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?
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
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.
Tuesday, December 2, 2014
Terrified Celebration: The Reality of an Oxymoronic Existence
"Today" (Monday, even though it's Tuesday on the calendar - I haven't slept yet - it's still today) I showed up at Cancer Care Northwest's south office for my final chemotherapy treatment. It's been awhile since I blogged, and I've beat myself up about that. I - we - are taking another step into more undiscovered country, though, and I just can't stay away any longer. I started this blog with the idea to chronicle my search for my inner breast cancer b@d@ss from then on, but it has been sporadic, to say the least. It has been approximately (exactly) 137 days since that first blog, and there are 7, total. That has bothered me. Often and intensely. Yes, the blogging and the FaceBooking was and is for my emotional health, first and foremost, but I am - at heart - an educator and a story-teller. So many have helped me along the way that I feel it's important to tell my story so maybe women - and men - who walk this road in the future might benefit from the steps I have taken - good or bad. It's how we learn, as a species, from our history, both macro and micro. I also took vows as a Buddhist to dedicate my meditation practice and my life to doing my bit to ease the suffering of all sentient beings. If the Buddhist belief in reincarnation is really the "way it works," the Bodhisattva vow also includes the promise that, should the vow taker achieve enlightenment, they will still chose to come back and work again to alleviate the suffering of all. My vow was my promise to God that I would be the best person I could be for as long as I am allowed so that my and others suffering is just a bit less because I lived - that's the goal, anyway. Really, I can't not tell my story. It occurs to me, though, as I begin this entry with the goal of blogging every day of my post-chemotherapy life until further notice (for a variety of reasons that include guilt), that I should go a little easy on myself. I am, after all, one of those sentient beings I vowed to ease the suffering of, if at all possible. If every living creature on this planet deserves kindness and compassion and the easing of their suffering - and I hold this idea as my dearest, universal Truth - I *have* to acknowledge that *I* am one of the deserving. And that hurts to say. I want so desperately to *believe* that statement, and it is *so* difficult. But that doesn't change the Truth that I deserve the same respect I give others. It does *not* change that Truth. It doesn't. But I so wish it didn't make me cry and feel like I need to keep repeating it to make it a little more true.
Anyway, in respect of the fact that I deserve relief from suffering, I am beginning a quest to view my sporadic blogging is *not* a negative thing (I will have to keep reminding myself this for some time, I'm thinking). It is a natural thing, really. Even in the best of times, dedication to the recording of your life is not an easy undertaking mentally, emotionally, or logistically. And it has its own time and place. Unless someone wants to chronicle their entire life, there are times when regular, frequent blogging just shouldn't happen. That's a whole different kind of crazy that gets movies made about them. Looking at the indescribable impact steroids have had - and are still having - on my emotional control, mood swings, sense of self worth, faith in myself, anger threshold, and pretty much anything else you can think of that involves *moods,* combined with the impact "chemo brain" has had, continues to have, and will continue to have for the foreseeable future on my ability to do my job easily, to organize the many spheres of my life, and pretty much anything else you can think of that involves traversing the *busy* that is daily western life, blogging with any kind of frequency would have been... well, I want to say unhealthy, but if I'm being honest, it would have been self-abusive. And if I saw anyone I knew attempting that while going through what I've experienced over the last three months, I would have literally sat on them to make them take a break and rest themselves. That means I deserve the leniency, if everyone else does too, right? I so wish it didn't make me cry and feel like I need to keep repeating it to make it a little more true, though.
So I allowed myself that time to rest. In fact, I didn't feel guilty about resting when I needed to, because I KNEW I needed to recover well so that I didn't end up extending my healing exponentially. Now that I can see the mending beginning and I am not trapped in the... mental and emotional... hell that chemo sometimes has been, I feel strangely guilty that I didn't blog more. I've been wishing I had recorded more of the crazy I experienced. But I have to believe that if I had been capable of recording it, I would have. During these meltdowns, every ounce of energy was spent not losing what little hold I had on my sense of stability and sanity. Don't get me wrong, this wasn't a daily experience, but there were enough of them and they were close enough together that they filled in the few empty cracks left by the steroid-chemo brain train wreck. I deserved it the breaks; the rest. And it's nice that it hurts a little less to say that now, because I believe it a little more.
