ears. For many years - the last couple of decades or so, anyway - I've lived with night terrors born of my past. As a result, for most of my adult life, I never really enjoyed a "good" night's sleep, not on a regular basis. Except for a four or five month period before my cancer diagnosis. My life and my state of mental health aligned in such a way that I began sleeping through the night. Every night. For nights on end. Then I had to get a breast cut off, and that screwed everything up.
Now, two years later, my surgery wounds are healed, but chemical menopause, acid washes (I refuse to call them hot flashes any more), and an apparently malfunctioning diaphragm rob me again and again and again. "They say" the best bridge between despair and hope is a good night's sleep.
I wish my bridge was more than a precarious, Indiana Jones-esque, frayed rope mockery of a contraption.
Tuesday, April 5, 2016
*Sigh*
Today, I shared the following with a new person in my life. It was so much easier with visible physical wounds. Now, with no visual signs of illness or injury, I am left to wonder if it's my body or my spirit that needs more time.
"...Yea, this cancer thing pretty much sucks. I was triple positive - stage 1 - grade - 1, 3 months of weekly chemo, then 9 months of Herceptin (artificially induced flu on a menstrual like schedule :-) - and that ended in November of last year. I am not to the "alive" point, yet, but I have had some crazy amazing opportunities to teach - to speak with people - to walk with people - because I am such a TMI person - well, it's been phenomenal. I had been dating my fiance for 6 months when the diagnosis came... but I'm not going to make myself cry, so I'll stop there :-). If you are on Facebook and add me, that's where I chronicled my journey - which, honestly, I've really let up on, but continually go back and try to pick up again. The time I had healing, being sick, having surgeries - it gave me time to write. I had to write and share to get through it, but now... this time in my life is *so* much more stressful than any of that ever felt like... I don't have the energy. The stability, really, to look that closely at myself at the moment. I have to keep life and family together, which it sounds like you know all too well. My then-boyfriend/now-fiance quit work and school to help me keep my job, life, family, and sanity together, and now, as a one income family with canceled extra classes and a variety of other cute financial surprises... it's pretty darn exhausting. But I'm coming back. I can feel it. It's just so darn slooooow.
...I've been... in the role of the most experienced through most of my cancer trip - there were a small few who had walked this path before, but even at 45, I am much younger (for now, I'm sure you are well aware of) than most diagnosed women, so very few in my life, in my circle knew anything of what might come for me. Some very amazing people came into my life that *had* walked this before, and without them... I would be lost. But this, now, post-treatment and pre-recovery, this is hard. This is so much harder than cancer and surgery and chemo and all of it. And there's no damn "final appointment" date. Really, a "this ends" goalpost would make such a difference. Thank you. It was kind of nice, really, to write this with no worry of freak out or embarrassment or pity."
And the saddest piece to me, in this moment, is I kind of feel just like I did when I started this. If that's the case, then what's the point?
Probably the point is to convince me to quit asking what's the point.
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.
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, 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?
Thursday, March 19, 2015
The DMZ
I have been staring at a blank page for... ever, it seems. I have *so much* swirling inside me - churning, really - that I have the overwhelming, rather irrational, urge to throw up. It's as if vomiting would expel all of the retching, putrid filth inside, leaving me refreshed, energized, and above all, empty. Lighter. I would give anything to feel a gaping void where there is currently a roiling cesspool of anxiety. I'm not going to write about the myriad of issues pertaining to my current crisis, although my continually evolving relationship with cancer certainly contributes to this nausea. What sits like a rock in my gut is the crushing reality that there are *so precious few* in my life that do not have a major quantum shift taking place in their own worlds. I almost can't count the number of people I consider near and dear to my heart that are now in the midst of their own painful transformations, and it literally makes me sick to my stomach.
I suspect my turmoil might be a result of what can only be described as raging empathy emerging from my still-infant Inner Breast Cancer B@d@ss. I have become intimately familiar with raw, unbridled terror through this journey. It is a facet of everyday life. Now, though, many people I love the most must stare into the eyes of their own fearful beast. Just typing that makes my mouth water and my stomach turn. It really is harder to watch it happen than to live it. People shake their heads at me when I say that, but... well... they are wrong. I would rather live it any day of the week (and twice on Sunday) than sit meekly on the sidelines, powerless and impotent.
