I am on round 2 of 6 chemo treatments. I am less terrified the second time around. But new things come up. There is so much to process at such a rapid rate.
Kayla and I are nearing our one year wedding anniversary. The idea of qualifying our relationship in such a way is what inspired me to start this blog. We were rookies when we met. We had under our belts failed attempts at intimacy and failed relationships, a poor standard of communication and little to no example of how it could be done. But we found in each other the need to prevail at this. We found a desire to learn, to grow, to bend and to fight full heartedly for something that was separate from ourselves. Commitment. Marriage. Fidelity. Family.
And here we are. Our marriage is almost a year old. And we have my cancer to contend with. And sometimes I feel like all I think about is the cancer. I think what happens is that we are both so busy kicking ass at kicking cancer in the ass that we forget to check in, to connect. We carry on with our lives, convincing ourselves and each other and the world around us that everything is going to be fine.
Only a few short months ago I felt so youthful. I was visualizing my pregnancy. The youthful thirty something with the baby bump and the glowing skin, practicing yoga with my long thick hair twisted into a bun, pedicured feet, contented smile...Kayla building furniture for the nursery, tool belt and tight T-shirt clad...
Now, I notice myself in conversations, reminding anyone who will listen that even though my last chemo treatment is in April, that is not the end of this little detour. I still have a year of herceptin, possibly five years of hormone blockers (or not), check ups, scans, loss of fertility, plastic tits, hot flashes, ovarian cancer screenings, the list goes on... Plus, I have a strong suspicion based on the way we survivors cling to one another in online forums, long after treatment is done, that this is a ride I will forever be on. I think I'm nervous that everyone without cancer's expectation of me, that my wife's expectation of me, is that after chemo, then after I get my new boobs, that everything is going to go back to "normal". But, what will I have lost? Can I even fathom that now? During treatment there is little room for mourning and loss. It is all I can do to keep my spirits high enough to fight. And I manage to be strong, to be positive, to be fearless. But in this trial there are hundreds of little ropes, and eventually I reach the end of each one...and the fears come tumbling out.
But she's scared too. And when we finally stop flexing and curtsying for the world for a moment, and talk to each other, I realize this. There are moments like these that I believe are born of our love, commitment and our determination to see each other through life, regardless of what that life looks like. So when I blubber into her shirt that I'm scared of her expectations, that I can't be sure that I have resolved myself the desire to carry our child, that I'm afraid I may still break down when this is over, and that I may need help, that I find it still so fucking difficult to relate to anyone without cancer, she doesn't seem disappointed. She reminds me that besides me, she is the person carrying the heaviest load from this. And that when this is all over she may need to break down too. And there are no expectations. Except for the one. That each of us would maintain the need and desire to be married with one another. I think you could call us pros.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Friday, February 1, 2013
And with cancer comes...
One thing that this diagnosis has taught me is how limited our control is over life's momentum. Spontaneity has never been much of a thing for me. I like to plan things. I thrive on routine and I bask in an orderly and well arranged nest. I am always on time. I am not a fan of clutter. But, I am learning to operate under a new system of control. I am learning as I go what works for my body during treatment, how much I need to rest, how much I need to meditate, how much social interaction I need, how much I can handle and how far I can walk or ride my stationary excercise bike before I am winded and need to take a break. I am learning my body's new boundaries, and in learning them I am learning to accept and love it as it is. I have a body in transition. I literally live in a physical body of reconstruction. We all do. My transition is just more tactile than some. And it wasn't all voluntary. A large part of my personal spiritual practice is maintaining a strong mind/body connection. When I have felt the least alive is when I have suffered a drift of connection to my body. I can't tell you how many times I have gone to see my therapist in utter mental disarray, convinced I should be immediately medicated, to be gently reminded to sit and breathe, ask myself where in my body the pain or confusion is felt, and go there, breathe into it...sit in it...and possibly move with it. As a child I learned to dance and losing myself to the rhythm and the counts and the music and the repetition of rehearsal was therapy for me. Closing my eyes and chanting in a room of yogis is therapy for me too. So a common theme in my reckoning with breast cancer is working to overcome the challenges of a rapidly changing, unpredictable