For David: RIP

Today’s post really doesn’t have anything to do with cancer, except that when you go through a cancer journey, death always seems like it's just around the corner.  For years after you finish treatment, it feels like it’s dogging you, hiding in the shadows, waiting until you let down your guard, to come for you.  A fellow survivor called her post-treatment life ‘the in-between place’ – the time between when she emerged victorious, and when cancer would inevitably come back and kill her.  And for a cancer survivor, this is part of what they call the ‘new normal’.  It fades over time, but it’s always there – the shoe that could drop.

This week the shoe dropped on someone else, someone who wasn’t even ill, someone whom I have loved for many years and whom I will miss immeasurably.

My friend David was one those people who could light up a room with his energy.  He was silly, he loved to laugh, but when you needed him, he could be fully present with you - in the moment with you.  I remember calling him for legal advice when I received my cancer diagnosis (he was with the EEOC in Phlly at the time) and I said, “I am going to tell you something shocking, but please, I need clear-headed thinking right now, so can you hear it, put it aside, and give me some advice?”  So I told him and there was a moment of silence on the other end of the line and then he said, “I’m so sorry.  What do you need to know?”  At the end of the conversation he said, “Please call me back when you are ready to talk about the rest of it.  I will be here.”

I met David in college, when we were cast opposite each other in a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta. We had been moving in similar theatrical circles, but that’s when we bonded, when I fell in love with his energy, and his wonderful snarkiness.  We got to know each other while we dyed our hair weird colors, smoked cigarettes out of long elegant holders, and observed (and caused) backstage drama.  He was a musical genius, and the life of the party, and the man who came up with both the theme for ‘No L News Years’ (it’s a roman numeral thing – I made a bathroom sign that said “Pease, don’t forget to fush!”) and convinced another friend of ours to sign a legal contract prohibiting him from playing the song “Disco Duck” for 20 years or so. (Thanks again for that buddy!  Sorry, Jay.)

After college, David went to law school (and yes, occasionally I thought, goofy, snarky David, a lawyer?)  but he was brilliant at it, and spent most of his career fighting for equal rights for all of us.  He spent his most recent years championing marriage equality and I was honored to be a guest at the civil union ceremony where he legally bound his life to that of his partner Stephan.  I have been to a lot of weddings, but rarely have I felt so much joy at a union. Stephan came into David’s life, smoothing the rough bits, and amplifying the good bits.  I saw how a person can thrive when he is well-loved, by watching them together.

David passed away last week, after suffering a heart attack.  He was 47 years old. Because he lived 1,000 miles away and I didn’t see him as often, his passing still doesn’t seem real to me, although I don’t think I have cried this hard or this much in long, long time.  My heart breaks for Stephan, for David’s family, for his BFF Naomi, and for our little college troupe of friends– the loss is incomprehensible and while I expect that we all will heal over time, the world will not be same without him.

Those of you that know me or that follow my blog know that I always try to find the lesson or the silver lining in events, having learned by facing my own mortality that I have a choice about how I live, and how I feel, and how I see the things that happen in my life.  This one is tough. There isn’t a silver lining, but I am holding on to the happy memories of my friend, and I am so grateful that he passed through my life.  I wish you all had known him.

Look Both Ways Before You Cross the Street!

Today I told my therapist that I am reasonably certain that I will live a long life and die from old age.  It came up in a conversation about Tamoxifen vs. Arimidex (pre vs. post-menopausal anti-estrogen medications) and the fact that my “chemo’d” ovaries can’t decide if they are ready to give up or not.  There are new protocols for Tamoxifen, suggesting that 10 years is better than the previous recommendation of 5, and frankly, that annoys me as I am not a huge fan of the side effects.  Her point was that to understand the literature and make an informed decision with my doctor.  My point was that I feel pretty confident in my future health, so whichever anti-estrogen medicine I take, I know I will be fine.

Now yes, as I type those words I am tempted to reach out and knock on the wood coffee table or spit between my fingers (how my bubby used to scare away the evil eye), but really, it’s how I feel.  I feel lucky.  For a long time I was waiting for the other shoe to drop, and while I realize it still can, I also realize I could get hit by a bus, or fall down a well, or die in a plane crash. While those options are probably more remote for me than dying from cancer, they all seem about as likely.

