Friday, May 18, 2012
Am I WHAT enough?
Every time I am at the grocery store I find myself face to face with Time Magazine asking me if I am "mom enough". I am chasing Jack and Olivia through the candy check out, praying for a non trainee with a master register technique and yet I am confronted with the thought - well am I?
Why because I don't sleep with them? Well I do but that's because they crawl into my bed like ninjas and I can't always feel them until I am riding the edge of the mattress with no blankets. Because I don't nurse them until their braces interfere with the latch on? Because I don't wear them until they start 3rd grade? Are you serious? THAT'S what makes me mom enough?
Do I need this? Do my sister moms need the stress of being asked if we are mom enough? The ones juggling to put food on the table and still have the energy to read If You Give a Pig a Pancake for the 10th time? The ones who power through a Gymboree class and smile a lot because wine night is coming? Swim lessons? Pediatricians? Wegmans on a SUNDAY? Do I need another reason to feel insecure about my mothering? No, I don't. And especially from some 20 something in skinny jeans exploiting the very child she claims to pioneer the parenting trails for. After nearly 17 years at this I refuse to allow myself to be manipulated into thinking if I chew their food and wear them, they will feel more embraced. Embraced by what? What about confidence? What about personal development? What about a sense of appropriate DEtachment? What about me getting a fucking break in my bed?
I have never missed a swim meet, a game, a choral concert or a flu; never a moment I didn't pride myself on being there for me and for them. I stay at home by choice and yeah, it kicks my ass at times - I trade in brain cells for chuck e cheese tokens but I remain without regret until now...Time Magazine begs the question - am I mom enough because my children are not (still) dangling from my breast. Well y'know what? I am BUSY. I am busy raising adults. I am being training and negotiating, rewarding and molding, yelling (okay well yeah there's that) and planning and what I don't need is another reason to feel like a failure.
What I LOVE about the women I have in my life is that they are ALL busting their ass, loving their kids and supporting each other and none of us ask each other if we are mom enough because we are.
So to the Time Cover Girl. Shut up and pray Google takes a dump before your kid enters middle school and those images are there to "embrace" him. That is all.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Mothers...
It's not a secret to anyone who knows me well that I was raised by a woman who probably shouldn't have been a mother. I was more or less raised by my best friends' mother who I still remember causing me to tremble when I disappointed her but always, always hugging me. I can still smell her sometimes.
This Sunday will be my 17th Mothers' Day and if I can offer anything to myself or to my friends, it's hold on...that's it, just hold on. Hold onto the first moments, the belly laughs, the sand castles, the soccer games, the cupcakes, the exploration, the playground...Having children ranging from 16 to 4 offers me a chance to parent two childhoods...my starter children and my raised by a less neurotic ones. The older girls had organic foods, early bedtimes, a hundred books a day, prayers, museums, poetry, long carefully worded discussions and home grown vegetables, no sugar, no pesticides, no red dye 341. The second two - Mc Donalds drive thru, video in the car, noise, fish, late to Hebrew school because I'm tired, a few "because I said so's" and salt water taffy before dinner because who cares...and y'know, both will be just fine. I am holding on. Holding on sometimes with my teeth because when it really matters, I am holding on even tighter - to them, from crisis to unsavory boyfriends to bad grades, to rained out beach vacations to slamming doors. It's almost unbearable at times to watch them tap dance on a minefield and yet, I do...okay sometimes I fire a "you really should..." but then I know, they will do what they will do and it's part of the process. I think if they aren't trying to push boundaries, I haven't done it right and yet in the darkness of the night, I know they will be okay. I know because the value system we set up, that they take down brick by brick will be reconstructed in their honor, by them and truth be told, it will appear shockingly like ours. I feel sometimes like I am pulling them out of quick sand but I will never stop...I will never give up, I will never back off because being a mother, to me, is my greatest life work and since the second I laid eyes on Maddie, it became so. I make a hell of a lot of mistakes, I place judgement, I second guess myself and I talk too much but when each one goes to bed, they know I would get up early to let the sun out for them and perhaps my mother's greatest gift to me was to give me the need to parent with wild abandon, passion and commitment. I hold their memories, their hands and their hearts and I will never stop...holding.
