Acceptance

My BRCA 1 and 2 test came back negative. This news felt like getting the last piece of information in a very long journey. It's such a huge relief to know I am not passing this on to the next generation. And I'm sure it's a relief to my mom that even though she's had breast cancer (twice!) I did not get it through genetics. I know - as if a person can do anything about their genetics  - as if it's in one's control but still, I'm relieved. That and the geneticist laid out what my reality would most likely be had the test come back positive. I don't blame Angelina Jolie one bit for being proactive after she tested positive. 

I've felt such anger towards the surgeon who has told me repeatedly that sure, mistakes were made but had they not happened and if certain other things hadn't happened then my story could be a whole lot different than it is today. I have felt an undercurrent of  "so be happy and grateful and if you feel those other feelings, then you aren't grateful and shame on you."  to his words. It could very well be that we just have the same chatter going on in our heads and well, I can guilt trip myself without any outside help, okay? I have wanted to tell him look, could you just listen to me without telling me how I should feel? Feeling my feelings through this journey has been my biggest triumph. Much scarier than putting on a brave face and faking it for the sake of those around me.

The day after I got the latest test results I thought to myself, mistakes were made and had not things happened after that then your story could be turning out so differently than it is. I checked and couldn't find an ounce of  internal pressure  or a sense of  "I should feel this". I felt no emotional charge, instead I felt calm. And grateful. Who knew?

It was a shock and a relief to feel something genuinely positive. I have not felt a whole lot of gratitude through this journey. It's been a blow to my ego not to qualify for a gold star poster child award. I've heard people eulogized lately who have died from cancer as people who never complained and were always other centered.  I think to myself, well - that won't ever be my story. And there's a part of me that really wants it to be. I did chuckle while reading an obituary the other day that said that so and so would be remembered for their lack of patience and their love of cooking. Mine might be something to the effect of being remembered for her vocal opinions and love of dark humour. 

After I reflected on the surgeon's words the next thing that popped into my head is that I owe it to - I don't know - God - my fellow human beings - myself? to make the most of this life I have. I don't know what that looks like and I have no intention of being anyone other than myself while I do it. But I am trying to not take what is before me for granted.

 

A Bow Named God

"You're too strong to let cancer beat you."

Oh, God love him. Words from a young man this past weekend who I hadn't seen in a long while. His face was so full of light and I hated to bring him back down to earth. But I did. I told him that many 'strong' people have died of cancer. In fact I was headed to a funeral later that day for a woman who would have loved to have not had cancer 'beat her.' She was a lovely, strong, vibrant woman who died too soon. His face fell a little bit at my reply. In fact he asked me to repeat it because he wasn't sure he'd heard me right.

It's not fun being the party pooper, speaking up for those who have been forever silenced. If positive thinking, being strong (I wonder what that means), fighting the good fight and all the rah-rah you can muster would make the difference between life and death there'd be a lot less dead people. I wonder if I'll always be touchy about believing that.

I'm waiting for my oncologist to call me. It's our last time of touching base before he writes up my discharge plan - the plan for follow up tests and check ups and the like for the next five years. There is already a CT scan and an MRI in the works over the next few months. I haven't yet made my peace with how to live in the tension of not knowing what the future holds but I want to and am inching towards it. (this is where some dumb ass tells me we know Who holds the future so don't worry, be happy. I bet they haven't had cancer.)

I wish there was a time and place for patients to tell doctors things that might help them deal more effectively with the next patient they see.

I'd tell my oncologist that he and the other medical professionals, who so readily wanted me to take medication to cope with the grieving process of losing my breast, needed to honour the time and space it took to go through it. All the way through it. I wish they had been able to do that instead of wanting me to short circuit the path of feeling the grief so deeply, as if something was wrong with me for being human. I can think I am being bad - a lovely remnant of my screwed up childhood - just because someone else thinks I am. Make it someone in authority and it can happen in a nano second.