When I coach with new cancer survivors they usually tell me that they can’t imagine a life without the fear of cancer hanging very low over their heads:  Fear of recurrence, fear of more treatment, fear of dying.  Each little ache and pain, each routine follow-up appointment or scan brings it all rushing back.  I explain to them that as they spend more time feeling well and making new ‘non-cancer’ memories, that fear will recede.  It never completely goes away, but I have fewer and shorter fear episodes than ever these days.  

I tell them that it all comes down to deciding how you will approach today, the day you have, knowing that the future is uncertain.  Whether you will die from cancer, from old age, or get hit by that bus, you have today and you get to choose how to live it.  I choose to live today feeling lucky.  It’s easier now than it used to be - I have, after all, been cancer free for over six years.  But I promise that you can do it too.  It just takes time and some new memories.

Making the most of every moment?

How the hell do you live every moment? I sure can’t do it. After I recovered from cancer treatment, I promised myself I would, and there were definitely lots of times when fruit tasted sweeter and the simple act of going for a walk filled my heart with joy, but as time goes by and I feel more confident about the length of my stay here on Earth, I find myself lapsing into the mundane, and I feel guilty about not enjoying each and every single moment to its last.

The more pressure I put on myself to make the most of every minute, the worse I feel when one slips by.  I sleep too late - crap I missed an hour of my life I will never get back.  I watch a Bones marathon on TV – well that’s an afternoon that’s gone forever.  I turn down an invitation to dinner because I am tired and feel like staying home – there go precious memories with friends that will never be made.

So what’s a cancer survivor to do?  I have been enlightened regarding my mortality – I know I won’t live forever and I mean to make the most of my life.  So what does it mean if I find myself here, on a random Thursday afternoon, procrastinating things I should be doing to move my life forward?  What should I do?

Well here’s a crazy idea – I am not going to fight this. I plan to just be my lazy, procrastinating self right now.  I intend to explore my fear that I will end up homeless and alone if I don’t book another facial party, or get another coaching client right this minute. I will ride that feeling as low as it takes me, because you know what?  I am LIVING this moment.  I am breathing, thinking  and choosing my actions, and that is part of life.  And the simple act of living and experiencing this albeit slightly crappy moment to its fullest is already turning my mood, and my moment, around. 

Well, I gotta run! I will talk to you all later.  I have work to do!!

In case you were wondering...

People ask me all the time, “How did you make it through?  The chemo, the surgery, the fear, the pain.  I don’t think I could do it.”

There are lots of tools in our arsenal that help us deal with adversity.  One of my favorites is good old-fashioned humor.  Anyone who knows me personally knows this all too well.  I may cry and bitch a little, but then there is always that joke that gets me through the day.

I lost my ‘other’ job yesterday.  For the past year, while I have been working as The Cancer Coach, I have had another job.  It’s not uncommon that those of us who choose to leave the corporate world to pursue our dreams can’t make the leap in an instant.  There are mortgages, car payments, groceries and yes, our social lives to think of.  So we carve out time in the rest of our days and weeks to follow our passions.  I have wondered for the longest time how I would ever find the courage to walk away from the paycheck, and yesterday, the paycheck walked away from me.  It stung, I will admit that.  As miserable as I have been for the past few years, I worked hard for that company.  I have willingly taken on the tough assignments, the ones that they couldn’t give to co-workers who made more money than I did because I was the only one who could put aside my ego and handle the tough client, the tough conversation.  It was hard to have my favorite executive read me the standard ‘layoff speech’ instead of telling me how much my hard work has meant to the company and how much he wishes it could be different.

But this morning, I woke up laughing.  Today is the first day of the rest of my life, I can sleep as late as I want, and I woke up at 6 am even though I didn’t have to set the alarm.  For the first day in 12 years, I woke up excited and refreshed and ready to take on the world.  I honestly find it funny that it took a bitch-slap from the universe to make me happy.  It’s ironic, yes, but also hilarious. It reminds me of how I used to tell me people that my biggest fear from the cancer was that when I went back to work after medical leave, I might come in to the office, sit down at my desk and take off my top, because that’s what I had been doing everywhere else for the last six months.  Or how I proclaimed only minutes before my surgery that once this was all over, no one was going to touch my boobs again unless they bought me dinner first.

This isn’t one of those ‘if I don’t laugh I will cry’ situations.  It’s my choice to find the humor and the joy here, because that’s how I move forward with life.  Since cancer, I only grieve true losses.  I put this one in the win column - especially since I am now available on a full time basis to help any one of you do the same.