So to my 19 year old mother who held herself hostage with a newborn, you are free to go and to my four children, forgive me for meddling, prying and helicopter parenting but know how deeply you are loved. Being loved and desired is the greatest of all gifts we can give our children...I love how they roll their eyes when I joke about never letting them leave home...but I know they do it because they don't know another feeling so for that, I have done my job.
Happy Mothers' Day to me...
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
My own exodus
The similarities are interesting; the Jews of ancient Egypt and me. We both got knocked down by a primary evil, we both endured illness, fatigue, torture, faith testing, plagues (with boils making a cameo in both stories) but in the end, we stood up to the evil and we walked out. Moses took 40 years to get it together, I took 40 treatments but both of us crossed over beaten down, a bit more wounded, slightly less idealistic but triumphant and victorious...and after the exodus across the sea and mine, across the hospital, neither of us could eat bread. :)
It was a 19 month war. I don't have the prolific words that so many of my surviving sisters have. I am not grateful. I don't pray and I don't give thanks to Gd for recovery because then I would have to blame him for cancer...and I don't. I got cancer because I got cancer. To over think it means to give it more energy than it deserves. I remember the day I learned I had it. Susan came over with a pad while I sat stunned over a laptop trying to figure out the best way to get my husband, then fighting his own war in Afghanistan home safely. She and I tried our best to map out a solution but we had none. She sat with me and I sat in a numbed state. Lynn came over that night...I can still see her sweeping my living room in her business suit at 9pm while I remained on the couch rehearsing my speech to the kids. She could only clean, it's how she coped. I could only see their eyes. I knew she was suffering. I wasn't there yet. I was uncomfortably numb. I went to bed alone. Faked a flu to the kids until I had the right words...the ones that said "Mommy has cancer" and prepared answers for when they ask if I am going to die. For Maddie, she suffers quietly, I had to make sure I could reach her even in her silence. Ava deflects. I had to give her just enough information but not a drop more than she can take. Olivia will want to hug me. She won't know. Jack will just want his dad home. I can do this.
I get the call into Afghanistan - to the colonel who is getting Joseph. I have the Red Cross on the other line. I am planning. It's what I do best. Joseph knows it's bad but he also knows I rely heavily on his tone. We are going to do this, he says. We. He's never said anything but since. It's always been We. I head to preschool to pick up Jack and Olivia. I see Robyn and Susanne in the parking lot. I tell them stoically. I don't want questions, I don't want anything...they just know. Robyn hugs me. Susanne tells me she's sorry. So am I. I start to cry. It's as though I give them permission to feel something or maybe I just felt safe...they begin to cry too and the three of us, knowing what I am facing realize, maybe for the first time, I may actually die. As my knees buckle out from under me, I pick up my children and head to the car. I arrive home as Maddie is sitting with Patrick, her best friend. I pull them all outside...good news/bad news. Ava wants the good news first. Daddy is coming home. Joy, hugs...oh my gd why did I do good news first. With a hint of knowing Maddie wants to know why. I take a deep breath, pluck some grass, bite down on my lip and I tell them, in small, edible portions...I have cancer. But we have a plan, I am going to cut it out and the doctor believes I will be fine. It will be a long, tough road but we will win. Maddie folds in Patrick's arms as he holds her, Ava cries into my lap. They all sleep with me that night. I don't sleep at all. I text Ronni all evening...she knows. She's been there. She relives her own battle through me. Cancer has its way with her and shes now back in the trenches with me.
Red Cross calls - Joseph is airborne...five flights, 47 hours...he will be in my arms in less than two days.