The powers that be often said they knew I wouldn't get stuck yet when I showed deep feelings they whipped out their prescription pads. Six different times I was offered a pill to mask my feelings. I wish doctors were taught that patients need their doctor's support of a non medicated way through the natural grieving process of having had a serious illness.

I am all for medication when it is needed including for people coping with a serious illness. I have seen it bring incredible relief to people I love. But I knew in my gut that I didn't need it. My path was to be present to the whole she-bang of emotions.  I wish  a medical professional would've cheered me on for moving through the process and acknowledged the sheer courage it took to do that.

Had it not been for mental health professionals I might still be doubting that my instinct to wade through the deep was the right choice to make. It has been hard to trust that what often looked like being stuck was really just part of going through. I had to remind myself over and over again of that in order to have the courage to feel the feelings. The counsellors I've seen have been great at affirming the journey as it has unfolded.

I feel like I am coming out of the other side of it now. Not fully out but emerging nonetheless. I am both surprised and relieved. Life has colour again. I am delighting in the tiny things, mostly.

There is a part of me that I am hoping isn't here to stay; the return of my cynical self. A cynicism that rises when I hear people wrap up life's small and big things with a bow named God. When it rolls off their tongue with a flippancy that seems devoid of reality I feel an acute sadness. Being sure of how and when God works has disappeared from my belief system. I've been waiting for it to return and the other day it occurred to me that it might never be mine again. I told my spiritual director last week that it was a bleak place to be. Beyond believing that God is with me there is a deep void where I know nothing.

Funny the things one wants. I want to have a light/bright countenance like my young friend has. A few months ago I met several elderly women whose faces shone with inner wisdom. I want that, too.

Laying It Down

Every February I get a letter from the breast cancer prevention program reminding me to call and book my yearly screening mammogram. With a strong family history of breast cancer it seems reasonable, no? I'd been bracing myself for this year's letter and when it came I stuck it to my fridge and said out loud, 'you fuckers.' You see, last February's mammogram culminated in radiologists deciding the cancerous lump was a cyst and I was free and clear until this year's check up.

Had it not been for the weight loss, which led to the CT scan, which led to the needle biopsy, which led to the surgeon ordering a breast MRI, who knows when the breast cancer would have been discovered. Had it not been for the surgeon ordering the breast MRI, before it was realized that my pathology report was mixed up with someone else's, and then deciding to go ahead with it anyway after the correct pathology report from my needle biopsy said there was no cancer, who knows how this would have played out. The needle biopsy missed the tumour completely. What a soap opera.

A day after I got the letter I saw my doctor. As we talked, and the mammogram letter came up, he listened to me and then said, "you seem to be in the angry phase." I so wanted to reply,  "let's just cut one of your balls off and see how you feel about that, okay?"

How long will it be before I stop cupping my hand over the place where my breast was and mourn its absence? Two days after my mastectomy, as I stepped onto the mat that triggered the automatic exit door of the hospital, I felt my body hesitate. My right breast was somewhere in the building and for a moment I felt disoriented. I suppressed the urge to yell, "I won't forget you."

At my final appointment with the surgeon this week, with compassion in his eyes and firmness in his voice he said, "You need to find a way to move forward. Yes, mistakes were made. Those mistakes saved your life." Tears sprang up in my eyes as I recognized the truth in what he said. It's really the same as what the oncologist said to me two weeks ago. Examine the story I am telling myself. Don't let it define me. Through tears I told the surgeon, "The mistakes broke me."

Look at what it's cost me. Give me back what I've lost. That's really what I want to shout. I'm no longer who I was, no longer believe what I used to believe about just about everything in life. I am continually filtering thoughts when talking with other people. Trite answers I used to believe come to mind and I realize I don't believe in those answers any more. Examined and left wanting by my words I told a friend last week that I feel like I am being rendered mute.

And so I've made several phone calls reaching out for professional help in moving forward. Intuitively I know that some kind of ritual to honour my journey would be healing. There must be a way to move forward without feeling like I am dismissing just how deeply the twists and turns have affected me. A way to bless the journey and release the anger. I know that everyone who goes through an injustice of some kind must finally lay it down or become bitter. Lord have mercy.

