I seem to have stopped writing regular blog entries.
Last week I told myself I was just busy, but it's not really true.
I think I've just run out of things to write. I'm sick of writing about having cancer. I'm sick of being a cancer survivor. I'm sick of remembering how hard July and August were this year, and I'm sick of noticing what is still hard now that it is Novemeber. I'm so sick of pink ribbons that I'm ready to scream when I see them.
As far as the other (lesser) whammy, I've made one serious attempt to get a part time job, and haven't had any response from the company. I'm still living off my savings and feel a little guilty about that. Maybe I should be out there job hunting, but I really don't want to.
I still feel like there's lots more to this adventure that I haven't shared here. I really want this to be a complete account. So, soon, I'll have to buckle down and tell you more about:
1. the whole struggle with finding a lawyer who would talk to me about how I got fired
2. the struggle with trying to get unemployment payments and why I finally gave up
3. the struggle to get short term disability payments and why I finally gave up
4. how weird it is to explore romantic intimacy in my post-mastectomy body
5. why I'm still crying in the mornings
6. the rest of the story about biopsy #1
7. what my physical therapist said about how my ribs stick out of my chest and
8. my current dilema about more surgery.
But I don't want to write about it today. Today I want to go buy a hook and some yarn so I can crochet a hat for C. I want to go on a long hike somewhere beautiful. I want to curl up in the backyard hammock with my sweetie and pretend we don't have anything serious that we ought to be talking about. I want to figure out what to do about my hair so that I can look cute tonight because I know we're going to run into freinds I haven't seen in years. I want to eat the chicken salad I made yesterday with raisins, cucumbers, apple, red onion, yoghurt, mayonaise and (of course) chicken.
I don't want to write about cancer and joblessness any more than I wanted to get cancer and become jobless in the first place.
And it seems to me, that no one in their right mind would want to read about such things anyway. Go have a nice Saturday. That's what I'm going to do.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Friday, October 24, 2008
The Beginning of the End
I got a letter from my uncle in Hawaii yesterday. One of my favorite letters of all time came from Uncle G a long time ago. I don’t remember what it said. I must have been about thirteen. It came in a plain white business envelope. On the front, next to my name, he had drawn a big oval. Standing next to the oval was a little man, combing his hair. He was standing with his back to me. But Uncle G. had drawn the front of him inside the oval, so it was clear that the oval-shape was meant to be a mirror. I was so impressed by how he’d done this, drawn the same person in the same pose, facing two different directions. The back of the envelope was even better.
There was the oval again, in the exact same place as on the front. There was the little man inside the mirror, in the same comb-raised-to-head position as on the front. But this time, he was only looking out of the mirror, not standing beside it. Beside the mirror, and above it and all around it, Uncle G had drawn ghosts and ghouls, floating curiously and peering in at the human on the other side. It was creepy, and thought provoking. I loved it.
Last night, C. showed me her jewelry. She has it divided into two categories; things she wears and things she doesn’t. The “wears” category was filled with things that radiate beauty and taste, just like C. does. The “doesn’t” category had a little more variety, but not much. There was a pair of gold and green earrings that made me think of pine needles. There was a silver chain with a heart-shaped pendant and a miniature mistrel player that she wore throughout high school. My favorite was a tiny gold pendant shaped like a songbird in flight. It had been a gift. She got it when she graduated eighth-grade.
Eighth-grade! My goodness. I can’t imagine.
I saved only two things from my childhood; a home-made teddy bear and a worn-out book of fairy-tales. They are so precious to me that I will probably never get rid of them. But that’s all. Everything else, every other physical possession I own, must be both beautiful and useful, or it goes to Goodwill. “Might be useful someday" just doesn’t cut it in my book. If I’m not using it now, then it’s not useful, and it goes. I guess that’s why the book and the bear escape my periodic purges. I still read the stories, I still sleep with Teddy when I’m scared and alone.
If I was more sentimental about stuff, I might have saved more things. If I didn’t abhor clutter I might own stacks of memorabilia. If I hadn’t moved so many times, my closets might be filled with boxes of things that make me smile and remember happy days. In this alternate reality where I value meaning over purpose, you can bet I would still have that letter from my uncle. At least, I would still have the envelope it came in.
That’s a long introduction. I’m really rambling this morning. I have a headache. I’m sure it’s because I ate most of an angel food cake for supper last night. Then, for dessert, I ate the rest of it. To make it a meal, I topped it with plain, sugar-free, non-fat, organic yoghurt and fresh strawberries, so it seemed almost healthy. For dessert, I just ate cake.
What I really want to write about this morning is privacy, and how little of it I have.
Uncle G says he's enjoying my blog. It's so funny to hear this from people. Of course, it makes sense that he reads it sometimes. I'm sure I gave him the address myself. But, it never occurs to me that he might be reading it. It never occurs to me that anyone is reading it unless they tell me, and then I usually forget. I probably couldn't keep writing if I really thought about everyone out there whom these words might reach.
He wrote, "I've been following your health-saga as closely as I can from my perch here in the middle of the Pacific, thanks to your fantastic blog!"
He wrote, "It's very interesting reading about your thoughts and feelings at this time in your life."
He wrote, "I have to shake my head at your generations's openness about your lives. Can you imagine Grandma's generation sharing such intimate details of their lives with so many people?"
I have to admit, no I can't. I can't imagine my grandmother sharing such intimate details of her life with anyone at all. Why do I do it? It really does seem to be a generational thing. Why are we twenty and thrirty-somethings shameless enough to turn ourselves inside out for public inspection? Why are we narcissistic enough to think that anyone would want to look?
I've been thinking a lot about generational differences lately. My current romantic interest and I reach out to each other across a distance of fourteen years. It's weird. I ask my self if I can ever really understand and know intimately someone who can remember the day Kennedy was shot, whose childhood wasn't fraught with muppets, who has been a full-grown adult for exactly twice as many years as I have? And, as importantly, will I ever really be understood in return?