body, a body that I felt had somehow misled me, or turned against me. I thought I was on such intimate terms...but... I have to make a daily practice of trying to connect spiritually to a higher healing power, trying to connect with the depth of healing powers in the well of my deepest self, when at times, especially in the beginning of diagnosis, I couldn't look at myself in the mirror. I couldn't look myself in the eye. I couldn't take my shirt off in front of my wife. I couldn't fix my hair. I struggled for a grasp of how connection to this body could be possible at the same time that I was learning at a rapid rate what was about to transpire for me physically. I wrestled with avoidance but avoiding conflict of any kind is not conducive to my well being. So I started with confrontation. I needed to have a log of what was happening to me. If I log the pain, the suffering, breathe and move through it, like grinding a sore tooth until I can taste the blood, I will eventually find sense in the path that I chose. Eventually. Kayla is helping me log the physical transformation through photography. The images allow me to process what is happening in a new level. There have been moments of paralysis, moments of searing heartbreak. Then there are those sweet moments of peaceful surrender, when the stillness of the present pillows me with the realization that I am ALIVE, and I am finding an ease of grace through each phase of my physical appearance, navigating my way through this trial that tolls me from the inside out. There were many things that I have feared, many things that I desperately wanted to change, or feared I could never confront, that I am beginning to move through now. The change is inevitable. The ability to dig into and connect to the inevitability of it became more profound and more powerful under the knife of cancer.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
My wife is awesome. That is all.
So we wrapped our arms around each other
Trying to shove ourselves back together
We were making love
Making love
-"Origin of Love" by Hedwig and the Angry Inch
Trying to shove ourselves back together
We were making love
Making love
-"Origin of Love" by Hedwig and the Angry Inch
Monday, January 21, 2013
Chemo Therapy
It is a daily reckoning. To be faced with your own mortality when you don't feel physically ill is one thing. To be faced with it when feeling physically more ill than you've ever imagined feeling is a new thing. A thing all it's own. Apart even from the reality of death, being forced intellectually to recognize that you will definitely die someday is interesting. Logistically, intellectually I know that Stage 1 Invasive Ductal Carcinoma isn't the thing that will kill me. It is only the thing that brought me here, to this uncomfortable place of reckoning. Chemo, on the other hand...whew. I'm on some serious drugs. Not your run of the mill glass of wine, not a little hit of grass here and there, and not the funny "hahahahahaha, I'm so HIGH on drugs because I just had surgery and I am sending hilarious text messages of my noobs to all of my friends, weeeeee!" type of drugs. No. these are serious fucking drugs. My mind is blown by the level of terrified I can manage to feel. I am devastated beyond any level of depression I have experienced, I am lonely, I am utterly sad and sick and tired. So I take whatever additional medication I need to in order to sit back and close my eyes and drift for a bit. And I sink into it. I sink into every thought and sensation that the present is willing to grant. I sink into the discomfort of the disparity. And that is when I realize that I am in the trenches now. I am in the clutches of the experience. I know that in time will come the glory of this fight. For now I drift.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Free Agent: Guardian Guide
I've been thinking a lot about a woman I once knew. I was a little girl, and she was a woman. And then I was a young woman. And she was dying.
There is much to be said about Sabrina, so much that even as a writer I feel I couldn't properly express her magnitude. You would have had to know her. The important thing to share here though, is that she has been gone for almost 5 years and I haven't seen her in over 8. But I have recognized growth in my life, throughout out my adulthood, seeded from pearls that she sometimes temperamentally shared, years before. Once, I was pissed off about the war that the US waged on Iraq and I paced my living room floor in my hippie apartment in Bryan Texas, raging over the landline to her as she listened patiently. She let me ramble on and on and on. I was distraught and passionate and hell bent on changing the world, or at least the minds of other people. And then she quietly spoke. She warned me about being angry. "This isn't going to get you anywhere. Start with yourself. Love the people around you. If you want to make a change, the bigger picture change starts within you..." I was pissed at her that day. I thought she didn't understand. I thought she was high and acting like a hippie dippy freak. I was 22 years old. The idea that she planted in my noggin that day has manifested itself as the number one motto that by now I live my life. I have practiced it and it has worked. This practice has birthed change that is tangible.