This empathy emerges, I think, from vivid memories of the worst of my meltdowns. I remember lying in bed at night, muscles rigid, trying to minimize my tremors so that Brian could sleep. Eventually, I would creep into the living room, curl up on the couch, and simply sob for hours. I worked so hard to keep the tiki mask in place. I couldn't let the people I love see me like that. It wasn't embarrassment. It wasn't a lack of trust. It was because there is so much pain and suffering in life; I could *not* add to their burden. In the dead of night, though, masks often get dislodged. Never before had I felt so helpless, so broken, so incapable of drawing another breath. There were times when I begged the fear to consume me; I longed for it to own me, to take away all control, so I could just let the current sweep me out to sea. Never in my life had I *not* believed in my ability to weather the worst. I knew me. I trusted me. I believed in me. Until this.
And again, I quell the urge to hurl. The gorge that rises in my throat, though, is not the floating scum of my own terror. It is the helplessness I feel knowing that many I love are now taking those same steps. Their story may be different than mine, but the result is the same ~ same, same, but different, all f#ck!ng over again. I know they are trying their damnedest to lie still at night, so others can sleep. I can feel them sneaking into their living rooms to rage and cry where no one can hear, even if only metaphorically. They are shaking and quaking on the inside while desperately trying to keep the tiki mask in place to protect the ones *they* love, because they see no other option.
But they are wrong, just as I was wrong. There is another option. They are not the first, and certainly will not be the last, to traverse the shadowy landscape of fear. They are a very few among so many that have fought and will fight these battles, time and time again. A single soldier, though, cannot win a war; it takes an army. So just in case someone reading this is standing in the middle of their own personal combat zone shivering and weeping and scared shitless, I thought I'd remind you; I've been through basic training, and I am still standing. I may not be a battle-hardened warrior (just yet), but I have stared down the most evil of demons and the scariest of enemies, and I have a lot of fight left in me, yet. You don't have to walk this alone. You don't even have to ask. I am here, if you want, and I will cross this minefield with you. It would be my honor.
And my salvation.
Just as long as we get to stop, sometimes, so I can throw up.
I suspect my turmoil might be a result of what can only be described as raging empathy emerging from my still-infant Inner Breast Cancer B@d@ss. I have become intimately familiar with raw, unbridled terror through this journey. It is a facet of everyday life. Now, though, many people I love the most must stare into the eyes of their own fearful beast. Just typing that makes my mouth water and my stomach turn. It really is harder to watch it happen than to live it. People shake their heads at me when I say that, but... well... they are wrong. I would rather live it any day of the week (and twice on Sunday) than sit meekly on the sidelines, powerless and impotent.
This empathy emerges, I think, from vivid memories of the worst of my meltdowns. I remember lying in bed at night, muscles rigid, trying to minimize my tremors so that Brian could sleep. Eventually, I would creep into the living room, curl up on the couch, and simply sob for hours. I worked so hard to keep the tiki mask in place. I couldn't let the people I love see me like that. It wasn't embarrassment. It wasn't a lack of trust. It was because there is so much pain and suffering in life; I could *not* add to their burden. In the dead of night, though, masks often get dislodged. Never before had I felt so helpless, so broken, so incapable of drawing another breath. There were times when I begged the fear to consume me; I longed for it to own me, to take away all control, so I could just let the current sweep me out to sea. Never in my life had I *not* believed in my ability to weather the worst. I knew me. I trusted me. I believed in me. Until this.
And again, I quell the urge to hurl. The gorge that rises in my throat, though, is not the floating scum of my own terror. It is the helplessness I feel knowing that many I love are now taking those same steps. Their story may be different than mine, but the result is the same ~ same, same, but different, all f#ck!ng over again. I know they are trying their damnedest to lie still at night, so others can sleep. I can feel them sneaking into their living rooms to rage and cry where no one can hear, even if only metaphorically. They are shaking and quaking on the inside while desperately trying to keep the tiki mask in place to protect the ones *they* love, because they see no other option.
But they are wrong, just as I was wrong. There is another option. They are not the first, and certainly will not be the last, to traverse the shadowy landscape of fear. They are a very few among so many that have fought and will fight these battles, time and time again. A single soldier, though, cannot win a war; it takes an army. So just in case someone reading this is standing in the middle of their own personal combat zone shivering and weeping and scared shitless, I thought I'd remind you; I've been through basic training, and I am still standing. I may not be a battle-hardened warrior (just yet), but I have stared down the most evil of demons and the scariest of enemies, and I have a lot of fight left in me, yet. You don't have to walk this alone. You don't even have to ask. I am here, if you want, and I will cross this minefield with you. It would be my honor.
And my salvation.
Just as long as we get to stop, sometimes, so I can throw up.
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.
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.
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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