The Stories We Tell

"The stories we tell ourselves affect how we live our lives."

That's the oncologist words above, challenging me to examine the story I tell myself about my cancer journey and my way forward from here. He's said it because I mentioned again about having so many twists and turns along the way and that perhaps that's compounding the awful side effects of the estrogen blocker medication I'm on.

In the echo of his words I feel lost, unable to grasp what it looks like to be finished with appointments and to move forward. I don't want it to be over either but I don't know why.

It takes a night's sleep to grasp that he was telling me: "You are cancer free, go live your life, don't let yourself be defined by this." A faint glimmer of hope stirs in me at the phrase 'cancer free' and I feel guilty that I have no energy or desire to do a happy dance even though I recognize it is good, good news. There is a part of me that wants to march back into his office and say defiantly, "I will never forget" and I think to myself what an ungrateful wretch I am.

I feel like I am being yanked in a game of tug of war with one arm glued to the rope in front of me and one arm reaching for the rope behind that is just out of my reach. I'm crying as I move forward and it's the mastectomy side's arm being pulled forward. Damn, it hurts.

It takes me a week to see that the oncologist was never asking me to forget what happened. My discomfort with moving forward comes from believing I have to either move forward or cling to the past. I breathe a sigh of relief when I realize that I can both move forward and honour the past. The tension between the two is much like the pull of my mastectomy scar every time I stretch out my arm.

While I don't want to be defined solely by this part of my journey I will never be the person I was before it ever again.

And that will always be my story.

Best News Ever

Was declared cancer free yesterday. Huge, huge, relief. Feel like I can now move forward. Thank you for all your prayers and support especially these past six months.

Bumping

"I don't want to walk timidly through life."  I say this to Fr. Charlie, my spiritual director. It is a relief to unload all my fears and hopes and gut honest thoughts. We haven't spoken since the day before my mastectomy. There is a lot of ground to cover. After several hours I leave his office, affirmed once again in my humanity.

I had almost cancelled the appointment because the weatherman had been forecasting snow and I have become a coward when it comes to winter driving. I find the need to talk myself through many things these days. It's as if well, because of the cancer diagnosis I realize on another level that if that can happen anything can happen. So I constantly have to remind myself that just because anything can happen doesn't mean it will happen. And like a boat gently tapping up against the dock, waves constantly keeping it in motion, I keep bumping up against fear of the unknown.

Fumbling The Ball

** "I'm getting less moody, aren't I?" He pauses and then says, "A little."  I start to tell him just how wrong he is. I am a LOT less moody. And then I start to laugh. Right. Dearest One walked right into a trap of the sort of "does this dress make me look fat?" variety. I let go of my need to be right and realize that even my protest shows that I'm not quite where I thought I was.

** "I didn't recognize you because you were so skinny." It's a few hours later and we're in the grocery store. I hunt up and down the aisles for something when I see Dearest One talking to an elderly couple we haven't seen since last summer. Back then we talked about how fortunate I was that they caught the pathology report mistake before I had my breast removed. I have no energy to tell them what came next. I duck around the corner and continue shopping. I stop to dig through my purse and find my cell phone. I expect Dearest One to send me a text and ask me where he can find me. Except he didn't. He came looking for me and then walked right by the aisle I was in because he didn't recognize me. I wish this made me happy.

** "Are you the wife?" Them's fighting words although the telemarketer on the other end of the phone doesn't know this. I tell him that no, I'm not THE wife. He asks me to repeat myself. I do. Then his voice takes on the hue of someone backing away slowly from the room and he tells me he will phone back later. Good call. I was getting ready to tell him I may be moody and I may be skinny but I am neither an article nor an adjective. Sigh.

The Little Engine That Could

It was -45C with the wind chill factored in this morning. The windows are frosted up nearly to the top but the sun is shining through them. The northern version of stained glass windows courtesy of Jack Frost. A good day to stay inside and keep warm.