Before that she was like an aunt or a god mother to me. The seedy, crude, big, bold, sexy, gut laughing, pot smoking spiritual seeking crystal/rock hugging, incense burning, husky voiced, fearless, unapologetic, admittedly vulnerable, insatiably frustrating, grossly honest and raw and self exposed, crazy god damned godmother.
She is with me a lot since my cancer diagnosis. But now I inadvertently mutter phrases of hers that I have never said myself. Sometimes when I drive myself to a cancer appointment in my car alone, I feel like she is sitting in my passenger seat, sharing raw wisdom of mortality and grace, the fantasy manifesting itself in my body with tears that spring from deep inside my throat. Or laughter. Laughter. Laughter. Sometimes I see her in someone else. A glint in the eye, a toss of the head, a belly laugh, body type, manner of speaking. She is like an invisible laughing buddha angel, occasionally poking me in the ribs. She pokes at me randomly, reminding me that I was not put on this planet to be a pleaser of people, but an inspiration, and possibly a guide. She reminds me to say "fuck it all" every now and then. She reminds me that bands of women can be your best friends, and sometimes your truest sense of familial love. She reminds me that I'm going to die someday, but that it isn't today, and while I am here I should have a hell of a good time and serve others by serving that love and compassion that I have within me. She reminds me that I have a gift. She knew it because she had it too.
It is no surprise that she visited me today, during my first chemo session, in the form of the financial counselor at TX Oncology. There was something in the way she flicked her head when she spoke quickly and laughed, her body type, skin tone, bone structure. She spoke to us like we were familiar, administered her speech and then with a hastiness that would have been awkward from anyone with an ounce of self consciousness said in that husky voice, "You are beautiful." Randomly, spoken like a fact. And walked away.
I found the last letter she wrote to me before she died. I would like to share a few passages here, in the name of keeping her spirit alive and to remind myself that there is so much magic in this life. "It's going on late afternoon now. I'm dressed in my favorite "holy" jeans and my black velvet bra and black velvet panties. I feel good! Black top cut kinda low but not too much, just enough to enjoy to power of the BOOBS, oh yes yes YES. I was just full of myself ... and enjoyed the whole day. Will I actually do that everyday? I will try anyway. SAY YES TO LIFE!! I just hate limitations.....I miss you but you always feel near. Be good to yourself and of course, to others...Love and Peace and Harmony and Passion, Me"
There is much to be said about Sabrina, so much that even as a writer I feel I couldn't properly express her magnitude. You would have had to know her. The important thing to share here though, is that she has been gone for almost 5 years and I haven't seen her in over 8. But I have recognized growth in my life, throughout out my adulthood, seeded from pearls that she sometimes temperamentally shared, years before. Once, I was pissed off about the war that the US waged on Iraq and I paced my living room floor in my hippie apartment in Bryan Texas, raging over the landline to her as she listened patiently. She let me ramble on and on and on. I was distraught and passionate and hell bent on changing the world, or at least the minds of other people. And then she quietly spoke. She warned me about being angry. "This isn't going to get you anywhere. Start with yourself. Love the people around you. If you want to make a change, the bigger picture change starts within you..." I was pissed at her that day. I thought she didn't understand. I thought she was high and acting like a hippie dippy freak. I was 22 years old. The idea that she planted in my noggin that day has manifested itself as the number one motto that by now I live my life. I have practiced it and it has worked. This practice has birthed change that is tangible.
Before that she was like an aunt or a god mother to me. The seedy, crude, big, bold, sexy, gut laughing, pot smoking spiritual seeking crystal/rock hugging, incense burning, husky voiced, fearless, unapologetic, admittedly vulnerable, insatiably frustrating, grossly honest and raw and self exposed, crazy god damned godmother.