And it begins...Susanne, Robyn, Anna and Amy coordinate meals, child care plan, Gail and Beth offer extra days at the preschool so I can rest, doctors visits, phone calls, surgery scheduled, getting Joseph home...the floodgates opened and there we were, on the edge, overlooking a canyon with only a broken down mule. When my chemo began I told Joseph I wanted us to decide when I would lose my hair. Cancer has done enough controlling. My turn. Joseph shaves his head and my son wants in - matching buzz cuts. Then me. He lovingly cuts my hair and then begins the razor as I cry and catch my fallen locks. Collateral damage I suppose. As my scalp is exposed I can't look in the mirror just yet. Joseph's tears are evident...he says I'm beautiful...that I look like a warrior. As Olivia enters the room she sees me and then sees all our hair piled up on the floor together. Look Mommy, she said, it's in the shape of a heart. I look down and there it was...a perfect heart of brown, blonde and red hair. Crestfallen but empowered I begin...
And here I am, victory is mine. But I was never alone...not once except in my mind, when I struggled the deepest with cancer. My worst battles are at night when I am tormented about my children losing a mother. My hideous showdowns are waged in my weakest state...sick, tired, strapped to a radiation table, handing over my hair and my breast. I read the Vikings used to cut off their breast to align themselves with the bow and arrow they used in protection...maybe that was my sacrifice as well.
I am tired, aged, burned, battle fatigued and perhaps a lot more cynical but my children saw the warrior - my gift to them. That deep within me, in the darkest of winter, they saw and experienced and invincible summer.
That will be my legacy...well that an my penchant for the f-bomb.
It was a 19 month war. I don't have the prolific words that so many of my surviving sisters have. I am not grateful. I don't pray and I don't give thanks to Gd for recovery because then I would have to blame him for cancer...and I don't. I got cancer because I got cancer. To over think it means to give it more energy than it deserves. I remember the day I learned I had it. Susan came over with a pad while I sat stunned over a laptop trying to figure out the best way to get my husband, then fighting his own war in Afghanistan home safely. She and I tried our best to map out a solution but we had none. She sat with me and I sat in a numbed state. Lynn came over that night...I can still see her sweeping my living room in her business suit at 9pm while I remained on the couch rehearsing my speech to the kids. She could only clean, it's how she coped. I could only see their eyes. I knew she was suffering. I wasn't there yet. I was uncomfortably numb. I went to bed alone. Faked a flu to the kids until I had the right words...the ones that said "Mommy has cancer" and prepared answers for when they ask if I am going to die. For Maddie, she suffers quietly, I had to make sure I could reach her even in her silence. Ava deflects. I had to give her just enough information but not a drop more than she can take. Olivia will want to hug me. She won't know. Jack will just want his dad home. I can do this.
I get the call into Afghanistan - to the colonel who is getting Joseph. I have the Red Cross on the other line. I am planning. It's what I do best. Joseph knows it's bad but he also knows I rely heavily on his tone. We are going to do this, he says. We. He's never said anything but since. It's always been We. I head to preschool to pick up Jack and Olivia. I see Robyn and Susanne in the parking lot. I tell them stoically. I don't want questions, I don't want anything...they just know. Robyn hugs me. Susanne tells me she's sorry. So am I. I start to cry. It's as though I give them permission to feel something or maybe I just felt safe...they begin to cry too and the three of us, knowing what I am facing realize, maybe for the first time, I may actually die. As my knees buckle out from under me, I pick up my children and head to the car. I arrive home as Maddie is sitting with Patrick, her best friend. I pull them all outside...good news/bad news. Ava wants the good news first. Daddy is coming home. Joy, hugs...oh my gd why did I do good news first. With a hint of knowing Maddie wants to know why. I take a deep breath, pluck some grass, bite down on my lip and I tell them, in small, edible portions...I have cancer. But we have a plan, I am going to cut it out and the doctor believes I will be fine. It will be a long, tough road but we will win. Maddie folds in Patrick's arms as he holds her, Ava cries into my lap. They all sleep with me that night. I don't sleep at all. I text Ronni all evening...she knows. She's been there. She relives her own battle through me. Cancer has its way with her and shes now back in the trenches with me.
Red Cross calls - Joseph is airborne...five flights, 47 hours...he will be in my arms in less than two days.