I watched the first half of "Guess Who's Coming To Dinner" last night. I haven't watched it since I was old enough to understand what's going on. Even thought I know what's coming, I'm shocked to see Katherine Hepburn's loving, liberal, well-educated character break out in a cold sweat as she realizes her daughter intends to marry this man. This man is, of course, the almost unbearably dignified and respectable Sidney Poitier playing an internationally admired medical doctor, author, and humanitarian.
What makes his uprightness bearable is the abandon with which he shows his character to be madly in love with the sparklingly oblivious girl, Joey. His boy-swoons are the final touch that solidifies the first three words of this movie's theme. He is perfect, and yet.
And yet, they can't see him marrying his daughter. They can't see him because he's so different from them. They can't see him because his background, his family, his experiences are so completely alien to theirs.
I think in my grandparent's generation, there were more shortcuts to intimacy. If you stayed within your own narrow group, you didn't need to ask probing questions or open yourself up to unprotected scrutiny. If you and another person shared the same background of race, class, education and culture you could make a lot of (mostly correct) assumptions. Of course, for married couples, there was the inevitable gulf between male and female perspectives. But that one was easily dealt with. Father knew best and women adjusted their ideas, or at least their actions, accordingly.
Despite certain politicians' myopic nostalgia for that world, it's not the one we live in anymore, and my generation knows it. Maybe this is what inspires our unabashed self-exposure. We want to be seen and understood, not just by the people who share a common history with us, and can thus imagine pretty accurately what's going on inside us. We want to be seen by everyone.
As a white girl who grew up poor but middle class in a liberal single-parent family just over the southern edge of the East Coast, I want to be understood by the Armani-suited man I met at the coffee shop whose parents emigrated from India in 1969 and still practice medicine together in his home town of San Diego. I want to be understood by the red-headed redneck drinking whiskey from a bottle at a tailgate party on the frozen surface of lake whose name sounds like ducks-in-a-keg. I want to be understood by the 8 year old girl in Santa Fe whose born-again christian parents think she has a sinful nature and by the brawny ex-football coach who lives on a sailboat with his dog and by the super-model-pretty Kenyan woman who grew up in boarding school and drives four hours each way to get her hair done.
And I want to understand them back.
I can't enjoy either the miracle of being understood, unless I'm generously and courageously honest. And setting an example of how to do so, increases the chances that other people will do it too.
So that's the "why," but where's the "how?" How is it we have the guts to risk public ridicule and invite private distain? How do we garner the nerve to stand at the edge of our keyboards, tossing our doubts and fears into the pool of public knowlege? How dare we boast about our happiness when others are suffering and whine about our failures when we know we brought them on ourselves?
I don't know. Is it like jumping off a cliff; all our friends are doing it?
I started blogging because my loved ones had a desire and a right to know what was happening in my unemployed, cancer-obsessed life, and I was too tired to call them back or write to them individually. I kept at it because I want other cancer patients to be able to learn from my experience, and maybe have a better one. I wrote intimate and personal things because I saw a need for it. Most of the literature on breast cancer is dry. Lots of it is funny. Some of it is honest. Once in a while someone admits how wrenching it is to rehearse the words "ductal carcinoma" while dialing your mom's phone number. But, nobody I found would discuss the sickening sight of your own bloody tumor scraps laid out on a glass plate or the practical details of finding the right-sized prosthesis.
I was able to do it because after that double whammy day, I felt like I didn't have anything else to loose. Also, cancer threw my precious-treasure nature into sudden stark relief. If my own life was so valuable that I was terrified of losing it and hell-bent to keep it, well then, there must not be anything too ridiculous or embarrassing about it. This attitude keeps getting stronger as you, my mysterious and multiple readers, keep telling me how grateful you are that I have spared modesty and shame to bring you the real story of these last few months in my life.
But, this post is only slightly related to getting fired and having cancer. It's mostly about cake and Sidney Poitier and my uncle in Hawaii. It's about muppets and dating and gold pendants. It's about ghosts and teddy bears and a generation of bloggers.
When my mom was staying with me in California, we saw Mama Mia at the theatre with a bunch of my friends. We sighed at the scenery, laughed at the boys dancing in flippers, groaned at Peirce Brosnan's voice, sang along with Meryl Steep, and threw popcorn at each other. It was the best 90 minutes I'd had since the first full day after my diagnosis. It was the only 90 minutes I'd had where I didn't think about the fact that I had cancer; not even once.
Look at me now! I think about all kinds of things that don't have anything to do with cancer!
This post is similar to the one where I talk about going running for the first time. On that day I finally felt like I had my body back. Today, I finally feel like I have my mind back. Someday soon, I won't have any tears left to cry when I look at my naked chest in the mirror, and then I'll know I have my heart back too.
And then, when I have written everything useful I can think of relating my doublewhammy adventure, and I'm all moved in to my new post-crisis life, I will end this blog.
But not just yet.
P.S. I lifted "fraught with muppets" off a blog called Momapop. Anyone who grew up with Sesame Street, Fraggle Rock, the Muppet Movies and, my personal favorite, Pigs in Space, should understand the charm, threat, and accuracy of this phrase. I couldn't resist it.
There was the oval again, in the exact same place as on the front. There was the little man inside the mirror, in the same comb-raised-to-head position as on the front. But this time, he was only looking out of the mirror, not standing beside it. Beside the mirror, and above it and all around it, Uncle G had drawn ghosts and ghouls, floating curiously and peering in at the human on the other side. It was creepy, and thought provoking. I loved it.
Last night, C. showed me her jewelry. She has it divided into two categories; things she wears and things she doesn’t. The “wears” category was filled with things that radiate beauty and taste, just like C. does. The “doesn’t” category had a little more variety, but not much. There was a pair of gold and green earrings that made me think of pine needles. There was a silver chain with a heart-shaped pendant and a miniature mistrel player that she wore throughout high school. My favorite was a tiny gold pendant shaped like a songbird in flight. It had been a gift. She got it when she graduated eighth-grade.
Eighth-grade! My goodness. I can’t imagine.
I saved only two things from my childhood; a home-made teddy bear and a worn-out book of fairy-tales. They are so precious to me that I will probably never get rid of them. But that’s all. Everything else, every other physical possession I own, must be both beautiful and useful, or it goes to Goodwill. “Might be useful someday" just doesn’t cut it in my book. If I’m not using it now, then it’s not useful, and it goes. I guess that’s why the book and the bear escape my periodic purges. I still read the stories, I still sleep with Teddy when I’m scared and alone.