(Sidenote - it is so interesting how the point of a blog often emerges rather differently than expected and it is so fun when it happens. It's happening right now :-)
My Ego wants to add that there were often days where I felt decent. Like, really decent. Decent enough to get things done - with work, with my sons and grandchildren, with my writing contract, with the oh-so-fun vintage eBay store, with my boyfriend of almost a year - who has walked *every step possible* with me, with my videos I want to make for my history classes, the fiction I've started and never finished. The steroids and chemo brain often leave me unable to complete complex thoughts and tasks, but it wasn't 100% difficult 100% of the time. Instead, though, I would often watch tv or play Diablo or some other leisurely, unproductive activity. There were times I could have been "working," but instead, I was playing. But my Ego is often unfairly hard on me - everyone's is, if you think about it - and it was doing it again. Don't I deserve to have some fun, I mean, even if I *wasn't* going through chemo, EVERYONE deserves fun, right? If that is true, then so do I, regardless of chemo. I prioritized my classes first, and beyond that, all work and no play makes Stacy so much sicker. I deserved the play time. And it hurts a little less to say that now, because I believe it a little more.
And so the purpose of tonight's blog was to help me let myself off the hook for the things I seem to feel I *should* have done, which really is simply a false statement. Because I *did* do what I was supposed to. I took care of myself as best I could so that I could start getting better as soon as possible. Even when I slipped and worked too long or stayed up too late, I always came back to taking care of myself. I deserved it. I still deserve it. Saying that makes me smile. Right now, I have little trouble believing it :-).
postscript: I have been watching "Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants" for the first time ever while writing this entry. The scene playing while writing that last paragraph was in a store where one of the four main teenage girl characters is making a documentary with the help of a 10 year old girl. The main character just found out the girl is dying of leukemia. Normally, the main character is rather irritated by the girl, but today, she's asking her to help her with one more interview. The girl figures out that the main character learned her secret and looks at her and says, "Are you asking me to help you with the film because I have leukemia?" Thoughtful, delayed response - "Maybe." The girl thinks about it and smiles a little. "Okay."
:-)
Anyway, in respect of the fact that I deserve relief from suffering, I am beginning a quest to view my sporadic blogging is *not* a negative thing (I will have to keep reminding myself this for some time, I'm thinking). It is a natural thing, really. Even in the best of times, dedication to the recording of your life is not an easy undertaking mentally, emotionally, or logistically. And it has its own time and place. Unless someone wants to chronicle their entire life, there are times when regular, frequent blogging just shouldn't happen. That's a whole different kind of crazy that gets movies made about them. Looking at the indescribable impact steroids have had - and are still having - on my emotional control, mood swings, sense of self worth, faith in myself, anger threshold, and pretty much anything else you can think of that involves *moods,* combined with the impact "chemo brain" has had, continues to have, and will continue to have for the foreseeable future on my ability to do my job easily, to organize the many spheres of my life, and pretty much anything else you can think of that involves traversing the *busy* that is daily western life, blogging with any kind of frequency would have been... well, I want to say unhealthy, but if I'm being honest, it would have been self-abusive. And if I saw anyone I knew attempting that while going through what I've experienced over the last three months, I would have literally sat on them to make them take a break and rest themselves. That means I deserve the leniency, if everyone else does too, right? I so wish it didn't make me cry and feel like I need to keep repeating it to make it a little more true, though.