And it begins...Susanne, Robyn, Anna and Amy coordinate meals, child care plan, Gail and Beth offer extra days at the preschool so I can rest, doctors visits, phone calls, surgery scheduled, getting Joseph home...the floodgates opened and there we were, on the edge, overlooking a canyon with only a broken down mule. When my chemo began I told Joseph I wanted us to decide when I would lose my hair. Cancer has done enough controlling. My turn. Joseph shaves his head and my son wants in - matching buzz cuts. Then me. He lovingly cuts my hair and then begins the razor as I cry and catch my fallen locks. Collateral damage I suppose. As my scalp is exposed I can't look in the mirror just yet. Joseph's tears are evident...he says I'm beautiful...that I look like a warrior. As Olivia enters the room she sees me and then sees all our hair piled up on the floor together. Look Mommy, she said, it's in the shape of a heart. I look down and there it was...a perfect heart of brown, blonde and red hair. Crestfallen but empowered I begin...
And here I am, victory is mine. But I was never alone...not once except in my mind, when I struggled the deepest with cancer. My worst battles are at night when I am tormented about my children losing a mother. My hideous showdowns are waged in my weakest state...sick, tired, strapped to a radiation table, handing over my hair and my breast. I read the Vikings used to cut off their breast to align themselves with the bow and arrow they used in protection...maybe that was my sacrifice as well.
I am tired, aged, burned, battle fatigued and perhaps a lot more cynical but my children saw the warrior - my gift to them. That deep within me, in the darkest of winter, they saw and experienced and invincible summer.
That will be my legacy...well that an my penchant for the f-bomb.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Burn and blow...
So my fourth week of radiation has gotten very interesting. Bright red burns and sores now cover the area that used to be just my scar, that used to be just my breast and it has made me a fairly miserable bitch all the time. I have all kinds of tricks...aloe, refrigerated aloe, prescription creams, Vitamin E, oatmeal baths, blah, blah blah. The only mild relief I can get really is pulling my shirt and prosthetic boob off and lay slathered in aloe under a ceiling fan. Like very, very, very low rent porn. But with four kids and a busy life, that's not feasible so I move to Phase B. Very unconscious pulling and tugging at my boob when the burn becomes fierce to relieve the pressure on the sores. The problem is, I am doing it so unconsciously, I am unaware of my surroundings when I do it. Exhibit A - I am at the grocery store talking to the check out person about stamps, I am writing my check, she is telling me how she wishes stores would leave that to the postal folks and without thinking, I reach in, pull forward my boob and blow on my chest. Recognizing the awkward moment between us I can go two ways...I can use the shocked look in her eyes as a way of permanently forcing my oblivious self into reality and pretend it was a rubber band snapping at my neck or I can just laugh it off. So I ignore it and hope she thinks...well I don't know what she thinks but I just keep writing. Jack begging for candy helped - a very fine distraction indeed. So I bend over to immerse myself in whatever M&M bag he is vying for when my dislodged boob drops to the floor. I am halfway back up when it makes its launch but I am faster and all would not have been lost had it not been for my sweet son proudly holding the gel blob and yelling "MOOOOOOOOOOOOOM! Here's your boobie!!!!!!!!!"
Aww Hello Humiliation, my old friend...just when I thought I had seen the last of you at Hot Yoga. So now I realize, burn and leave it, burn and leave it...do not pull boob and blow. I can assure you these are things I have never had to train myself to do so you can forgive me for the new world order of things.
And my valiant son who probably thinks all moms prop their boobs on the nightstand before going to bed got his M&Ms which to tell you truth, I could have really used.
Aww Hello Humiliation, my old friend...just when I thought I had seen the last of you at Hot Yoga. So now I realize, burn and leave it, burn and leave it...do not pull boob and blow. I can assure you these are things I have never had to train myself to do so you can forgive me for the new world order of things.
And my valiant son who probably thinks all moms prop their boobs on the nightstand before going to bed got his M&Ms which to tell you truth, I could have really used.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Warning - High Radiation, enter with caution...
reads the sign on the door as I enter...no kidding. Enter with caution. Enter with fear. Enter with awareness. Enter with strength. And despite the overwhelming urge, do not run...especially in that gd awful gown.
It's what I battle every single day. For some radiation is completely tolerable. For me, it's a torture chamber full of exposure, humiliation and anguish. It's an active battle between me and cancer - it's loud, it's bright, it's destabilizing.