Welcoming Home the Troops

Well, it’s finally happened.  I wasn’t sure it ever would. My boobs have become boobs again. 

I have always had this weird love/hate relationship with my boobs. (Sorry, the word breast sounds too clinical to me.) Anyway, I got mine early, well before most of the girls I knew, and I was both proud of them and embarrassed by them.  Boys in my class picked on me, while at the same time wanted to slow dance me with on the Bar Mitzvah circuit.  (Did I mention that I was also really tall when I was 12?  Most of the guys were about boob-high to me.)  My boobs look great in a bathing suit, but I have NEVER been able to button up a blouse.  It’s really weird to love and be annoyed with something at the same time.

And then one day, I found out that my boobs were trying to kill me.  These things that were supposed to be part of my sexual being, a bit of a nuisance at times sure, but an integral part of my womanhood had challenged me to a duel.  It was either them or me. 

I won.

We both came out of the skirmish a bit battle-scarred.  I lost the feeling in my feet from chemo.   Rightie lost a whole chunk of herself.  That has never bothered me.  A piece of a boob in exchange for life is a fairly easy price to pay.  Other breast cancer survivors have given up a lot more.   But the interest on that payment was a feeling of disconnection from two important parts of my body.  I didn’t have to separate myself from my boobs literally, but emotionally and mentally we were three individuals living in the same skin shell.

But just a few weeks ago, a surprising thing happened. I went to my regular six-month appointment with my oncologist.  Somewhere, during the oh so familiar exam, a thought popped into my head – “this man is touching my boobs!!!”  Now any breast cancer survivor knows that part of the whole experience is experience is getting felt up – ALL THE TIME.  I used to joke that when I went back to work, I would sit down in my cube and take off my shirt.  But suddenly, my boobs and I were one, and none of us were entirely comfortable having some man with whom we weren’t intimately involved poking and prodding.

A lot of people talk about cancer and sexual wellbeing – about how to feel like a whole vital person during and after a cancer experience which messes with your parts, your hormones and your head.  I don’t know entirely what I think about that just yet, but I must be on my way to figuring it out.  After all, my boobs are boobs again.

Living Eyes Wide Open

It’s January 10^th – five years to they day since my cancer surgery, and, according to all the doctors and statistics, today is the BIG day – the breast cancer survival gold medal day.  Today is the day that I have been waiting for, holding my breath, watching it creep ever closer, and suddenly it’s here.  Today is the day that I get to say, “Up yours, Cancer!  I win!”

I always wondered how I would feel when the big day approached.  I thought I would feel triumphant – and I do.  But I also feel sad, grieving for things that have been lost along the way.  I feel anxious, knowing that I have some tests coming up that might prove that I haven’t won. A part of me feels indifferent.  It’s just a day, a Thursday, a date on the calendar that only has the meaning that I give it.

The other day I told my mother that if my purpose in life was to struggle through some things so that other people can learn lessons, then I am ok with that.  It’s the reason I coach, and the reason I blog.  I have learned a lot of things during my cancer experience that I want to share.  Here’s the one I want to share today, January 10, 2013.  The day that I win.

Cancer is not a gift.  I am not grateful that I had cancer.  It sucks.  I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.  But I am grateful that through this experience I have been struck to my very core with the understanding that someday, I will die.  I am not immortal.  This truth opened my eyes to life in a way that I would never have thought possible, and it changed me. I live differently now.  Do I appreciate every moment to it’s fullest?  No.  I am only human. But I don’t waste a lot of time worrying about the petty dramas of life.  I love my friends and my family more.  I forgive more easily.  I let stuff go. I live life with my eyes open to the truth that I will not always be around.

I am no longer afraid to die.  I used to be terrified of death, but now I fear living an empty and meaningless life far more than I fear dying.  It will happen someday, hopefully a long time from now, hopefully peacefully and painlessly, but until then I plan to keep living my ‘eyes wide open’ life.

Today, in honor of my big day, I would like to ask you to go through your day with your eyes wide open too.  Not to scare you, or to depress you, but hopefully to have you feel the same joy I feel about being alive, without having to face something as scary as cancer. There will come a day when none of us will be here, but until that day comes, let’s try to live ‘eyes wide open’.