I'm healing. It feels like there is light at the end of this year long tunnel. And hope that this cancer journey will truly be a distant memory one day.  I look forward to when I don't tag a post with the word cancer. My mood swings are lessening. My goal this week is to get through it without telling someone to eff themselves. So far so good.

I'm learning that skinny people really do need a cushion for their chair because otherwise their butt hurts too much to sit for very long. I had to ask only daughter last night if that was true because it's a brand new phenomena for me. After I asked her I excused myself and went and got a cushion for my kitchen chair so we could continue our talk via Skype.

I took a writing course last December where the instructor told us that a good writer didn't write about their relationship with God in a post because she said it put up a wall between writer and reader. That intimate place where really only the two involved could enter into it. I've mulled her opinion over a lot since then.

My prayers of late have mostly been silent ones. Except for the time after communion where I knelt and the only words that came to mind, in the vein of the little engine that could, were, "I need you. I need you. I need you."

Pinning The Tail

I've spent the past week trying to point in the direction of getting back to normal, whatever 'normal' is. One thing I've concentrated on is continuing to get my range of motion back on my mastectomy side and I am winning that challenge. From what I can gather I will feel the pull/tightness all the way across my chest for a good long time yet but am grateful that I can stretch further than I could last week. The day I can make a full snow angel motion with my arms will be a day to celebrate.

This past week was also the first medical appointment free week I've had in a very long time. It's made me realize just how much of my time and mental energy has centered on the next medical thing in front of me.  I told a friend that it's felt a little like playing that pinning the tale on the donkey game and maybe I'm starting to have some clarity in the direction I want to aim for now. Figuratively speaking I'm less dizzy and more clear headed.

One of the guided imagery CDs I've listened to throughout this process invites a person to accept their feelings of worry, fear, grief and anger as their inner truth of the moment, without self criticism or blame. That doing so will be encourage the healing process. The key word there is 'moment'. I felt relief and a bit of a chuckle the first time I heard that sentiment. Inner truth of the moment. A reminder that there are no permanent feelings no matter how much that seems impossible in the moment. It takes way less energy to acknowledge a feeling than it does to repress it. Funny how I needed to hear someone tell me that it was okay to feel all those things without self criticism before thinking that was an option.

I had a long talk with God today about wanting to feel other feelings. The ones that make me feel connected to other people and to life. I am tempted to chuck the estrogen blocking medication that has my hormones all awry and my mood in disarray. Then there is the fear that if I do that it will be my fault if my cancer reoccurs.  See how my brain works? I have bumped up against fear and my illusion of control so many times through all of this. Maybe not any more than before other than I am aware of the bump. More aware of the 'oh, here it is again, and again, and again.' in the way that is challenging its presence instead of being oblivious to it even being there. I guess that is progress. For today I'll take it.

Relief

Tumour test results came back today and I don't need chemo. I am so, so relieved. There is only a PET scan ahead of me before the end of the month - which will hopefully clear up if they need to investigate further why the AP node in my chest is enlarged and the node in my armpit. After that I am good to go. It feels like a huge weight off my shoulders. The doctor is also hopeful I won't be so bitchy now.

Some Fight In Me

That about sums up my day yesterday.

I went to my home group meeting for the first time in six weeks. Drain tube free. Pain free. Good weather. I was grateful that the hour drive was possible. I knew that getting out of my head was the best medicine for me. It would be a win-win for everyone. I sat in my chair before the meeting and felt such relief to be there even though I found it harder to be honest when people asked how I was than to fake it and be cheerful and upbeat. My ego gets caught up in wanting to be a poster child for breast cancer so people can tell me how wonderful I am. My ego will seek its glory any which way it can. It's not picky.

And then he came in and any hope I had for accolades vanished in about 15 seconds flat. He is like a father figure to me. He is as tough as nails and has the softest heart around. His way of dealing with the worry that my increasing weight loss caused him was to be gruff with me. We also have known one another long enough to have had deep conversations that have created a mutual respect of one another. He is the real deal.