If I was more sentimental about stuff, I might have saved more things. If I didn’t abhor clutter I might own stacks of memorabilia. If I hadn’t moved so many times, my closets might be filled with boxes of things that make me smile and remember happy days. In this alternate reality where I value meaning over purpose, you can bet I would still have that letter from my uncle. At least, I would still have the envelope it came in.
That’s a long introduction. I’m really rambling this morning. I have a headache. I’m sure it’s because I ate most of an angel food cake for supper last night. Then, for dessert, I ate the rest of it. To make it a meal, I topped it with plain, sugar-free, non-fat, organic yoghurt and fresh strawberries, so it seemed almost healthy. For dessert, I just ate cake.
What I really want to write about this morning is privacy, and how little of it I have.
Uncle G says he's enjoying my blog. It's so funny to hear this from people. Of course, it makes sense that he reads it sometimes. I'm sure I gave him the address myself. But, it never occurs to me that he might be reading it. It never occurs to me that anyone is reading it unless they tell me, and then I usually forget. I probably couldn't keep writing if I really thought about everyone out there whom these words might reach.
He wrote, "I've been following your health-saga as closely as I can from my perch here in the middle of the Pacific, thanks to your fantastic blog!"
He wrote, "It's very interesting reading about your thoughts and feelings at this time in your life."
He wrote, "I have to shake my head at your generations's openness about your lives. Can you imagine Grandma's generation sharing such intimate details of their lives with so many people?"
I have to admit, no I can't. I can't imagine my grandmother sharing such intimate details of her life with anyone at all. Why do I do it? It really does seem to be a generational thing. Why are we twenty and thrirty-somethings shameless enough to turn ourselves inside out for public inspection? Why are we narcissistic enough to think that anyone would want to look?
I've been thinking a lot about generational differences lately. My current romantic interest and I reach out to each other across a distance of fourteen years. It's weird. I ask my self if I can ever really understand and know intimately someone who can remember the day Kennedy was shot, whose childhood wasn't fraught with muppets, who has been a full-grown adult for exactly twice as many years as I have? And, as importantly, will I ever really be understood in return?
I watched the first half of "Guess Who's Coming To Dinner" last night. I haven't watched it since I was old enough to understand what's going on. Even thought I know what's coming, I'm shocked to see Katherine Hepburn's loving, liberal, well-educated character break out in a cold sweat as she realizes her daughter intends to marry this man. This man is, of course, the almost unbearably dignified and respectable Sidney Poitier playing an internationally admired medical doctor, author, and humanitarian.
What makes his uprightness bearable is the abandon with which he shows his character to be madly in love with the sparklingly oblivious girl, Joey. His boy-swoons are the final touch that solidifies the first three words of this movie's theme. He is perfect, and yet.
And yet, they can't see him marrying his daughter. They can't see him because he's so different from them. They can't see him because his background, his family, his experiences are so completely alien to theirs.
I think in my grandparent's generation, there were more shortcuts to intimacy. If you stayed within your own narrow group, you didn't need to ask probing questions or open yourself up to unprotected scrutiny. If you and another person shared the same background of race, class, education and culture you could make a lot of (mostly correct) assumptions. Of course, for married couples, there was the inevitable gulf between male and female perspectives. But that one was easily dealt with. Father knew best and women adjusted their ideas, or at least their actions, accordingly.
Despite certain politicians' myopic nostalgia for that world, it's not the one we live in anymore, and my generation knows it. Maybe this is what inspires our unabashed self-exposure. We want to be seen and understood, not just by the people who share a common history with us, and can thus imagine pretty accurately what's going on inside us. We want to be seen by everyone.
As a white girl who grew up poor but middle class in a liberal single-parent family just over the southern edge of the East Coast, I want to be understood by the Armani-suited man I met at the coffee shop whose parents emigrated from India in 1969 and still practice medicine together in his home town of San Diego. I want to be understood by the red-headed redneck drinking whiskey from a bottle at a tailgate party on the frozen surface of lake whose name sounds like ducks-in-a-keg. I want to be understood by the 8 year old girl in Santa Fe whose born-again christian parents think she has a sinful nature and by the brawny ex-football coach who lives on a sailboat with his dog and by the super-model-pretty Kenyan woman who grew up in boarding school and drives four hours each way to get her hair done.
And I want to understand them back.
I can't enjoy either the miracle of being understood, unless I'm generously and courageously honest. And setting an example of how to do so, increases the chances that other people will do it too.
So that's the "why," but where's the "how?" How is it we have the guts to risk public ridicule and invite private distain? How do we garner the nerve to stand at the edge of our keyboards, tossing our doubts and fears into the pool of public knowlege? How dare we boast about our happiness when others are suffering and whine about our failures when we know we brought them on ourselves?
I don't know. Is it like jumping off a cliff; all our friends are doing it?
I started blogging because my loved ones had a desire and a right to know what was happening in my unemployed, cancer-obsessed life, and I was too tired to call them back or write to them individually. I kept at it because I want other cancer patients to be able to learn from my experience, and maybe have a better one. I wrote intimate and personal things because I saw a need for it. Most of the literature on breast cancer is dry. Lots of it is funny. Some of it is honest. Once in a while someone admits how wrenching it is to rehearse the words "ductal carcinoma" while dialing your mom's phone number. But, nobody I found would discuss the sickening sight of your own bloody tumor scraps laid out on a glass plate or the practical details of finding the right-sized prosthesis.
I was able to do it because after that double whammy day, I felt like I didn't have anything else to loose. Also, cancer threw my precious-treasure nature into sudden stark relief. If my own life was so valuable that I was terrified of losing it and hell-bent to keep it, well then, there must not be anything too ridiculous or embarrassing about it. This attitude keeps getting stronger as you, my mysterious and multiple readers, keep telling me how grateful you are that I have spared modesty and shame to bring you the real story of these last few months in my life.