She is with me a lot since my cancer diagnosis. But now I inadvertently mutter phrases of hers that I have never said myself. Sometimes when I drive myself to a cancer appointment in my car alone, I feel like she is sitting in my passenger seat, sharing raw wisdom of mortality and grace, the fantasy manifesting itself in my body with tears that spring from deep inside my throat. Or laughter. Laughter. Laughter. Sometimes I see her in someone else. A glint in the eye, a toss of the head, a belly laugh, body type, manner of speaking. She is like an invisible laughing buddha angel, occasionally poking me in the ribs. She pokes at me randomly, reminding me that I was not put on this planet to be a pleaser of people, but an inspiration, and possibly a guide. She reminds me to say "fuck it all" every now and then. She reminds me that bands of women can be your best friends, and sometimes your truest sense of familial love. She reminds me that I'm going to die someday, but that it isn't today, and while I am here I should have a hell of a good time and serve others by serving that love and compassion that I have within me. She reminds me that I have a gift. She knew it because she had it too.
It is no surprise that she visited me today, during my first chemo session, in the form of the financial counselor at TX Oncology. There was something in the way she flicked her head when she spoke quickly and laughed, her body type, skin tone, bone structure. She spoke to us like we were familiar, administered her speech and then with a hastiness that would have been awkward from anyone with an ounce of self consciousness said in that husky voice, "You are beautiful." Randomly, spoken like a fact. And walked away.
I found the last letter she wrote to me before she died. I would like to share a few passages here, in the name of keeping her spirit alive and to remind myself that there is so much magic in this life. "It's going on late afternoon now. I'm dressed in my favorite "holy" jeans and my black velvet bra and black velvet panties. I feel good! Black top cut kinda low but not too much, just enough to enjoy to power of the BOOBS, oh yes yes YES. I was just full of myself ... and enjoyed the whole day. Will I actually do that everyday? I will try anyway. SAY YES TO LIFE!! I just hate limitations.....I miss you but you always feel near. Be good to yourself and of course, to others...Love and Peace and Harmony and Passion, Me"
Sunday, December 30, 2012
"How is it Going?", you ask.
3 weeks and 2 days post op. My tissue expanders (hard plastic balloon boobs) were expanded 4 days ago. I will have another expansion in 3 days. My chemo port was installed 3 days ago. I am going to try and go back to work in 4 days. I have my first round of chemo in 10 days.
How do I feel?
Physically: Sore, slightly winded, fatigued, generally uncomfortable 100% of the time. My armpits feel sunburned. The tissue expanders are placed below my muscles so I occasionally have spasms. All of the time it feels like I have done an extreme chest work out. The sternum is tender to the touch, but getting less so as time goes on. The inside of my chest wall feels almost exactly like your skin feels a few days after sitting for a very large tattoo. For those of you reading that have never healed from a large tat, I always compare the feeling to the tattooed body part being dragged along pavement or gravel, full of open wounds and raw, tender skin. I have phantom nipple pain. I guess. When I am cold, it feels like my nipples are rock hard and tender. But i don't have nipples. Maybe its the plastic not warming to my body temperature. The port is still sore and I hope swollen, otherwise this sucker sticks out so far from my body that it appears I have a raging boil about 2 or 3 inches just below my left clavicle. When I stretch my arm a certain way, or roll my neck as I usually do to loosen up, it pulls the port, which is connected very deeply to one of my main arteries. The port gives me the heeby jeebies. Just as I was in the brink of weaning off the narcotics, I have to have one in the morning just to get moving. I am a side or stomach sleeper, but stomach sleeping is not an option, and to lie comfortably on my side I have to wear a tight sports bra or place a small pillow or my hand in between my "breasts" as the hard expanders seem to knock together. No thanks. It is almost impossible to snuggle with my partner. Intimacy demands creativity at this point and the physical discomfort as well as the mental discomfort doesn't so much lend itself to the creative.