So yesterday I was on my way back to my seat with a cup of tea when he hugged me and asked me how I was. "Not good." I tell him. "What do you mean 'not good'?" He said this as if it's against the law to not be fine. I looked at him and asked, "What? It's against the rules of being a human being to be not good?" "Yes." He said it in a 'you're darn tootin' kind of tone. And before the filter between my brain and my mouth had a chance to engage I looked at him and said, "Fuck you."

I had an internal 'oh shit I only meant to think that, not say it' moment. Then he laughed and said, "Good. You have some fight in you."

After the meeting I tell him I am sorry. That I hope I never say that to him again. He tells me that I need to be able to say things like that to people like him who can take it. I put my hand on his heart and say, "No. It's no excuse. I know you  have a tender heart and I don't want to walk on it." He looks at me and says, "I have no idea what you are going through." So few people have had the humility to say that to me and it brought tears to my eyes.

Off The Train Please

** As a child I made it through each day by looking ahead to something else. It was like living in perpetual limbo. That's what I feel like I am doing these days while waiting to hear what comes next in the cancer journey.

** Had another bit of fluid drained off my chest yesterday. I keep wanting to write breast instead of chest but it's not a breast any more so what do I call it? You know, that place where my breast used to be? It's a bit disconcerting to have a huge honking needle stuck in there and to not feel it in the least. When the doctor asked if he could use a bigger bore needle to suck out the fluid I was like, um, I can't feel anything there anyway so do what you need to do. I told Dearest One the other day that that side of my chest looks like a toad. A squished toad. I want flat, totally flat like it was before complications set in. I feel like I'm being hard to please. Jeepers, they removed the cancer, what more do you want, Hope?

** Got a copy of my latest CT scan report today. It reported not only the size of suspicious nodes elsewhere in the body - dear God please no more biopsies - but that the back pain I've been having for months is explained by a degenerating disc in my back. One less doctor's appointment needed now.

** the doctor I saw today was incredibly kind, compassionate and just plain decent. I told him how much I appreciated the way he practised medicine and how much difference it made from this patient's point of view. He told me how he has worried about my unexplained weight loss in case they are missing something. The doctors all confer that the tumour in my breast doesn't explain it.

He explained exactly what was happening in my body with the new drug from the oncologist and that it would take three months for my body to adjust. I told him I could handle anything for three months. It was the five years of drugs that was hard. Then I said, "Oh, hell, I can do anything for five years, one day at a time." I just don't want to.

For the second time in a week a medical professional suggested anti-depressants to help me get over this hump. We'll see. Hopefully all my posts for the next three months won't be estrogen starved brain cell induced writings.

** Yesterday I tried on winter jackets and was disturbed that the size I tried on was just about too loose. Not being in control of my weight loss is the most vulnerable feeling. And I feel guilty every time I write or talk about it because it is many a woman's dream to lose weight without effort. Millions have been spent in hopes of that promise.

** I can't believe how much I am hankering after certainty. Every time there is a new bit of medical information that leads to more questions than answers I can hardly stand it. Off the train. I just want off the train.

** Today someone, in response to my sharing the grief I am feeling at losing my breast, tried to tell me all the reasons I should be thankful instead. I just looked at her and said I need to go through the grieving and that none of her suggestions changed that. She tried to explain how I should have perspective in different words. I had to tell her that it didn't change the grief process. I could, to ease my own pain, and to make it easier for others, shove that grief way down deep, put on my happy face and pretend otherwise. But I'm not going to do it. I told my friend that I wasn't going to get stuck in the grief but I was going to go through it.

I don't know how to explain to people that just because I am feeling grief and expressing it doesn't mean I have no perspective, know no gratitude. It's not an either or scenario but a both and one. I feel intense grief and I feel grateful that what I'm facing is much less serious than some other people's. But dammit, I have to live through it and for once in my life I'm going straight through it and not try to sneak my way around it. Why is that so hard for people to accept? Why can't they celebrate that I am going through it instead of around it?