But, this post is only slightly related to getting fired and having cancer. It's mostly about cake and Sidney Poitier and my uncle in Hawaii. It's about muppets and dating and gold pendants. It's about ghosts and teddy bears and a generation of bloggers.
When my mom was staying with me in California, we saw Mama Mia at the theatre with a bunch of my friends. We sighed at the scenery, laughed at the boys dancing in flippers, groaned at Peirce Brosnan's voice, sang along with Meryl Steep, and threw popcorn at each other. It was the best 90 minutes I'd had since the first full day after my diagnosis. It was the only 90 minutes I'd had where I didn't think about the fact that I had cancer; not even once.
Look at me now! I think about all kinds of things that don't have anything to do with cancer!
This post is similar to the one where I talk about going running for the first time. On that day I finally felt like I had my body back. Today, I finally feel like I have my mind back. Someday soon, I won't have any tears left to cry when I look at my naked chest in the mirror, and then I'll know I have my heart back too.
And then, when I have written everything useful I can think of relating my doublewhammy adventure, and I'm all moved in to my new post-crisis life, I will end this blog.
But not just yet.
P.S. I lifted "fraught with muppets" off a blog called Momapop. Anyone who grew up with Sesame Street, Fraggle Rock, the Muppet Movies and, my personal favorite, Pigs in Space, should understand the charm, threat, and accuracy of this phrase. I couldn't resist it.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
What I've been doing
Good Morning!
Gosh, I don't know how an unemployed person can be so busy. I haven't posted lately because I've been working on...
1. Applying for a part-time medical writing job. Applicants can live anywhere in the country. If I get the job, they will fly me to seminars where I will listen to reports on clinical studies and other health related information. Then, I get to go home and write up summaries. With my drug-selling background and hobby of writing, it's a good fit. Even better, most of the seminars will be in Maryland...very close to where my mom, sister and grandma live.
2. Beginning a fundraising project for a modern dance company here in Denver. They are just fabulous. Check them out at http://www.kimrobardsdance.org/.
3. Finishing up some articles I've written lately, and fishing around to see if I can actually get them published somewhere.
Those are just the main projects from the last few days. It seems like I've got a hundered other little things on my mind. I remember when I used to read the personal ads on craiglist...there were alwasy people on-line saying they were bored. I just can't imagine. There is so much to do!
Aside from work-type activities, I'm also having a very good time:
1. Hanging out with C. whenever she can find a littel pocket of time between her intense work and school schedule. Sunday we strolled through the Botanic Gardens, which are only a few blocks from her house. Beautiful!
2. Reconnecting with old friends, most of whom I haven't really seen or talked to much for 5 years or more. So much fun.
3. Exploring a significant spark with an old flame. I'll write more about this in it's own post. Post-mastectomy romance is a topic that really deserves it's own spotlight in this blog.
So, I'm sorry I haven't written much lately. This is what I've been up to, if you're curious.
I'm sure I'll write more soon.
Gosh, I don't know how an unemployed person can be so busy. I haven't posted lately because I've been working on...
1. Applying for a part-time medical writing job. Applicants can live anywhere in the country. If I get the job, they will fly me to seminars where I will listen to reports on clinical studies and other health related information. Then, I get to go home and write up summaries. With my drug-selling background and hobby of writing, it's a good fit. Even better, most of the seminars will be in Maryland...very close to where my mom, sister and grandma live.
2. Beginning a fundraising project for a modern dance company here in Denver. They are just fabulous. Check them out at http://www.kimrobardsdance.org/.
3. Finishing up some articles I've written lately, and fishing around to see if I can actually get them published somewhere.
Those are just the main projects from the last few days. It seems like I've got a hundered other little things on my mind. I remember when I used to read the personal ads on craiglist...there were alwasy people on-line saying they were bored. I just can't imagine. There is so much to do!
Aside from work-type activities, I'm also having a very good time:
1. Hanging out with C. whenever she can find a littel pocket of time between her intense work and school schedule. Sunday we strolled through the Botanic Gardens, which are only a few blocks from her house. Beautiful!
2. Reconnecting with old friends, most of whom I haven't really seen or talked to much for 5 years or more. So much fun.
3. Exploring a significant spark with an old flame. I'll write more about this in it's own post. Post-mastectomy romance is a topic that really deserves it's own spotlight in this blog.
So, I'm sorry I haven't written much lately. This is what I've been up to, if you're curious.
I'm sure I'll write more soon.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Running! (Finally)
Kass, my trainer, used to call me an endurance athlete. I loved it when she’d say that. I’d roll my eyes and shake my head, wondering how that could be true? Me? An athelte? Then I’d remember the 9 or 12 or 15 mile run I’d done recently and realize she must be right. At least, she was right until I got diagnosed with breast cancer.
I don’t know why I stopped running. I wasn’t sick. Other than a twingey feeling in my right breast, I was fine. Since I was unemployed too, I should have been able to find the time. True, I didn’t have my company car anymore, but that shouldn’t have mattered. From my front door I could easily jog to a number of gorgeous trails. And, if I hopped on my newly borrowed bicycle, I could reach even more. I loved that about Los Osos. I miss it now and lament those lost days.
I don’t know why I stopped eating right, either. Suddenly the oatmeal-cookie-and-ice-cream-group dominated my personal food pyramid. Before cancer, I planned my meals with a balance of fresh vegetables, whole grains, lean proteins and unsaturated fats. After cancer, I planned them with a balance of crunchy, sweet, greasy, hot, cold and creamy. I weighed 10 pounds more at the end of July than I had at the beginning. I wasn’t just stuffing my face; I’m pretty sure I was stuffing my fear.
After my surgery in August made me cancer free, my eating habits changed again. Healthy food regained its appeal. Sugar and fats stopped driving me and resumed their rightful place in the backseat of my diet. I felt so much better emotionally, so relieved and clear, that I might have started running again. I might have, if I hadn’t had a huge bandage over half my chest and circulatory system flushed with pain-killers.
Recovering from the mastectomy took far longer than I’d expected. For weeks I didn’t have anything approaching a normal energy level. I was exhausted every day. Even after I stopped sleeping half the day away, I was in too much pain bear the impact that physical activity placed on my chest. The jostle of even a gentle trot would have collapsed me. Also, because the slightest pressure on the skin from my collar bone to my lower ribs made me cry out in agony, I was terrified of falling.
