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’.

My Kind of Joy

A few months after I was finished with active treatment, and my hair was finally long enough to go out without a cap or a wig, I made a comment to my therapist that the Hope that went through cancer was starting to feel like a different person.  That she wasn’t really me.  My therapist told me that feeling was a common one, and that part of my healing meant I had to work to integrate that person into who I was before and who I was becoming after, and that wholeness would mean that I had successfully moved on.

So I worked on that.  And I finally reached a point where I could look at pictures, or relive events in my mind, and know the woman in them was me.  The girl wearing the $2000 wig and feeling like some alien anchor woman, sweating and itching and dying to rip it off – that was me.  The girl in the chemo chair, watching the Today Show and seeing the world go on without me because I was too sick to play – that was me.  That strong, strong woman who let go of the man she loved because he thought that a quick text or call every night before he hit the bars with his friends was being supportive – that was me, as was the woman who grieved the ending of that relationship for far too long, blaming cancer instead of realizing that she needed to be more careful about choosing men who are worthy of her love.

So yes, I have integrated my experience, and I tell fellow survivors who are following me in the journey that they will too.  But every now and again, when I least expect it, that feeling of disbelief still hits me.  Drying my lovely long hair – OMG I had cancer.  Seeing Matt Lauer on TV – OMG I had cancer.  Realizing that it’s time to let a worthy man into my life – Holy crap!!!  I had cancer!!!!  My breath stops for a minute, my heart races and I panic.

And then I remember that I survived and that I am here today to do work that I love – helping other survivors move forward.  And I realize that the fact that every so often I am blinded by a sudden realization that I had cancer means that I no longer think about it every day, every minute.  And the feeling that follows is pride, wonderment and joy.

I would never wish you cancer, or any health issue, but I do wish you all as much joy this holiday season as your hearts can hold.  And then a smidge more.

Noise

I am sitting in my living room trying to write, while a crew of workmen literally saw through the brick around my glass block windows in order to fix the flashing.  It’s so incredibly loud that it’s hard to think.  I would leave the house, but I need to be here to wait for the new hot water heater to arrive.  I haven’t had hot water since Tuesday.  I feel the frustration and anxiety bubble up in me and it’s overwhelming and annoying.  I have things to do!  I need peace and quiet to do them.  Grrrrrr!!!

And then the light bulb - yet another metaphor for the struggles of dealing with cancer.

The noise.  It starts with that phone call you get, where a sympathetic doctor tells you the biopsy was abnormal.  There is the noise of talking, the noise of anxiety swirling in your head, that other voice that says, ‘no, no it’s not me, you called the wrong person’ and that weird white noise, making it difficult to hear or understand anything at all.  Somewhere in the distance, you hear the sound of crying.  You realize it’s you.

And then there are the noises of chemo.  The clicking and beeping of the pump that is shooting toxins into your bloodstream, killing the cancer, and anything else that gets in its way.  The shuffling of feet, and the squeaking of wheels going past your door, while another patient makes his way to the bathroom.  The happy smiley sounds that your friends and family make, trying to keep your spirits up, and the silent but very real sound you hear as you catch the eye of another cancer patient and immediately know that you are not the only one suffering.

The noise of radiation is beeping and buzzing, and the sound of holding your breath so that you keep your tattoos in line with the lasers that guide the machine.  It doesn’t take long, but in your head you hear, ‘don’t breathe, don’t breathe’ until you hear the machine stop buzzing and the tech behind the protective glass say, ‘ok, that’s it for today.’

The noise of the nurse’s voice is what you hear after surgery. “You are in recovery.  Your surgery is finished.  Are you in any pain?  Would you like something for the pain?”  And if you are lucky like I was, you hear your father’s voice telling you, “They got it all out, and your lymph nodes are clear.  The doctor said you are going to be ok.”  And you drift off into another blessedly noiseless sleep.

And if you are truly lucky, you hear your oncologist say, “You have done really well.  Go live your life and check back in with us in three months.”  You hear the triumphant voices in your head for awhile.  “I beat cancer!  I can do anything!”  And you hear the relief and congratulations of everyone who saw you through the journey.

But it’s never long before you start to hear the noise of fear.  “What if it comes back?  How can I move forward after what I have been through?  Will I ever be the same again?”

And that’s when you realize that it’s all just noise.  Hearing all that noise means you are alive.  If it bugs you, put on some headphones for awhile, but never forget the beauty of the noise of life.

Just Be

Lately, I have had a lot of people asking for advice on what to do for their friend or family member that is going through cancer.  The queries sound mostly like this:  “I want to help.  I want to send something.  I want to know the right thing to do, the right thing to say."

Here’s what I tell them.

I know how scary it is to watch your friend or our family member go through cancer, and I know how much you want to do the right thing, or say the right thing, and fix this.  Let go of this need.  There is no on right thing to do or say, and you can’t fix it.

My advice is pretty simple, just be and just do.

To me, the greatest gift you can give to cancer survivors, from diagnosis onward, is to just be with them, wherever they are.  Sometimes they need laughter and distraction. Sometimes they need someone to cry with them, or hold them while they do.  Sometimes they need someone to listen to them talk, or to sit with them in silence.  Sometimes they need all these things, seemingly at once.  To put your need to do or say the right thing aside, letting them know that whatever happens, you will be there, takes courage and strength. And it is a very precious gift that not everyone will be able to give.

If taking action is more comfortable for you, then my advice is to just do. It’s fairly simple.  If you were ill and didn’t have the energy to get through the day, what would you need? Organize friends and neighbors to cook for the family, send a gift certificate to a meal delivery service, pick up and do laundry, send a cleaning service over to the house.  Walk the dog or clean the kitty litter. Give them a ride to treatments and keep them company. Gifts of books, movies, and pajamas are always good for someone who is often homebound from treatment.  I had a friend who would call me up and say, “Get dressed, I am taking you to lunch.”  Even if you don’t send the perfect gift, or cook the perfect meal, the love and support shines through.

Two final points. 

This advice works for anyone going through any sort of illness or trauma, not just cancer. 

And on a personal level, even five years later, I still treasure those people who can just be with me, whenever the fear or sadness bubbles up.  They are one of the greatest gifts cancer has given me.