Mentally: Frustrated. It frightens me that I get winded after a brisk walk, and when I have trouble catching my breath as I first get out of bed. I can't do the same activities I could do a month ago. Guilty. I feel guilty that my partner is carrying so much of the weight. I don't feel sexy or interested in sex. Sadness.That my gorgeous honey will get bored of what I have become and will be left unsatisfied for too long. Resolved. I feel prepared for Chemotherapy. I am getting better at the waiting game. I am slightly sedated to the fact that I will be chock full of medicine that will kill healthy cells in my body, and that I will remain unaware of what side effects will happen to me until they actually do...or not. Gratitude. Grateful that I am not in this alone. That my friends have become my family and they have proven to stand by me no matter what. That the tribe I have always longed for exists. I feel loved unconditionally and supported beyond measure. The peace that that feeling brings keeps me afloat. Always.
And I miss...oh my God do I miss.. Moving with abandon, that only those without foreign objects surgically inserted into ones body can. Wine. Sex. Feeling sexy, attractive. Running, jogging, hard core work outs. Caring what I see when I look in the mirror. My long red hair, my breasts...
And still, I would not trade any of the things that I whine about for the naïveté of my mind set pre cancer. I would not trade it because I know that with the weight of this burden comes the fruit of a new life. I am not afraid anymore and that alone is the most miraculous innovation of my life. I know that the lack of fear is worth all of the above, because all of the above is temporary. Or so they say.
How do I feel?
Physically: Sore, slightly winded, fatigued, generally uncomfortable 100% of the time. My armpits feel sunburned. The tissue expanders are placed below my muscles so I occasionally have spasms. All of the time it feels like I have done an extreme chest work out. The sternum is tender to the touch, but getting less so as time goes on. The inside of my chest wall feels almost exactly like your skin feels a few days after sitting for a very large tattoo. For those of you reading that have never healed from a large tat, I always compare the feeling to the tattooed body part being dragged along pavement or gravel, full of open wounds and raw, tender skin. I have phantom nipple pain. I guess. When I am cold, it feels like my nipples are rock hard and tender. But i don't have nipples. Maybe its the plastic not warming to my body temperature. The port is still sore and I hope swollen, otherwise this sucker sticks out so far from my body that it appears I have a raging boil about 2 or 3 inches just below my left clavicle. When I stretch my arm a certain way, or roll my neck as I usually do to loosen up, it pulls the port, which is connected very deeply to one of my main arteries. The port gives me the heeby jeebies. Just as I was in the brink of weaning off the narcotics, I have to have one in the morning just to get moving. I am a side or stomach sleeper, but stomach sleeping is not an option, and to lie comfortably on my side I have to wear a tight sports bra or place a small pillow or my hand in between my "breasts" as the hard expanders seem to knock together. No thanks. It is almost impossible to snuggle with my partner. Intimacy demands creativity at this point and the physical discomfort as well as the mental discomfort doesn't so much lend itself to the creative.
Mentally: Frustrated. It frightens me that I get winded after a brisk walk, and when I have trouble catching my breath as I first get out of bed. I can't do the same activities I could do a month ago. Guilty. I feel guilty that my partner is carrying so much of the weight. I don't feel sexy or interested in sex. Sadness.That my gorgeous honey will get bored of what I have become and will be left unsatisfied for too long. Resolved. I feel prepared for Chemotherapy. I am getting better at the waiting game. I am slightly sedated to the fact that I will be chock full of medicine that will kill healthy cells in my body, and that I will remain unaware of what side effects will happen to me until they actually do...or not. Gratitude. Grateful that I am not in this alone. That my friends have become my family and they have proven to stand by me no matter what. That the tribe I have always longed for exists. I feel loved unconditionally and supported beyond measure. The peace that that feeling brings keeps me afloat. Always.
And I miss...oh my God do I miss.. Moving with abandon, that only those without foreign objects surgically inserted into ones body can. Wine. Sex. Feeling sexy, attractive. Running, jogging, hard core work outs. Caring what I see when I look in the mirror. My long red hair, my breasts...