After I settle on the table, I begin to count. I know now it takes 150 seconds to get in position. 81 seconds for the first machine to begin. 24 seconds until the alarm sounds...and this is where it begins. Radiation techs scrambling to get the hell out of a room that will soon shoot radioactive poison into the air and there I am. The only thing in between the radiation and the cancer is me and I am defenseless on the table. 22, 23, 24, 25...it's almost there. There are three shots in every session and one is nearly over. Pause. I am deep breathing, I am willing the fear away, I am on the beach with my kids. Alarm. Machines move into place again. Laser beams light up...again...1, 2, 3...I am with Joseph at our favorite restaurant, I am wondering if I have paid my mortgage, 9, 10, 11, 12, I am planning Ava's bat mitzvah, I am losing 10lbs, 22, 23, 24. Done. Last one. Machines shift, alarm sounds, I remain still...again, I am mixing margaritas in my head, I am playing frisbee with my son...14, 15, 16, I am thinking about my day, wondering if I can get everything done, Ava needs a lacrosse stick, 21, 22, 23...almost there. I am counting the seconds until I can be done with this and hoping the weekend is kind. 25, 26, 27...running over a few. I am aware. Alarm sounds. Done. I want to ask why it ran over three seconds but maybe I missed counted, maybe I got three for the road. I don't care - don't talk...slows down the exodus I plan every day out of there.
I am up, off the table and fully dressed in less than 5 minutes. I am out of the clinic and nearly in the parking lot in 3. I am in the car, radio on and heading to the grocery store...trying to be normal. Trying not to feel like a victim. Trying to feel powerful. Trying to ignore that cancer has me yet again exposed, on my back, after taking my breast and 14 months of my life, it takes my peace, my sense of normalcy, my fight. I will keep going...this is never in question but there are days when I am tired of fighting. I am tired of going toe to toe with a disease that taunts me with my future, my children and my peace of mind.
I curl up with Joseph at night and pretend I am not scared to death he will brave this family and world without me and yet I also fear I will win but be so scarred and battle fatigued, I am permanently changed. Damaged somehow. Like an athlete who has lost her legs.
But I do know the longer I stay aware of this and of my battle fatigue, the faster I gain footing back into the ring. You see what cancer can't take from me is really...well me. I get it...I know what I am about and I am strong enough to admit when I am beat down. Radiation will fuck with my head everyday for the next five weeks and I hate every second of it. But y'know what? My children will see my legacy. That in the face of total adversity, I fought and scrapped and made cancer my bitch even when I couldn't look it in the eye.
Joseph and my children are who I see in all my moments of fight, of weakness, of victory...they aren't just my reasons for living, they are all my reasons. Joseph has always said "we"...I love the "we"...it means are in this together but late at night, I know it's me. It's me who lives and it's me who dies but the we keeps me going...especially when the me is just too tired.
It's what I battle every single day. For some radiation is completely tolerable. For me, it's a torture chamber full of exposure, humiliation and anguish. It's an active battle between me and cancer - it's loud, it's bright, it's destabilizing.
After I settle on the table, I begin to count. I know now it takes 150 seconds to get in position. 81 seconds for the first machine to begin. 24 seconds until the alarm sounds...and this is where it begins. Radiation techs scrambling to get the hell out of a room that will soon shoot radioactive poison into the air and there I am. The only thing in between the radiation and the cancer is me and I am defenseless on the table. 22, 23, 24, 25...it's almost there. There are three shots in every session and one is nearly over. Pause. I am deep breathing, I am willing the fear away, I am on the beach with my kids. Alarm. Machines move into place again. Laser beams light up...again...1, 2, 3...I am with Joseph at our favorite restaurant, I am wondering if I have paid my mortgage, 9, 10, 11, 12, I am planning Ava's bat mitzvah, I am losing 10lbs, 22, 23, 24. Done. Last one. Machines shift, alarm sounds, I remain still...again, I am mixing margaritas in my head, I am playing frisbee with my son...14, 15, 16, I am thinking about my day, wondering if I can get everything done, Ava needs a lacrosse stick, 21, 22, 23...almost there. I am counting the seconds until I can be done with this and hoping the weekend is kind. 25, 26, 27...running over a few. I am aware. Alarm sounds. Done. I want to ask why it ran over three seconds but maybe I missed counted, maybe I got three for the road. I don't care - don't talk...slows down the exodus I plan every day out of there.