As August ended, I started going on little hikes, just to get outside and get moving. I stepped gently, and rested afterwards. In September I went to a yoga class, but it was too hard. I couldn’t move my arm right and was completely unable to lay down on my stomach for the floor poses. It’s October now, ten weeks since my surgery. I went running for the first time yesterday.
There’s a beautiful park just a couple of blocks from C.’s new condo in Denver where I am staying. The center of it is open and grassy. Locals play frisbee, touch football, and throw balls to their dogs out there. All around the edges of the park are beautiful big trees. This week they are changing color with the seasons. When the wind blows, golden leaves flurry through the air on their way to the ground. It reminds me of snow; something I haven’t seen in years.
The dirt path that travels the perimeter of the park is 1.5 miles long. My plan was to do the loop three times, running for a mile and then walking for half each time. I thought I could run easy for the first mile, steady for the second, and push it on the third. Being a heart-rate-monitor-junkie, this would mean keeping my HR between 140 and 150 for the first mile, raising it to 150-160 for the second and keeping it above 161 for the final, fastest loop. Boy, was I in for a surprise.
I had gotten so out of shape that even a sludgey, slogging pace skyrocketed my pulse up past 170 beats per minute. I usually reserve this kind of effort for an serious sprint. I was out of breath after the first 10 meters. Worse than that, I was embarrassed. My runner’s ego was taking a dive…or maybe a canon-ball, or a belly-flop.
It’s silly to be embarrassed while I’m running, I know that. It’s not like any of the other park-goers are looking at me and wondering, “Why is that girl running so slow?” If they are, they’re not going to say anything outloud. But, just in case they do, it makes me feel better if I have a comeback ready. Yesterday, my planned snappy retort was, “Hey! Give me a break! I’m recovering from surgery!” I’m sure you realize, as I do now, that I was really talking to myself.
I listened. I gave my self a break and stopped worrying about my speed or my heart rate. Instead, I scrounged around in my brain for every scrap of advice Kass or anyone else had ever given me about how to run well. I held my head high and straightened my posture. I loosened my wrists and increased the distance between them. I imagined angling my elbows inward as they passed behind my back. I took quick small steps, about 90 of them per minute. I focused on getting all the used air out of my lungs, but let the in-breath come naturally. I relaxed my shoulders and strengthened my core. Pretty soon, I felt pretty good.
It didn’t matter that my belly was jiggling a lot more that I remembered, and that my chest was jiggling a lot less. It didn’t matter that I finished my first mile 4 minutes later than I would have been able to back in June. I think running is not the only part of life where good form makes up for a lot of other shortcomings.
My assumption that strangers wouldn’t actually comment out loud on my fitness activities turned out to be mistaken. As I rounded the north-east corner of the park, a homeless-looking man shouted at me across the green. “Hey! Keep smiling! You’re beautiful! And you’re getting a nice workout!” I did have one high-spirited sprint when my playlist finally shuffled around to Jem's peppy song Just a Ride. But this didn't happen during the sprint. This happened during one of my walking breaks.
It was a good reminder. It really doesn’t matter how fast I’m going. It’s just about getting out there and having the best run I can have, whatever that looks like. That’s what I did yesterday and I felt like a champion once again. Apparently, I looked like one too.
I don’t know why I stopped running. I wasn’t sick. Other than a twingey feeling in my right breast, I was fine. Since I was unemployed too, I should have been able to find the time. True, I didn’t have my company car anymore, but that shouldn’t have mattered. From my front door I could easily jog to a number of gorgeous trails. And, if I hopped on my newly borrowed bicycle, I could reach even more. I loved that about Los Osos. I miss it now and lament those lost days.
I don’t know why I stopped eating right, either. Suddenly the oatmeal-cookie-and-ice-cream-group dominated my personal food pyramid. Before cancer, I planned my meals with a balance of fresh vegetables, whole grains, lean proteins and unsaturated fats. After cancer, I planned them with a balance of crunchy, sweet, greasy, hot, cold and creamy. I weighed 10 pounds more at the end of July than I had at the beginning. I wasn’t just stuffing my face; I’m pretty sure I was stuffing my fear.
After my surgery in August made me cancer free, my eating habits changed again. Healthy food regained its appeal. Sugar and fats stopped driving me and resumed their rightful place in the backseat of my diet. I felt so much better emotionally, so relieved and clear, that I might have started running again. I might have, if I hadn’t had a huge bandage over half my chest and circulatory system flushed with pain-killers.
Recovering from the mastectomy took far longer than I’d expected. For weeks I didn’t have anything approaching a normal energy level. I was exhausted every day. Even after I stopped sleeping half the day away, I was in too much pain bear the impact that physical activity placed on my chest. The jostle of even a gentle trot would have collapsed me. Also, because the slightest pressure on the skin from my collar bone to my lower ribs made me cry out in agony, I was terrified of falling.
As August ended, I started going on little hikes, just to get outside and get moving. I stepped gently, and rested afterwards. In September I went to a yoga class, but it was too hard. I couldn’t move my arm right and was completely unable to lay down on my stomach for the floor poses. It’s October now, ten weeks since my surgery. I went running for the first time yesterday.
There’s a beautiful park just a couple of blocks from C.’s new condo in Denver where I am staying. The center of it is open and grassy. Locals play frisbee, touch football, and throw balls to their dogs out there. All around the edges of the park are beautiful big trees. This week they are changing color with the seasons. When the wind blows, golden leaves flurry through the air on their way to the ground. It reminds me of snow; something I haven’t seen in years.
The dirt path that travels the perimeter of the park is 1.5 miles long. My plan was to do the loop three times, running for a mile and then walking for half each time. I thought I could run easy for the first mile, steady for the second, and push it on the third. Being a heart-rate-monitor-junkie, this would mean keeping my HR between 140 and 150 for the first mile, raising it to 150-160 for the second and keeping it above 161 for the final, fastest loop. Boy, was I in for a surprise.
