A Letter to My Fear

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This morning I had my first appointment with a counselor at the cancer center. Our session was mostly paperwork and getting-to-know-you questions, but toward the end, she asked me what tools I’m currently using to cope with my emotions in the wake of my diagnosis and treatment.

I told her about this blog and other writing I do, and before I left, she encouraged me to use some writing exercises to help work through all the feelings I’m experiencing now. One of her suggestions was to write a letter to my fear and/or my cancer. It sounds kind of hokey, but I’m going to give it a shot, starting with fear. Here goes.

Fear,

I won’t use the salutation “dear,” as you are no more dear to me than a smear of shit on the bottom of my shoe. You are no friend of mine. You are the enemy. You live to undermine me. To torture me. To keep me cowering in the dark, unable to make a move without worry or anxiety.

You’ve always been around. Even before cancer, you’d rear your ugly head before big presentations, on airplanes and even on days that should have been nothing but happy, like my wedding or the day my son was born.

But now, you’re especially vicious. You’re around every corner, it seems. No longer content to just lurk in the shadows, you parade around in the bright light of day, emboldened and relentless. You don’t care if I’m at work, at home, in the middle of something important or joyous. Like the unwelcome guest that you are, you horn in on good moments, popping up in places you don’t belong. You rob me of sleep, of solitude, of peace.

You drive me to Google symptoms over and over again. Pelvic pain. Back pain. Neck pain. Every little twinge sends me into a frenzy. The old me would chalk it up to sleeping wrong, exercising too hard or eating too much rich food. I’d pop an Advil or antacid and keep on moving. But with you on my shoulder, such nonchalance is impossible. Nothing is brushed off. There’s no such thing as just a little ache. Everything must be over-analyzed, scrutinized, fretted over. Every little feeling could be the beginning of impending doom when you take over my brain.

And here’s the thing–I don’t know how to shake you. I know my good buddy time will help me, but he takes his…well…time to do that. So what am I to do until then? Just put up with you? Allow you to control me? Allow you to make my life hell?

And if we’re being truthful here, even time won’t banish you from my life completely. You’ll always be there in some way, lurking around along the edges, just waiting for the opportunity to strike. You can smell my vulnerability like blood in the water–you know all my soft spots and when I’m at my weakest. No predator has ever stalked his prey with more deft cunning than you.

My only course of action is to face you. To call you out. To tell you to fuck off. To allow the rational side of my brain to tamp down the irrational, obsessive side more often. I know this will not be easy. This is going to be a bloody, brutal fight between you and me. But I’m ready. I’ve fought scarier, more dangerous opponents than you. Ask them how that went. I have reinforcements, and my team is stronger than yours. Let’s do this.

Until next time,

Jennifer

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I Gotchu

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Me and my baby

One of the most exciting stages of parenthood is when your child learns to speak. There’s something almost magical about a baby going from this drooly, crying blob to a little person able to express himself verbally. It’s a long process, but one with lots of fun stops along the way.

In the past year or so, my son’s vocabulary has exploded. He’s almost two-and-a-half, and since uttering his first word (“mama,” for the record), he has become more of a chatterbox with each passing day. Much of what he had to say before was merely baby babble. And he still engages in his fair share of gibberish, but more and more, his words are actual words, and they’re assembled in phrases and sentences. It’s pretty amazing to witness.

Much of his current vocabulary revolves around cartoon characters (Mickey Mouse and the Paw Patrol are big topics of conversation in our house), his favorite foods (hot dogs, grilled cheese, apple juice) and there are a couple words he’s uttered that I’m mortified he knows (we blame dad’s potty mouth for those gems). But for me, there are two phrases he uses often that just about melt me to the floor.

“I pick you,” is the toddler version of “I’d like to be picked up.” He almost always holds his hands up to me as he says it, and there is nothing sweeter as a mama than to have your baby stand before you with his arms raised, essentially saying he chooses you. Does he necessarily mean it in a literal sense? No. But in a way he does because my arms are the ones he wants wrapped around him.

Which leads me to my current favorite toddler phrase–“I gotchu, Mama.” This is usually uttered late at night, little arms wrapped around my neck, head resting on my shoulder, or in the morning when he wakes up in the bed next to me and clutches tightly for a groggy hug.

If I could bottle the feeling it gives me, I’d be a millionaire. It’s the salve that cures the trivial woes of the day. It’s the balm that heals any hurt feelings. It’s what dries my tears of fear, worry and anxiety when the darkness comes. Hearing those sweet words whispered in my ear as my child clutches me lovingly makes everything better.