So I allowed myself that time to rest. In fact, I didn't feel guilty about resting when I needed to, because I KNEW I needed to recover well so that I didn't end up extending my healing exponentially. Now that I can see the mending beginning and I am not trapped in the... mental and emotional... hell that chemo sometimes has been, I feel strangely guilty that I didn't blog more. I've been wishing I had recorded more of the crazy I experienced. But I have to believe that if I had been capable of recording it, I would have. During these meltdowns, every ounce of energy was spent not losing what little hold I had on my sense of stability and sanity. Don't get me wrong, this wasn't a daily experience, but there were enough of them and they were close enough together that they filled in the few empty cracks left by the steroid-chemo brain train wreck. I deserved it the breaks; the rest. And it's nice that it hurts a little less to say that now, because I believe it a little more.
(Sidenote - it is so interesting how the point of a blog often emerges rather differently than expected and it is so fun when it happens. It's happening right now :-)
My Ego wants to add that there were often days where I felt decent. Like, really decent. Decent enough to get things done - with work, with my sons and grandchildren, with my writing contract, with the oh-so-fun vintage eBay store, with my boyfriend of almost a year - who has walked *every step possible* with me, with my videos I want to make for my history classes, the fiction I've started and never finished. The steroids and chemo brain often leave me unable to complete complex thoughts and tasks, but it wasn't 100% difficult 100% of the time. Instead, though, I would often watch tv or play Diablo or some other leisurely, unproductive activity. There were times I could have been "working," but instead, I was playing. But my Ego is often unfairly hard on me - everyone's is, if you think about it - and it was doing it again. Don't I deserve to have some fun, I mean, even if I *wasn't* going through chemo, EVERYONE deserves fun, right? If that is true, then so do I, regardless of chemo. I prioritized my classes first, and beyond that, all work and no play makes Stacy so much sicker. I deserved the play time. And it hurts a little less to say that now, because I believe it a little more.
And so the purpose of tonight's blog was to help me let myself off the hook for the things I seem to feel I *should* have done, which really is simply a false statement. Because I *did* do what I was supposed to. I took care of myself as best I could so that I could start getting better as soon as possible. Even when I slipped and worked too long or stayed up too late, I always came back to taking care of myself. I deserved it. I still deserve it. Saying that makes me smile. Right now, I have little trouble believing it :-).
postscript: I have been watching "Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants" for the first time ever while writing this entry. The scene playing while writing that last paragraph was in a store where one of the four main teenage girl characters is making a documentary with the help of a 10 year old girl. The main character just found out the girl is dying of leukemia. Normally, the main character is rather irritated by the girl, but today, she's asking her to help her with one more interview. The girl figures out that the main character learned her secret and looks at her and says, "Are you asking me to help you with the film because I have leukemia?" Thoughtful, delayed response - "Maybe." The girl thinks about it and smiles a little. "Okay."
:-)
Thursday, September 25, 2014
And now I'm making deals?... The Inner Breast Cancer B@d@ss has yet to show her face
The potential of loss over the next 10 weeks became a little overwhelming today. It seemed to all just hit me at once, although, in reality, it was one lose followed quickly by another, followed quickly by another. Running to the bathroom between classes almost wasn't fast enough today. I could lose my hair. That would start soon. I could have permanent heart damage. We won't know until we know. Osteoporosis - that could happen. I *am* losing the coordination of my hands, but haven't felt *too* much pain, yet, but I drop *so much* now. What will that mean for driving? No cross-stitching. Don't laugh. I love it. I can't figure things out like I used to - and now it is sooooo hard to teach like I used to. I get lost in my reasoning - but now what I have are pieces with no connections. I can't lean on my hands *at all* or they are instantly half in pain and half asleep. There is no closure where there once was a very cozy place for me; a cozy place, in fact, that I only discovered about... 8 months ago.
And my breaking point - my favorite comfort food doesn't taste good anymore. I spent more than I should have to indulge myself. My appetite hasn't been great, but it's been steady. I was so ready to treat myself on payday. So of this rant - this is what I've lost in the last 24 hours - lost some hand coordination = driving, typing, cross-stitching - lost the ability to self regulate body temperature, especially at night/can't sleep close to anyone or anything - I can't figure things out like I used to, like even yesterday, and it is severely affecting my lectures - leaning on my hands puts them half in pain and half asleep - and closure. Everyone deserves a little closure sometime, right? And my favorite comfort food. It tastes like nothing doused in ketchup now.