I had gotten so out of shape that even a sludgey, slogging pace skyrocketed my pulse up past 170 beats per minute. I usually reserve this kind of effort for an serious sprint. I was out of breath after the first 10 meters. Worse than that, I was embarrassed. My runner’s ego was taking a dive…or maybe a canon-ball, or a belly-flop.
It’s silly to be embarrassed while I’m running, I know that. It’s not like any of the other park-goers are looking at me and wondering, “Why is that girl running so slow?” If they are, they’re not going to say anything outloud. But, just in case they do, it makes me feel better if I have a comeback ready. Yesterday, my planned snappy retort was, “Hey! Give me a break! I’m recovering from surgery!” I’m sure you realize, as I do now, that I was really talking to myself.
I listened. I gave my self a break and stopped worrying about my speed or my heart rate. Instead, I scrounged around in my brain for every scrap of advice Kass or anyone else had ever given me about how to run well. I held my head high and straightened my posture. I loosened my wrists and increased the distance between them. I imagined angling my elbows inward as they passed behind my back. I took quick small steps, about 90 of them per minute. I focused on getting all the used air out of my lungs, but let the in-breath come naturally. I relaxed my shoulders and strengthened my core. Pretty soon, I felt pretty good.
It didn’t matter that my belly was jiggling a lot more that I remembered, and that my chest was jiggling a lot less. It didn’t matter that I finished my first mile 4 minutes later than I would have been able to back in June. I think running is not the only part of life where good form makes up for a lot of other shortcomings.
My assumption that strangers wouldn’t actually comment out loud on my fitness activities turned out to be mistaken. As I rounded the north-east corner of the park, a homeless-looking man shouted at me across the green. “Hey! Keep smiling! You’re beautiful! And you’re getting a nice workout!” I did have one high-spirited sprint when my playlist finally shuffled around to Jem's peppy song Just a Ride. But this didn't happen during the sprint. This happened during one of my walking breaks.
It was a good reminder. It really doesn’t matter how fast I’m going. It’s just about getting out there and having the best run I can have, whatever that looks like. That’s what I did yesterday and I felt like a champion once again. Apparently, I looked like one too.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
More About My (Ugh) First Biopsy
Ok, so I’m trying to write about my biopsy experience, because I want you to know about it. But I don’t like writing about it. Inside my head, I am writing kicking and screaming.
I was sitting with my right breast smashed between the mammogram plates. This is probably an uncomfortable position for anyone. I remember having the mammogram performed on my left breast…the one without the tumor…and it didn’t feel terrible, but it wasn’t a lot of fun either. Having it done to my right breast was another story altogether.
The whole reason I even knew about my lump was that it was pressing against a nerve or something. It felt weird inside my breast. It felt, not painful…but creepy and unpleasant. I didn’t like having that breast touched at all, because it felt so yucky.
Being squeezed so tightly between those two plates immediately kicked those sensations up an octave or more. It still felt creepy and yucky and squeamishly awful. Now, all those feelings, in addition to being much louder, were joined by flat-out pain. I mean like an “ouch ouch ouch please stop it!” kind of pain. I mean like a cussing out loud angry kind of pain. I mean like a stubbing your naked toe on a cinder-block or hitting your thumb with a hammer kind of pain. With the final crank that pinned me there, tears just leaped from my face. I felt like my head was a lemon wedge being squeezed over a glass of ice water. On minute I was intact, and the next my face was all scrunched up and stinging juice was just squirting out of it. I know that sounds gross and weird, but I am trying to be really honest about how it felt and what happened.
The technicians were trying to be kind and thoughtful, I know they were. But, I don’t think they had any concept of why this was so painful for me, or why it might have been more painful for me than it is for most of their patients, whose lumps are in less sensitive areas. I felt like they just thought I was a big baby. This was probably my own projection. They really were trying to be sweet. I just felt like they didn’t have the information they would need to really understand what was going on for me. I guess I could have told them, except that I was too terrified to talk.
So there I was, in the undignified and vulnerable position of being topless in a room with fully dressed strangers. I had a blue cotton hospital gown kind of draped over my other shoulder at one point, but it had fallen off into my lap. I’ve been topless in front of strangers before, but I usually feel like I looked pretty good, and that makes it better. I didn’t feel like I looked very good with my poor breast smashed out flat in front of me and tears streaming down my face. At least it was just me and two other women, for the moment.
I’m going to interrupt this posting to give you some Feng Shui advice. When you are arranging your office, or living room, or any space where you spend a lot of time sitting…you should always position your primary chair so that you can see the door into the room clearly. If you have your back to the door, you will suffer from a deep and perhaps unconscious uneasiness, because someone could come in and sneak up on you at any moment. If the only good place for the chair is with its back to the door, you can remedy the situation by placing a mirror somewhere in front of the chair, affording you an easy view of the door behind you, and helping you to feel safe and relaxed. This is good advice and you should follow it when you are arranging your furniture.
I wish they’d known about it when they set up the mammogram room. I wish I’d brought a mirror and hung in it front of me. Then, I might have noticed when Dr. V, the radiologist who performed my biopsy, joined us in that little room.
I didn't hear the door open. Neither of the technician alerted me to his arrival. I didn’t know he was there at all, until I felt a pair of hands on my naked shoulders.
I guess he thought it was okay to come up behind me and touch me like that because, after all, he was my doctor whom I liked and trusted. It wasn’t like he was some skeevy guy, right? What he (and Dr. H, with his unsolicited hugs) don’t understand is…the only real difference between a man you trust and some skeevy guy, is that the skeevy guy surprises you with sudden, uninvited physical intimacies.
So, I’m sitting there half naked, embarrassed, trapped, crying and hurting. I’m trying not to move my body even a fraction of a millimeter because even the tiniest motion increases the pain in my breast. Suddenly, I’ve got Dr. V gripping my shoulders and peering over my shoulder to spout cheerful salutary comments into my ear. I’m not just praying he doesn’t jostle me, I’m chanting inside my head, “Please don’t touch me again, please don’t touch me again, please don’t touch me again!”
It wasn’t a great attitude to have towards someone who was about to start drilling into my body.