And still, I would not trade any of the things that I whine about for the naïveté of my mind set pre cancer. I would not trade it because I know that with the weight of this burden comes the fruit of a new life. I am not afraid anymore and that alone is the most miraculous innovation of my life. I know that the lack of fear is worth all of the above, because all of the above is temporary. Or so they say.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Anterior to Life
"Love is anterior to life
Posterior to death,
Initial of creation, and
The exponent of Breath~Emily Dickinson
Today was a good day. I have come a long way in a short time. A cancer diagnosis does that to you. You find out you have it. Your life as you know it ends. You live in limbo. You begin to accept that you have cancer. you do so by waking up each morning feeling for a millisecond that you know your life, and then remembering that you now have cancer. And with each moment you gain the strength and the knowledge and hopefully the support to empower you to make the decisions to not only carry on and function with the knowledge of your having cancer, but finding the tools to get rid of it, or fight it, whichever your case may be. You learn that you will change, your life will change, your perspective will change, your partner may change, and a number of other things will most likely change. So, here I am 10 days post bilateral mastectomy and having one of the better days I have had since diagnosis. Despite the scars, my under construction, nipple free boobs look fantastic in clothing and they don't scare the shit out of me or make me cry when I see them naked in the mirror. In fact, I love to show them off. They don't yet feel like they belong to me. I wonder if they will ever feel "private" again. I still have drains which make it a total pain in the ass to get dressed. You have to hide the drains somehow, in my case today, duct tape on the inside of my cashmere cardigan best served me with a suitable disguise (thanks to the infamous Kayla who is a superhero freak of nature that has the ability to solve, with little to no resource,everything that needs solving). Today is the second day that I have actually bothered to wear real pants or put on mascara in over 10 days. It was because Kayla needed a haircut and I still cant do it and we desperately needed to leave the house. So we went to the shop. I love my new short haircut. My skin looks fantastic. I got some new lipstick and some fancy hand me down clothes from my bestie's fashionista mom. I've gained five lbs but I'm willing to ignore it for a minute and cut myself a break. I've been high on narcotics for over a week and I'm bound to get tired of the shit and start exercising one of these days. So overall I feel good. I feel cute. It was nice to see the girls and nice to see my chair, touch my stuff, hang out in my break-room, shop talk for a bit while Jen cut Kayla's hair. After her adorable haircut, we headed to one of our staples for dinner and our gals Shae and Jenny met us there. As always we had a good time and on our way home I spoke with my friend Mel about co hosting my birthday scarf party that we are holding on Sunday. She and her hubs are starting a party planning biz of sorts and I like to promote good people when I can so I asked them to help me with this little last minute project. As usual, as soon as we get home I check the Facebook. My grandma had, unbeknownst to her, unleashed a ripple of effects that would cause Kayla and I to end our evening crying in one another's arms. She commented on a photo that was taken of me by K a couple of months ago on a day date to our favorite Texas winery, William and Chris. On this particular day, we had just come up with the financial solution to how we were going to buy our sperm. We had found our donor. He was perfect. We were giddy with joy and excitement and every natural high feeling that comes along with standing at the brink of what you believe to be one if the biggest and most beautiful, important exciting abysses of joy in ones life. We were going to make a baby. We had a donor and we would be parents, probably by this time next year. Our morning conversation was giddy full,of laughter, high fives, and random jumping up and downs. We had started the date off at brunch, then a drive to our favorite spot in the hill country to pick up our wine club shipment and enjoy a glass. Next time we made this drive I would be the DD and we would pick up a couple of bottles to save until after the baby was born, talking about how we would build up our collection during the pregnancy instead of drinking our shipment with our usual unabashed enthusiasm within days of receiving them. We brought the dogs and flirted with a baby girl who was barely walking and talking and kept wobbling over to pat Marybelle and Bertie. As had become our regular routine with any activity we did, we talked about how these trips would be different for us once the baby was here. As young parents to be, we never went anywhere or did anything anymore without comparing the experience to how it would be once our little person was finally with us. When I look at this photo