Having cancer has changed me as a parent. Yes, I still have my bad days/moments and get frustrated by crankiness, tantrums and misbehavior. But I tend to pause and savor the good moments a bit more nowadays. I know how important these moments are–even the littlest ones–and I’m so thankful to be here for each and every one of them.

 

On Shoes Dropping

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Last fall when I was really sick after my first dose of Taxol, my dear friend Carla sent me an incredible book to help wile away the hours of headaches, fever and worry.

The book was “In the Body of the World,” a memoir by Eve Ensler, the writer and activist best known for creating “The Vagina Monologues.” It details her fight with uterine cancer, while giving a healthy dose of perspective in the form of harrowing tales of the horrifically abused women she advocates for in the Congo.

While I related to her words and experiences on so many levels, one point she made really resonated with me above all others. Ensler talks about her cancer diagnosis and dealing with the feelings of “why me?” She explains that having survived sexual abuse at the hands of her father, as well as abusive relationships with other men, she sort of felt like she’d been through her really bad thing. And now, even though she’d already been through hell, she was being put through it again.

Yes! I know it’s unrealistic, but after my mom died, I sort of felt like I’d paid my heartache dues. Sure, I knew there were plenty of bad things that could and would happen to me, but I felt like maybe I’d earned a pass to not have to experience anything really catastrophic for a while.

As Ensler and I both learned, unfortunately, life doesn’t work that way. Bad things happen to good people. Bad things happen to people who’ve already been through more than their fair share of bad things. Bad things happen on top of other bad things. Bad things don’t have a rhyme or reason. There’s no real pattern. And that’s what makes them so damn scary.

As I walk this path of survivorship, it’s hard for me to keep the fear at bay knowing this truth. There are no free passes. This shit could come back. It could come back today, next week, next year. There’s no guarantee.

I made a therapy appointment today. As I wrestle with all these feelings, I know this is the right move for me. Thankfully, the cancer center has counselors on staff to help people like me make sense of all this and try to move on with our lives. I’m excited to take the first step.

 

Recovery, Part Deux

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Very early yesterday morning, Rodney and I went to the day surgery center for my exchange procedure. After a short wait, the staff ushered me back to one of the staging rooms for all the pre-surgery prep. That includes donning some really sexy hospital shorts (which I’m grateful for since they kept me from flashing people as I walked down the hall in my gown) and getting my chest marked up by my plastic surgeon.

After getting hooked up to an IV, the very kind anesthesiology nurse walked me to the operating room–a very bright, cold place. After meeting all the nurses assisting my plastic surgeon, I climbed up onto the narrow table and a few minutes later I was out like a light.

I woke up a few hours later in the recovery room. The surgery went really well–so well, in fact, that my surgeon decided I wouldn’t need drains this time around.

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I’m pretty sore–both my chest and stomach since she did some fat grafting–but nothing like my previous surgery. I’m staying in bed mostly, but I’ve been up and moving around since I left the hospital–I even walked out of the hospital to the car. So far, this recovery is much easier, which is really nice.

Thanks to everyone who’s checked in on me–if you need me, I’ll be enjoying some Hulu in bed (you know Golden Girls is on binge mode here!).

Here We Go Again

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I’m going under the knife again.

Tomorrow morning I’m heading over to the day surgery center bright and early for my exchange operation. This is the procedure where my temporary tissue expanders are removed and replaced with the permanent* implants.

I will also have fat grafting done from my belly to help fill out my chest and make it look more normal since the implants and muscle can’t exactly replace all the tissue that was removed. Much of my adult life I’ve joked that I wanted to suck the fat from my belly and put it into my boobs–who knew all it would take was a little cancer to make it happen?! (Sorry, I’m really into the morbid jokes these days.)

I’m going to have the blasted drains again (UGH), but hopefully  I won’t have to keep them as long this time. My recovery is supposed to be much shorter, too.

I posted a question about the surgery today in a Facebook breast cancer support group I participate in, and one of the members told me this was a step toward getting back to my old self. I really hope she’s right, because my body feels very not-like me right now. The tissue expanders are uncomfortable–they feel sort of like wearing a bra that doesn’t fit quite right all day. And then there’s this concave situation I have going on in the middle of my chest that’s kind of a mess. I know that I’ll never look or feel exactly like I did before, but if I can get close, that’s good enough.