There's part of me that would love to pretend I am fine. But man, pretending my feelings are not my feelings has bitten me in the butt more times than I can count. I told my sponsor the other day that the only way I'm getting through this right now is knowing that feelings aren't permanent. And knowing that God is with me in it whether I feel his presence or not.

** Today in a parking lot I was driving behind a young woman who was walking arm in arm with a woman my age. They were so engrossed in their conversation that they didn't see me behind them. I watched their body language and it was so evident how fond of one another they were. I just about rolled my passenger window down, when they moved off to the side so I could pass them, to tell them how much pleasure I felt watching them so thoroughly enjoy each other's company.

And because it's all about me I longed for someone to walk like that through this journey with me.

At The Dinner Table

** realized yesterday that the number of people one can truly take into their confidence about how things are and not get shit on is small. Reminded once again that some people find it hard when I can't summon up any rah-rah cheerleader spirit for my own journey. I wanted to say I just didn't have any emotional energy left to be okay for their sake. I hung up the phone feeling deficient in the faith department and general human being department. I didn't want pity I wanted empathy. Sponsor later reminded me that expectations can give way to disappointment. True.

** new medication is doing a number on my whole being. Today was a weepy day. Oncologist said to give the medication a few days break and then try again at half a dose. I hate feeling like a stranger in my own skin.

** phone calls where the other person is understanding without jumping into the pool with me are invaluable. It makes climbing out of the pool much easier and inviting. I just wanted someone else to tell me it was okay to be where I was, that it wouldn't last forever, and not try to fix me. She did that. Pure gift.

** was supposed to get all test results tomorrow, waiting over finally. Oncologist called today to cancel tomorrow's appointment because the most important test result isn't back yet. It felt like the straw that broke the camel's back. Not living for this day. Not accepting life on life's terms. Just tears and despair.

** Oncologist called back later in the day with a little bit of test results that were hopeful. That helped balance the earlier call where other test results showed a possible need for more biopsies.

** had a frank talk with God about how I was feeling. Read this quote that made my day:

"My belief is that when you're telling the truth, you're close to God. If you say to God, "I am exhausted and depressed beyond words, and I don't like You at all right now, and I recoil from most people who believe in You," that might be the most honest thing that you've ever said. If you told me you had said to God, "It is all hopeless, and I don't have a clue if You exist, but I could use a hand," it would almost bring tears to my eyes, tears of pride in you, for the courage it takes to get real -- really real. It would make me want to sit next to you at the dinner table." Anne Lamott, "Help, Thanks, WOW"

Snippets Of Life

** drain tube #2 came out Boxing Day. So far so good. When Dearest One was helping get the tensor bandage back on again this morning I lamented that I just wanted to be done with needing help getting dressed and presentable. Tomorrow is ten weeks post mastectomy. Dearest One reminded me that some people don't get to ten weeks post mastectomy.

I feel like a two year old when they wrestle their clothes away from you because they want to do it themselves. Perhaps in a week or so I will be able to do that minus the wrestling. Simple things that can both irritate the heck out of me when I can't do them and bring me joy when I can. The rest of the time I take them completely for granted.

** I made the mistake of shopping for clothes on Boxing Day. Looking in the mirror with a lovely new top on without wearing a prosthesis brought me close to tears; the grief enveloping me from head to toe. Reminder to self to never go shopping for clothes without two breasts, a fake one will do.

** new drug for blocking estrogen is giving me morning sickness like symptoms. Twenty four hours a day. Not sure I can do this for five years. Hopefully it will lessen. So far ginger tea hasn't helped settle the tummy.

** it's also giving me mood swings which I haven't had in years. I don't miss them one bit. Neither does Dearest One. Not sure I can do five years of PMS like symptoms either. I have bitten my lip a hundred times over the past few days. I am grateful that years of practising restraint of pen and tongue means that not every single thing that I think needs to be said out loud. And that I don't believe everything I think helps too.