I see in my eyes how my heart felt that day. I had to harden myself to it, let it melt, and then give in. Just a glimpse into what could have been, what almost was. And with my sniffle, she instinctively moved in from the other room to hold me as I cried. And here we are, a few weeks shy of my first chemo treatment, out of full time work, celebrating the fact that my cancer has not spread and that there are drugs that will keep it from coming back, the same drugs that will prevent me from allowing a pregnancy. I have done a lot of processing on this front. To mourn the loss of motherhood, or at least the idea of physically carrying a child, had to happen quickly in order for me to have the oomph that was required to do what I needed to do to face the cancer treatment. For Kayla, it has been all about taking care of me, and taking over my roles in the household as well as her own, staying professionally available at work, upholding the health insurance, making the bacon, and generally keeping our little world turning, while Im kept busy making huge decisions about how to handle what's happening in my body. For her, it was about getting shit done so I could get well. Renovate the "would be"nursery into a yoga/healing room, turning the trashed out art studio into a family guest room, etc. etc. So, the funny thing about what happened tonight is that after I wiped my tears and blew my nose to go about my business, she found something light and funny for us to watch on TV. We decided on The New Normal, because I had heard it was cute and its a gay show so I'm down...It didn't occur to me that we were setting ourselves up for the little breakthrough that we so desperately needed to finish. In the pilot of the sitcom, one of the men in the gay relationship that wants to become a dad is recording a video for his future child to watch. He gets choked up as he is telling his unborn baby how desperately he or she is so wanted and already so very loved. My mouth dropped in that awkward smirk between a laugh and a cry and I look over to see my beautiful rock as she crumbles. We fall into each others arms and we cry for the first time together, for our baby that we won't yet get to meet. Our baby that will not come in 9 months from my womb, but in almost two years from hers, our baby that will not yet live in the nursery and will not yet celebrate its first Thanksgiving or Christmas next year. We cried finally, openly for what we feel somewhat robbed of.
But our baby is so very loved and wanted. Now more than when that photo was taken. And it's moms are so much more prepared. We are stronger for that baby. We are better for that baby. As for me, I am better because of this love. So grateful for this love. This is what we signed up for. I made the right choice. This is the First Day of My Life.
Posterior to death,
Initial of creation, and
The exponent of Breath~Emily Dickinson
Today was a good day. I have come a long way in a short time. A cancer diagnosis does that to you. You find out you have it. Your life as you know it ends. You live in limbo. You begin to accept that you have cancer. you do so by waking up each morning feeling for a millisecond that you know your life, and then remembering that you now have cancer. And with each moment you gain the strength and the knowledge and hopefully the support to empower you to make the decisions to not only carry on and function with the knowledge of your having cancer, but finding the tools to get rid of it, or fight it, whichever your case may be. You learn that you will change, your life will change, your perspective will change, your partner may change, and a number of other things will most likely change. So, here I am 10 days post bilateral mastectomy and having one of the better days I have had since diagnosis. Despite the scars, my under construction, nipple free boobs look fantastic in clothing and they don't scare the shit out of me or make me cry when I see them naked in the mirror. In fact, I love to show them off. They don't yet feel like they belong to me. I wonder if they will ever feel "private" again. I still have drains which make it a total pain in the ass to get dressed. You have to hide the drains somehow, in my case today, duct tape on the inside of my cashmere cardigan best served me with a suitable disguise (thanks to the infamous Kayla who is a superhero freak of nature that has the ability to solve, with little to no resource,everything that needs solving). Today is the second day that I have actually bothered to wear real pants or put on mascara in over 10 days. It was because Kayla needed a haircut and I still cant do it and we desperately needed to leave the house. So we went to the shop. I love my new short haircut. My skin looks fantastic. I got some new lipstick and some fancy hand me down clothes from my bestie's fashionista mom. I've gained five lbs but I'm willing to ignore it for a minute and cut myself a break. I've been high on narcotics for over a week and I'm bound to get tired of the shit and start exercising one of these days. So overall I feel good. I feel cute. It was nice to see the girls and nice to see my chair, touch my stuff, hang out