I am up, off the table and fully dressed in less than 5 minutes. I am out of the clinic and nearly in the parking lot in 3. I am in the car, radio on and heading to the grocery store...trying to be normal. Trying not to feel like a victim. Trying to feel powerful. Trying to ignore that cancer has me yet again exposed, on my back, after taking my breast and 14 months of my life, it takes my peace, my sense of normalcy, my fight. I will keep going...this is never in question but there are days when I am tired of fighting. I am tired of going toe to toe with a disease that taunts me with my future, my children and my peace of mind.
I curl up with Joseph at night and pretend I am not scared to death he will brave this family and world without me and yet I also fear I will win but be so scarred and battle fatigued, I am permanently changed. Damaged somehow. Like an athlete who has lost her legs.
But I do know the longer I stay aware of this and of my battle fatigue, the faster I gain footing back into the ring. You see what cancer can't take from me is really...well me. I get it...I know what I am about and I am strong enough to admit when I am beat down. Radiation will fuck with my head everyday for the next five weeks and I hate every second of it. But y'know what? My children will see my legacy. That in the face of total adversity, I fought and scrapped and made cancer my bitch even when I couldn't look it in the eye.
Joseph and my children are who I see in all my moments of fight, of weakness, of victory...they aren't just my reasons for living, they are all my reasons. Joseph has always said "we"...I love the "we"...it means are in this together but late at night, I know it's me. It's me who lives and it's me who dies but the we keeps me going...especially when the me is just too tired.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Day 1 - Mapping...
If I come back in another life, it will be as an oncologist and I will invent a way to treat the breast that doesn't rival a mechanic pulling a carborator out of a pick up. Okay so I'm hardly a prude and really very fine with the body in general. Boobs, tits, melons, sweater puppies...I don't care, no agenda and I have them...boy do I have them...well one anyway. I was a champion nurser. I could do it anywhere and I didn't care. I could wear a lacy bra and I could wear a sports bra and never really worried about much except maybe a little TOO much cleavage (four kids...remember?)...not for show baby, these were working breasts.
So today is Day One of radiation. Prep really. Mapping my entire chest. Holding still and strong, topless on a cold machine with a mold so my arm can nestle without moving and I am told to freeze (like a Popsicle I think...thanks to my son). Then it begins. Barbarians dressed in camouflage and white lab coats take to my chest with a sharpie. Mapping beams, pawing at my neck and stomach, scooting my remaining breast out of the way, talking about me in terms I don't understand with numbers of beam angles I can't figure. I start counting...thank you Ronni. I count backwards from 100. I count in Spanish. I count in Hebrew (but could only get up to 9, sorry Rabbi). I am doing anything I can think of to remove my head from where I am and where I am is under a light and several loud machines with people over me like I am not there and really I am not. I am back...back to a older me. One where I could wear that lacy bra with a bit of seduction; one where I can work out on the treadmill and not worry about my prosthetic boob falling on the belt and flinging into the face of the guy behind me, one where I can look at myself in a mirror without blocking my own line of vision to my chest, hacked and scarred, battle fatigued...one where I am not walking fast, outrunning a disease that threatens to take me from my husband and children; one where I can walk into a doctor's office with ease for a routine visit, one where I don't look at pink ribbons and am reminded that I am one suspicious mammogram away from doing this all over again...one where I am just normal.
Loud orders to stay still bring me back...how come when they say don't move it's at that exact moment every follicle on your entire body begins to twitch?
They walk me back to the dressing area where permanent ink marks on my chest pave the way for a seven week radiation bath. I get dressed, pack on that smile and walk back into the lobby where my husband and son are playing games on his phone. It's why I am here and it's why I keep going...it's why I will win.