I was sitting with my right breast smashed between the mammogram plates. This is probably an uncomfortable position for anyone. I remember having the mammogram performed on my left breast…the one without the tumor…and it didn’t feel terrible, but it wasn’t a lot of fun either. Having it done to my right breast was another story altogether.
The whole reason I even knew about my lump was that it was pressing against a nerve or something. It felt weird inside my breast. It felt, not painful…but creepy and unpleasant. I didn’t like having that breast touched at all, because it felt so yucky.
Being squeezed so tightly between those two plates immediately kicked those sensations up an octave or more. It still felt creepy and yucky and squeamishly awful. Now, all those feelings, in addition to being much louder, were joined by flat-out pain. I mean like an “ouch ouch ouch please stop it!” kind of pain. I mean like a cussing out loud angry kind of pain. I mean like a stubbing your naked toe on a cinder-block or hitting your thumb with a hammer kind of pain. With the final crank that pinned me there, tears just leaped from my face. I felt like my head was a lemon wedge being squeezed over a glass of ice water. On minute I was intact, and the next my face was all scrunched up and stinging juice was just squirting out of it. I know that sounds gross and weird, but I am trying to be really honest about how it felt and what happened.
The technicians were trying to be kind and thoughtful, I know they were. But, I don’t think they had any concept of why this was so painful for me, or why it might have been more painful for me than it is for most of their patients, whose lumps are in less sensitive areas. I felt like they just thought I was a big baby. This was probably my own projection. They really were trying to be sweet. I just felt like they didn’t have the information they would need to really understand what was going on for me. I guess I could have told them, except that I was too terrified to talk.
So there I was, in the undignified and vulnerable position of being topless in a room with fully dressed strangers. I had a blue cotton hospital gown kind of draped over my other shoulder at one point, but it had fallen off into my lap. I’ve been topless in front of strangers before, but I usually feel like I looked pretty good, and that makes it better. I didn’t feel like I looked very good with my poor breast smashed out flat in front of me and tears streaming down my face. At least it was just me and two other women, for the moment.
I’m going to interrupt this posting to give you some Feng Shui advice. When you are arranging your office, or living room, or any space where you spend a lot of time sitting…you should always position your primary chair so that you can see the door into the room clearly. If you have your back to the door, you will suffer from a deep and perhaps unconscious uneasiness, because someone could come in and sneak up on you at any moment. If the only good place for the chair is with its back to the door, you can remedy the situation by placing a mirror somewhere in front of the chair, affording you an easy view of the door behind you, and helping you to feel safe and relaxed. This is good advice and you should follow it when you are arranging your furniture.
I wish they’d known about it when they set up the mammogram room. I wish I’d brought a mirror and hung in it front of me. Then, I might have noticed when Dr. V, the radiologist who performed my biopsy, joined us in that little room.
I didn't hear the door open. Neither of the technician alerted me to his arrival. I didn’t know he was there at all, until I felt a pair of hands on my naked shoulders.
I guess he thought it was okay to come up behind me and touch me like that because, after all, he was my doctor whom I liked and trusted. It wasn’t like he was some skeevy guy, right? What he (and Dr. H, with his unsolicited hugs) don’t understand is…the only real difference between a man you trust and some skeevy guy, is that the skeevy guy surprises you with sudden, uninvited physical intimacies.
So, I’m sitting there half naked, embarrassed, trapped, crying and hurting. I’m trying not to move my body even a fraction of a millimeter because even the tiniest motion increases the pain in my breast. Suddenly, I’ve got Dr. V gripping my shoulders and peering over my shoulder to spout cheerful salutary comments into my ear. I’m not just praying he doesn’t jostle me, I’m chanting inside my head, “Please don’t touch me again, please don’t touch me again, please don’t touch me again!”
It wasn’t a great attitude to have towards someone who was about to start drilling into my body.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
P.S. Regarding Surgeon Number One
My dear and fair-minded friend C. suggested I write this post-script so that you'll know Dr. H is a caring, considerate person...and not a thoughtless power-drunk monster.
When my mom returned home to Maryland after spending the month with me in California, there was a message waiting for her from Dr. H.
He called because he was concerned about me. He wanted to make sure I was getting the care I needed. I wish I could tell you exactly what he said, but I can't even remember if I actually listened to it, or if Mom just told me about it. He seemed to be feeling bad about our interaction.
Of course, by the time she got home to hear this message, I'd already had the mastectomy and didn't even have cancer anymore. I don't know why he called her instead of me. I'm sure I'd given them two or three local California numbers where I could be promptly reached. Mom probably jotted down her Maryland home phone when I asked her to fill herself in as my emergency contact.
This brings me to reason I think Dr. Rocco might have saved my life, and why I feel like Dr. H might not have saved it...had he been my surgeon.
Speed and Accuracy.
Dr. H had me waiting two weeks for my intitial consult, and then dismissed my diagnosis as "not really cancer." Maybe he would have ordered the same battery of tests Dr. Rocco did, but it's hard to imagine he would have. He didn't seem to take my condition seriously, and he certainly didn't seem to be in a hurry about it.
Dr. R saw me the SAME DAY I called, and insisted on gathering as much information as possible about my tumor, before making treatment decisions. Thanks to her insistence, we learned that I didn't just have one walnut-sized lump of high grade carcinoma, I also had a second, smaller lump of the same advanced degree. The mastectomy she performed 2 weeks later removed not just these tumors, but also the surprise third area of cancer in my nipple.
I can't help but suspect that Dr. H, in comparison, might have removed the first lump, but left me with the other two. I can't help but suspect I would have waited a lot longer than 2 weeks before being treated. I can't help but suspect the cancer that had already spread to three separate areas of my breast wasn't right on the verge of spreading to the rest of my body.
Of course, this is all just my feelings and suspicions. Who knows what really would have happened? I'm just so glad I didn't have to find out.
When my mom returned home to Maryland after spending the month with me in California, there was a message waiting for her from Dr. H.
He called because he was concerned about me. He wanted to make sure I was getting the care I needed. I wish I could tell you exactly what he said, but I can't even remember if I actually listened to it, or if Mom just told me about it. He seemed to be feeling bad about our interaction.