in my break-room, shop talk for a bit while Jen cut Kayla's hair. After her adorable haircut, we headed to one of our staples for dinner and our gals Shae and Jenny met us there. As always we had a good time and on our way home I spoke with my friend Mel about co hosting my birthday scarf party that we are holding on Sunday. She and her hubs are starting a party planning biz of sorts and I like to promote good people when I can so I asked them to help me with this little last minute project. As usual, as soon as we get home I check the Facebook. My grandma had, unbeknownst to her, unleashed a ripple of effects that would cause Kayla and I to end our evening crying in one another's arms. She commented on a photo that was taken of me by K a couple of months ago on a day date to our favorite Texas winery, William and Chris. On this particular day, we had just come up with the financial solution to how we were going to buy our sperm. We had found our donor. He was perfect. We were giddy with joy and excitement and every natural high feeling that comes along with standing at the brink of what you believe to be one if the biggest and most beautiful, important exciting abysses of joy in ones life. We were going to make a baby. We had a donor and we would be parents, probably by this time next year. Our morning conversation was giddy full,of laughter, high fives, and random jumping up and downs. We had started the date off at brunch, then a drive to our favorite spot in the hill country to pick up our wine club shipment and enjoy a glass. Next time we made this drive I would be the DD and we would pick up a couple of bottles to save until after the baby was born, talking about how we would build up our collection during the pregnancy instead of drinking our shipment with our usual unabashed enthusiasm within days of receiving them. We brought the dogs and flirted with a baby girl who was barely walking and talking and kept wobbling over to pat Marybelle and Bertie. As had become our regular routine with any activity we did, we talked about how these trips would be different for us once the baby was here. As young parents to be, we never went anywhere or did anything anymore without comparing the experience to how it would be once our little person was finally with us. When I look at this photo I see in my eyes how my heart felt that day. I had to harden myself to it, let it melt, and then give in. Just a glimpse into what could have been, what almost was. And with my sniffle, she instinctively moved in from the other room to hold me as I cried. And here we are, a few weeks shy of my first chemo treatment, out of full time work, celebrating the fact that my cancer has not spread and that there are drugs that will keep it from coming back, the same drugs that will prevent me from allowing a pregnancy. I have done a lot of processing on this front. To mourn the loss of motherhood, or at least the idea of physically carrying a child, had to happen quickly in order for me to have the oomph that was required to do what I needed to do to face the cancer treatment. For Kayla, it has been all about taking care of me, and taking over my roles in the household as well as her own, staying professionally available at work, upholding the health insurance, making the bacon, and generally keeping our little world turning, while Im kept busy making huge decisions about how to handle what's happening in my body. For her, it was about getting shit done so I could get well. Renovate the "would be"nursery into a yoga/healing room, turning the trashed out art studio into a family guest room, etc. etc. So, the funny thing about what happened tonight is that after I wiped my tears and blew my nose to go about my business, she found something light and funny for us to watch on TV. We decided on The New Normal, because I had heard it was cute and its a gay show so I'm down...It didn't occur to me that we were setting ourselves up for the little breakthrough that we so desperately needed to finish. In the pilot of the sitcom, one of the men in the gay relationship that wants to become a dad is recording a video for his future child to watch. He gets choked up as he is telling his unborn baby how desperately he or she is so wanted and already so very loved. My mouth dropped in that awkward smirk between a laugh and a cry and I look over to see my beautiful rock as she crumbles. We fall into each others arms and we cry for the first time together, for our baby that we won't yet get to meet. Our baby that will not come in 9 months from my womb, but in almost two years from hers, our baby that will not yet live in the nursery and will not yet celebrate its first Thanksgiving or Christmas next year. We cried finally, openly for what we feel somewhat robbed of.
But our baby is so very loved and wanted. Now more than when that photo was taken. And it's moms are so much more prepared. We are stronger for that baby. We are better for that baby. As for me, I am better because of this love. So grateful for this love. This is what we signed up for. I made the right choice. This is the First Day of My Life.
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