** am going to see Les Miserables tomorrow. I saw The Hobbit a few days ago. That's more movies in one week than I've seen in a theatre in years.

** went to a family gathering yesterday with 40+ people. First time I've participated in playing games in the 30 years I've been a part of this family. Turns out a person can change and enjoy themselves in the process. Was good to put a crack in the "But I don't (fill in the blank)" rut I can so easily stay in.

Crossing The Line

This week we travelled for a second opinion about my treatment options.

It was surreal to be in a hospital solely devoted to cancer care. Everywhere we looked was a person carrying a green piece of paper which signalled they had gone through patient registration and were headed somewhere within the building for an appointment related to having cancer. I secretly wanted to stop every person and tell them that green was the symbolic colour for hope.

Asking for the second opinion was in that land between hard and easy for me. The doctor here mentioned I could go to that city far away for a second opinion but her tone and the way she phrased it let me know that it pushed her insecurity button when people did. I seriously considered sparing her any more button pushing at my expense.  Here, let me possibly keel over and die so you don't have to feel bad about my decision.  Not.

The doctor in the larger centre was refreshing. He spoke of living in the moment, being aware of what messages we internalize and listening to our hearts; on top of being passionate about oncology and treatment options and cutting edge technology.

He talked about how people feel secure because there is that yellow line  down the center of the highway as if that line alone would keep a semi truck from crossing over it and hitting us. Then he related that to how we get stuck in believing this, this or that is the thing that will keep whatever we fear from happening to us.

I looked at him rather fiercely and said, "I won't get stuck." He looked back and said, "I know you won't."

There is no clear cut treatment plan right now but there will be in the New Year. I am grateful to have a doctor I trust and who is advocating for me. So much so that he is sending my tumour to another country for further testing to aide him in his decision making.

I am healing. I am hopeful.

Sense Of Humour A Must

My temporary breast prosthesis is shaped like a little cotton filled football. I tried it out yesterday and well, between it and the increasing fluid build up in the place where my breast used to be, I couldn't wait to be rid of it the moment I walked in the door last night.  So I took my bra off right then and there, tossed that on the dishwasher and totally forgot I had been wearing a prosthesis at all.

A few hours later I walked through the kitchen and spotted my prosthesis laying on the floor, its cotton batten filling just visible through the flap in its side. I scooped it up in a hurry, so very grateful that the dogs had not discovered it. More than likely they would have snatched it up in their jaw and carried it to the living room, dropped it and then picked it up again and again searching for the squeaker that inhabits all their toys. I can only imagine.

Gatekeeper Into An Unknown Land

Dearest One and I are silent as we glance at the arrow on the "Cancer Clinic ahead" sign. We drive past it like it's a gatekeeper into an unknown land. We swoop down a ramp that curves around until we are right at the clinic's front door. It looks like we've driven up to some fancy hotel with its carport like roof over head and the sliding glass doors that part as we draw near to them.

I check in at the reception desk and hand over my paperwork. She glances at it and says, "Oh, you're new." She turns to start transcribing it into the computer and asks me to take a seat.

I sit down and watch people. A man shuffles in in slippers and sweat pants. Another man cracks a joke with a nurse. Beyond another doorway I can see a huge sign that tells everyone it's the chemotherapy treatment room. There is both a stillness and a camaraderie present in the air.

A volunteer calls my name and I follow her to get weighed and measured. Down a little more weight since before surgery. Who knew my breast weighed that much?

Within minutes we are ushered into a room and our nurse starts asking questions and filling in yet more forms. Over her shoulder I notice a watercolour painting. I answer her questions while gazing at its gently rolling hills, watery blue sky and winding road. Symbolic of the journey I am now on. The one I didn't sign up for but the one presented to me.

I'm aware that I get to choose how I look at it. It doesn't divorce me from the whole range of human feelings, it's just that after I feel what I feel there comes a 'now what' point where I get to choose my focus. It's not a one time deal but a revolving door of feeling and choosing that will last the rest of my life. The rest of yours, too.