So I'm still willing to deal. One. Just one. If I can keep one of these things I am either in the process of losing or in danger of losing, I would be happy. I promise. I don't even need to choose. You pick, and I'll be happy with it. Really. I will. Trust me.
And my breaking point - my favorite comfort food doesn't taste good anymore. I spent more than I should have to indulge myself. My appetite hasn't been great, but it's been steady. I was so ready to treat myself on payday. So of this rant - this is what I've lost in the last 24 hours - lost some hand coordination = driving, typing, cross-stitching - lost the ability to self regulate body temperature, especially at night/can't sleep close to anyone or anything - I can't figure things out like I used to, like even yesterday, and it is severely affecting my lectures - leaning on my hands puts them half in pain and half asleep - and closure. Everyone deserves a little closure sometime, right? And my favorite comfort food. It tastes like nothing doused in ketchup now.
So I'm still willing to deal. One. Just one. If I can keep one of these things I am either in the process of losing or in danger of losing, I would be happy. I promise. I don't even need to choose. You pick, and I'll be happy with it. Really. I will. Trust me.
Friday, September 12, 2014
TMI - You Can't Say You Weren't Warned
I have never been so scared. Ever. Ever, ever. All I can think is "please, please don't take it all." Both nipples will be gone, eventually. But my strength, my stamina, my.... interest. I won't even call it what it is. I am talking about my "libido" and the physical experience of intimacy. My "interest" is higher than it's ever been in my life. Intimacy has never *felt* better in my life. I'm not ready to... lose this, yet. The treatment I start today, though, could take that away. All of it. And I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to wait and see if my so very young relationship is going to have to try and weather *another* so very unnatural adjustment. Not yet. Just please, not yet. I don't know what bargain I'm willing to make to keep this piece of me just a little bit longer, but I'm willing to talk terms. Please? Hair. I'd be completely willing to lose my hair and both nipples and never complain about any of it if I can just keep this piece. That's got to be worth something in a sentimental, "rings of Akhaten" kind of way ~ my dreads are past my waist. Please, consider it? It's all I feel like I have left to bargain with.
This isn't a very Buddhist reaction. This is what they would define as attachment, I suppose. Except I never had this piece, really, to begin with ~ intimacy I could enjoy that wasn't tainted with one of the myriad of events in my past. Intimacy I enjoyed that didn't make me feel like I was imposing. It feels so *good* to be with him, and I am not ready to lose that, yet. Please? I *like* feeling good. I don't think I took it for granted. But just because you treat a thing exactly right ~ never take it for granted, always appreciate it ~ doesn't mean you won't lose it. It just means that you did it right while you had it. It's easier to lose something, though, when you have someone to blame - even if that someone is yourself. Then something can be done differently "next time" so maybe when the loss present itself again, you know better what to do so as not to lose it. That's the goal behind learning from past mistakes, so the outcome next time around is better. This is the first time I am facing the possibility of losing something that I did everything within my power to keep alive. Everyone involved did. This should be an interesting piece. Talk about new territory...
This isn't a very Buddhist reaction. This is what they would define as attachment, I suppose. Except I never had this piece, really, to begin with ~ intimacy I could enjoy that wasn't tainted with one of the myriad of events in my past. Intimacy I enjoyed that didn't make me feel like I was imposing. It feels so *good* to be with him, and I am not ready to lose that, yet. Please? I *like* feeling good. I don't think I took it for granted. But just because you treat a thing exactly right ~ never take it for granted, always appreciate it ~ doesn't mean you won't lose it. It just means that you did it right while you had it. It's easier to lose something, though, when you have someone to blame - even if that someone is yourself. Then something can be done differently "next time" so maybe when the loss present itself again, you know better what to do so as not to lose it. That's the goal behind learning from past mistakes, so the outcome next time around is better. This is the first time I am facing the possibility of losing something that I did everything within my power to keep alive. Everyone involved did. This should be an interesting piece. Talk about new territory...
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