Of course, by the time she got home to hear this message, I'd already had the mastectomy and didn't even have cancer anymore. I don't know why he called her instead of me. I'm sure I'd given them two or three local California numbers where I could be promptly reached. Mom probably jotted down her Maryland home phone when I asked her to fill herself in as my emergency contact.
This brings me to reason I think Dr. Rocco might have saved my life, and why I feel like Dr. H might not have saved it...had he been my surgeon.
Speed and Accuracy.
Dr. H had me waiting two weeks for my intitial consult, and then dismissed my diagnosis as "not really cancer." Maybe he would have ordered the same battery of tests Dr. Rocco did, but it's hard to imagine he would have. He didn't seem to take my condition seriously, and he certainly didn't seem to be in a hurry about it.
Dr. R saw me the SAME DAY I called, and insisted on gathering as much information as possible about my tumor, before making treatment decisions. Thanks to her insistence, we learned that I didn't just have one walnut-sized lump of high grade carcinoma, I also had a second, smaller lump of the same advanced degree. The mastectomy she performed 2 weeks later removed not just these tumors, but also the surprise third area of cancer in my nipple.
I can't help but suspect that Dr. H, in comparison, might have removed the first lump, but left me with the other two. I can't help but suspect I would have waited a lot longer than 2 weeks before being treated. I can't help but suspect the cancer that had already spread to three separate areas of my breast wasn't right on the verge of spreading to the rest of my body.
Of course, this is all just my feelings and suspicions. Who knows what really would have happened? I'm just so glad I didn't have to find out.
Running Late
One great thing about not having a car is, I don't run around the house 10 minutes after I was supposed to leave, hunting frantically for my keys.
Instead, I'm tearing through my suitcase, and my pile of dirty laundry next to it, hollering, "Honey! Have you seen Phyllis?! I can't find her any where."
I know I can leave the house without her. I often do. But the nice thing about Phyllis is that she gives me a choice. If I can't find her, I don't have any choice. Not having a choice about whether or not my body looks normal in clothes makes me feel like there really is something wrong with me. It makes me feel like a victim instead of a survivor.
The longer I looked, the less my voice came out through my mouth and the more it started to come out through my nose.
"Where is she!? I have to find her because I'm starting to get whiny!"
From the other room, "No comment!"
A few more minutes went by while I scanned the bookshelf, the medicine cabinet, the top of the fridge. I took a deep breath and tried to sound like a normal non-panicked person.
"Baby, are you sure you haven't seen her? I can't find her I anywhere."
I don't know what kind of answer I was wanting or expecting, but this wasn't it.
"Um...have you checked the dogs' beds?"
Oh no. I flashed on a vision of my beloved little peach prosthesis, riddled with slobbery punctures. Of course. The puppies walk around all day chewing on fleece footballs and plush walruses. My squishy plastic breast must have seemed like quite an upgrade, especially if they got it right after I undressed last night. It would have been warm from my body heat, and smelling reminiscent of my right armpit.
(Persistant readers will remember that my right armpit is a lot smellier than my left one ever since the sentinal node biopsy altered my lymph system.)
I got down on my knees and rooted around on the big furry cushion by the front door.
"Not here!"
I did a thorough sweep of the plaid pillow next to the arm chair in the living room.
"Not here either!"
With one last place to look, I crawled under the desk to explore the padded area where the younger one curls up at night. And there was Phyllis, lounging contentedly like a sunbather at a nude beach. To my incredible relief, she was whole and healthy, and didn't have a mark on her.
Maybe it's weird to speak of Phyllis like a living thing, but it's hard not to. She's constructed on purpose to look like part of a healthy human. In fact, she's constructed on purpose to look like part of a healthy ME. That's how I've started to think of her, as an optional extension of my own body. I guess you could say we've successfully bonded, me and Phyllis.
The happy part about this story is that I found her.
The sad part about this story is that, even if the dog had chewed her up, unless she had been utterly shredded beyond cohesion or recognition, I would have worn her anyway.
Instead, I'm tearing through my suitcase, and my pile of dirty laundry next to it, hollering, "Honey! Have you seen Phyllis?! I can't find her any where."
I know I can leave the house without her. I often do. But the nice thing about Phyllis is that she gives me a choice. If I can't find her, I don't have any choice. Not having a choice about whether or not my body looks normal in clothes makes me feel like there really is something wrong with me. It makes me feel like a victim instead of a survivor.
The longer I looked, the less my voice came out through my mouth and the more it started to come out through my nose.
"Where is she!? I have to find her because I'm starting to get whiny!"
From the other room, "No comment!"
A few more minutes went by while I scanned the bookshelf, the medicine cabinet, the top of the fridge. I took a deep breath and tried to sound like a normal non-panicked person.
"Baby, are you sure you haven't seen her? I can't find her I anywhere."
I don't know what kind of answer I was wanting or expecting, but this wasn't it.
"Um...have you checked the dogs' beds?"
Oh no. I flashed on a vision of my beloved little peach prosthesis, riddled with slobbery punctures. Of course. The puppies walk around all day chewing on fleece footballs and plush walruses. My squishy plastic breast must have seemed like quite an upgrade, especially if they got it right after I undressed last night. It would have been warm from my body heat, and smelling reminiscent of my right armpit.
(Persistant readers will remember that my right armpit is a lot smellier than my left one ever since the sentinal node biopsy altered my lymph system.)
I got down on my knees and rooted around on the big furry cushion by the front door.
"Not here!"
I did a thorough sweep of the plaid pillow next to the arm chair in the living room.
"Not here either!"
With one last place to look, I crawled under the desk to explore the padded area where the younger one curls up at night. And there was Phyllis, lounging contentedly like a sunbather at a nude beach. To my incredible relief, she was whole and healthy, and didn't have a mark on her.
Maybe it's weird to speak of Phyllis like a living thing, but it's hard not to. She's constructed on purpose to look like part of a healthy human. In fact, she's constructed on purpose to look like part of a healthy ME. That's how I've started to think of her, as an optional extension of my own body. I guess you could say we've successfully bonded, me and Phyllis.
The happy part about this story is that I found her.
The sad part about this story is that, even if the dog had chewed her up, unless she had been utterly shredded beyond cohesion or recognition, I would have worn her anyway.
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