So today is Day One of radiation. Prep really. Mapping my entire chest. Holding still and strong, topless on a cold machine with a mold so my arm can nestle without moving and I am told to freeze (like a Popsicle I think...thanks to my son). Then it begins. Barbarians dressed in camouflage and white lab coats take to my chest with a sharpie. Mapping beams, pawing at my neck and stomach, scooting my remaining breast out of the way, talking about me in terms I don't understand with numbers of beam angles I can't figure. I start counting...thank you Ronni. I count backwards from 100. I count in Spanish. I count in Hebrew (but could only get up to 9, sorry Rabbi). I am doing anything I can think of to remove my head from where I am and where I am is under a light and several loud machines with people over me like I am not there and really I am not. I am back...back to a older me. One where I could wear that lacy bra with a bit of seduction; one where I can work out on the treadmill and not worry about my prosthetic boob falling on the belt and flinging into the face of the guy behind me, one where I can look at myself in a mirror without blocking my own line of vision to my chest, hacked and scarred, battle fatigued...one where I am not walking fast, outrunning a disease that threatens to take me from my husband and children; one where I can walk into a doctor's office with ease for a routine visit, one where I don't look at pink ribbons and am reminded that I am one suspicious mammogram away from doing this all over again...one where I am just normal.
Loud orders to stay still bring me back...how come when they say don't move it's at that exact moment every follicle on your entire body begins to twitch?
They walk me back to the dressing area where permanent ink marks on my chest pave the way for a seven week radiation bath. I get dressed, pack on that smile and walk back into the lobby where my husband and son are playing games on his phone. It's why I am here and it's why I keep going...it's why I will win.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Reunion Tour...
My cancer team was shifted from civilian back to military which since my chemo ended and my rebuilding is about to begin, I was okay with until my new surgeon asked me to be reevaluated from radiation. It was ruled out before so why this again? It seems new information since 2010 (thank you Komen/Avon for the funds by the way) indicated my type of cancer, my grade of tumor, my age, my location of tumors, my shoe size, my hairstyle all point to a strong need for radiation to reduce my risk of local reoccurance...by how much I ask? Well - no way to really tell. What they can tell me is I run a 22% increased risk of reoccurance without it...well okay, where do I sign?
I came in yesterday to be 'fitted' and despite the absolutely humiliating experience of being strapped to a table with not one, not three but five men and women in uniform poking, prodding and shifting my boob around (Im sure in some circles this could be considered worth the price of admission but not yesterday) and now I am sporting some smokin' tattoos. Yes, tattoos. Markers if you will to direct the beams of radiation to pulverize the cancer cells and chest cavity. Once it begins, I am back on the cancer fighting wagon. It's my reunion tour. Me and fight - together again. 5 times a week for 7 weeks (6 for chest and one extra for fun).
I can't really think of anything I will need - seriously...it's not chemo which means it's all uphill from there but it's a reminder to me that cancer is still around and not willing to let me sit comfortably for even a little bit in my recovery. Yes, it's aggressive, yes, it's critical, yes, it's necessary, yes, women do it all the time and yes, I am still fighting and still winning but sometimes I am just done and today is one of those days.
Score remains Dawn 1, Cancer 0 but game went way into overtime.
I came in yesterday to be 'fitted' and despite the absolutely humiliating experience of being strapped to a table with not one, not three but five men and women in uniform poking, prodding and shifting my boob around (Im sure in some circles this could be considered worth the price of admission but not yesterday) and now I am sporting some smokin' tattoos. Yes, tattoos. Markers if you will to direct the beams of radiation to pulverize the cancer cells and chest cavity. Once it begins, I am back on the cancer fighting wagon. It's my reunion tour. Me and fight - together again. 5 times a week for 7 weeks (6 for chest and one extra for fun).
I can't really think of anything I will need - seriously...it's not chemo which means it's all uphill from there but it's a reminder to me that cancer is still around and not willing to let me sit comfortably for even a little bit in my recovery. Yes, it's aggressive, yes, it's critical, yes, it's necessary, yes, women do it all the time and yes, I am still fighting and still winning but sometimes I am just done and today is one of those days.
Score remains Dawn 1, Cancer 0 but game went way into overtime.
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