Forms are completed. The doctor comes in. We listen to her recommendations. She is wonderfully non biased and I appreciate that. She tells us to take some time to come to a conclusion.

I leave her office convinced which way I am leaning. My heart sinks as I listen to Dearest One come to a totally different conclusion.

In the middle of the night I lay in bed, fretting about which direction to take. Convinced that the decision I make is akin to deciding between life and death. As if it is all up to me. And in the stillness of the night comes a thought, you're forgetting God in this picture. A wry grin spreads over my face and I chuckle to myself. I had forgotten. That little nugget of grace comforts me so much that I fall back asleep.

In the morning I wake up unexpectedly joyful. That grin involuntarily springs up on my face every time I think about making a decision. I make phone calls about second opinions and get details about the chemotherapy regimen they are recommending. I scribble them down on the backside of an envelope.

It's only later when I turn the envelope over and see "Limited Time Offer" stamped in capital letters that a wry grin spreads over my face once more.

Gripped

"I'm scared you're going to die."

She hugs me tight, her words filtering down through her fingertips onto my back, desperately hoping in the power of her hug to keep me here.

I understand that grip.

One time my brother-in-law caught a bald headed eagle and put it in his truck. On the floor of his truck was a paper bag full of groceries. That bird put one of its talons right through a can of tomato soup. My brother-in-law knew he didn't have the power to get the bird to loosen its grip, the bird had to do that itself.

And so does my friend. I can try to calm her fears but I can't make them disappear. I haven't seen her since my first surgery. I'd been puzzled by her silence and yet not really. I reassure her that I understand her lack of contact.

I do.

I think specifically of several people. A friend whose life I disappeared from while she had cancer. I just stopped showing up. Or the friend who used to babysit my kids when she was a teenager, who - years later - lost her own teenager in an accident. How I couldn't bring myself to ring her doorbell. Much to my shame it didn't prevent me from telling anyone who would listen to me at the funeral that I knew her when. I also think specifically of this friend. Mea Culpa.

A loved one told me she did an online search for"how to not be an asshole while trying to support someone who has cancer." I think that's the reason many people stay away. The reason I have done so, too. When I look at it that way, my lack of action is due in part to an ego driven response. Fear of not looking good, of someone thinking less of me, in the face of their pain. And then there is the desire not to add to their suffering. I'm scared of getting it wrong.

Fear has been my most faithful companion in life. I've gripped it's hand so tight through the years. It's been one of my longest standing prayers for it to stop overshadowing my every move. Now is the perfect opportunity to learn how to let go a little more. Holding on tight doesn't have the power I thought it did. Thank God.

As my friend and I hug goodbye, her grip a little looser, she whispers in my ear, "Please don't die." I whisper back, "I don't plan to anytime soon.".

Fingers In The Dark

"I know, I've touched your incision."

His answer surprises me. I have absolutely no feeling for several inches on either side of my 26 stitch mastectomy scar, which comes in handy when the surgeon is digging deep to get the sutures out, but is awkward when it comes to Dearest One's touch. Has he run his fingers in the dark over my incision and I've been oblivious? I guess so.

No one writes about this part. Regaining physical intimacy while manoeuvring around drain tubes and foot long incisions. It's hard not to feel like there is an intruder in the room with us. A permanent one.

We've slept in separate beds for the bulk of my recuperation. We've learned the hard way that restorative sleep is not in the cards when you worry about accidentally hooking the drain tube with a body part or flinging an arm right over the area above the incision that burns without touch. And we need all the sleep we can get.

Tomorrow the drain tube and remaining stitches get removed.

In 6 sleeps we meet with the oncologist to see what comes next.

It's not the first time, nor will it be the last, that numb and painful and awkward will describe my continuing road of transformation.

The Sweater

It doesn't take much to make me dissolve in tears and this certainly did it today:

(Thanks Rebekah Grace!)

Story of The Sweater