?TMI? Again, You Can't Say You Weren't Warned...

THIS is a crazy side-rant in the middle of what, I am quickly becoming convinced, is a minor nervous breakdown. But it is a really positive crazy side-rant, and I *really* need the positive right now, so don't say you weren't warned about the upcoming crazy-laced TMI rant.

Women under the age of menopause (and any many in or hoping to be in a long-term relation with a woman) might secretly fear "the Change" more than any other biophysical event outside of dying. Let me demonstrate my point. Set a timer for 45 seconds, then close your eyes and think about the ways menopause has or is impacting your life. What might the future hold for you when you finally stare the Change in the eyes for the first time.

How could it not send icy cold shivers down the spine?  Considering Hollywood's portrayal of older women, (women of any age, really) pharmaceutical advertising's constant reminders about the heat, moods, and moisture (or lack thereof) associated with the Change, and the ever-present stoic, matronly mother/aunt/grandmother/friend's mother/church pew neighbor/sweet little lady next door archetype, what else are we supposed to think?  I've always imagined a grim Transformation (I'll stop speaking for the majority of women now) resulting in a shell of a woman, a ghostly shadow of her former self. Every joke, ad, and movie reinforces the idea that menopause is PMS-on-steroids.

I see things a bit differently now.

I would like to point out a few things 1) in no conceivable way did my 3-month, chemically-induced, stress-drenched menopause experience resemble what I understand to be the "average," "natural" menopause reality, information admittedly gleaned mainly through furtive, short conversations and late night Google obsessions.  2) In no universe do I think it's possible that my "Change" is complete.  3) In no realm of the imagination would I EVER be so vain ~ or disrespectful ~ as to superimpose my experience onto others.  What I write next is my experience, thus far, and I must assume that it is mine, alone.

But I dearly, truly hope not.  :-)

I look back now at the barely-contained angst that consumed me during the months after my diagnosis, but before...  well, today, and my first instinct is to stoically smile, just like I've seen a million other white-haired matron smile.  For months that seemed like *centuries,* I could not, in my relative innocence, imagine me without my "Drive."  And that's the big deal about menopause, right? You lose your "Drive," and then you go crazy. "Drive" has played a heavy hand in my Universe for almost 40 years.  The thought of it simply disappearing (because that's what happens, right?) was so inconceivable, so... unspeakable that I spent many nights/early mornings alone on the couch, trying desperately to not-disturb my 16 year old son or my boyfriend ~ of *7 very short months* ~ as I immersed myself in imagining who that woman would be.  There is *nothing* to prescribe, no exercise to overdo, no proven remedy for the loss of...  desire. How... boring that must be, I thought. So empty. Dead. And anyone who knows me intimately understands that boredom is my kryptonite. I was scared to death. How in the HELL was my already-stressed-to-the-max-7-month-old relationship going to handle THAT?!?!?!?  It was already juggling work, children, grandchildren, family, bills, daily life, blah, blah, blah.  Oh, yeah.  And breast cancer.  Put menopause in the mix?  You could say I was scared. To death.

Fast-forward several months later to now...  I am emerging into the next phase of this.  I am coming to understand that Drive and Desire are two often-very separate things. The absence of "Drive" is not a vacuum.  To be left empty, the core quality of the human spirit would have to be "Drive." Somehow, in my pre-menopausal way of assuming the worst (something I have NEVER done before), I had decided that "desire" equated the "Drive," that they were one and the same. It is a Need, a Necessity, ultimately, a biological imperative. It is Sex Drive that has allowed the human race to procreate and survive. Drive is produced largely by estrogen and in the hormone's absence, Drive all but disappears. This would be a terrible tragedy if Drive and Desire were the same thing. I am coming to see they definitely are not.

Desire involves interest. It involves enticement. Desire equates *want,* instead of need. Yes. The stripping of estrogen from my body would leave me bereft of Need. But Desire, I can now see, has nothing to do with estrogen. In fact, it's had an almost inverse affect on me. The death of Drive has left all kinds of room to filled in with Desire. (That is about the cheesiest-ass thing I have *ever* written.) Being able to let go of "have to" and embrace "want to" has been amazing. Enlightening, really. I look back at my menopausophobia, and I can't help but laugh at my irrational fears. Interestingly, I think I'm glad I was given a healthy fear the Change. In some ways, the looming threat of <<<menopause>>> kept me on my toes. It never let me forget for too long that nothing is permanent. The zombie-esque future I face as an aging woman often inspired(s) me to acts of great fun and foolishness. Desire, unfettered by "Drive," is trans-formative. When sex sheds the weight of "must have," "want to have" all but takes over.

Remember that 45 seconds of imagining menopause? Close your eyes, again, but this time imagine what wanting feels like without the pressure of "must." Wanting the one you love, not because a gland in your brain is flipping internal switches your body can't ignore, but simply because... you want them. You don't have to have them. <close your eyes!>

You *WANT* them.

;~*

And that, my friends, is *hot.*

So when half-joking, side-stepping inquiries about the HELL of menopause come my way, I think a calm, reserved smile is probably the way to go, don't you?  

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.

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.

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.)

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?

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

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

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

So much to learn... So little time?

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

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

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

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

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