My Non-Pink Journey with Breast Cancer Revisited

 

 

I wrote a similar post about my Breast Cancer journey. Most of it is a re-hash about my very personal feelings about breast cancer and the treatment, not awareness.

I’m not sure why October has been designated for so-called “Breast Cancer Awareness”, but my most memorable moments in October are the trees turning to autumn colors, my husband’s birthday, and Halloween, but not Breast Cancer.  Soon enough there is the ensuing rush of things to do and places to go, leading up to and including Thanksgiving and Christmas. 

 

It had been over twenty years years since I finished my first breast cancer treatments.  My breast cancer journey has been relatively easy when compared to what others endure or don’t survive. Some cancer patients call themselves survivors.  I don’t.  I see myself as someone who has thrived regardless of the bump in the road that was Breast Cancer.

 

It was a big friggin’ bump, but a bump that derailed life as I knew it for that time.

 

But I got back on track. I did what had to be done and moved on with my very busy and noisy life.

https://weneedmoresundaydinners.blogspot.com/2015/10/my-non-pink-twelve-year-journey-with.html

If you read the previous post you’ll see I had a really good personal connection with my surgeon and team. I like that he used the first person plural when discussing my condition, it was a bond in a weird way, that we’re in ‘this’ together. It was a like a good marriage.

 

On the occasion of almost twenty years, my appointment was with a practitioner who has navigated with me through this journey. I was her last appointment as she was retiring. She assured me that twenty years was a great time marker for disease recovery.

But the following year before my next mammogram there was another occurrence, a bump in the road. Stuff happens.

 

My original surgeon relocated to another state. I had made up my mind early on that I would opt for a mastectomy. It was not a difficult decision for me and I had family support. It is true when the someone says, “it’s not the cancer, it’s the treatment…”

 

My new surgeon ‘valiantly’ argued that I did not need a mastectomy. She advocated the ‘gold standard’ of treatment today was so much better and advanced than what it was twenty years ago. 

 

We screened for the type of cancer and the size. I held my ground for the mastectomy. Empathizing with her professional expertise, this was a time for me to advocate for myself and my body. I considered my age and other health issues and was firm in my decision. 

 

I believe I said out loud, “I am over this shit. They’ve given me nothing but trouble.”

 

I got a double mastectomy. It was uneventful. I healed relatively fast. As anyone whose been there knows, the drains are the worst. My husband became the best assistant nurse in the daily grind of stripping and measuring those drains. 

 

On any given day I have a few not so monumental decisions to make as I get dressed – but have fun with it. I have a drawer full of prosthetics. My biggest decisions include this: shall I choose big ones, little ones, soft ones, hard ones or none at all. It’s a variety pack of assorted textures and sizes. I have no problem going flat. Flatties will tell you that it is liberating.

 

Along this new journey I’ve found a lot of support for women who opt for no reconstruction. I also have enlisted to volunteer for a group called “Knitted Knockers”, https://www.knittedknockers.org  providing free handmade breast prostheses for women who have had breast cancer and undergone mastectomy or lumpectomy. They are soft, comfortable and beautiful. When placed in a regular bra they take the shape and feel of a real breast.

 

Along this journey the best medicine was something not procured by prescription or a surgical procedure. My husband’s constant presence and support is more healing than anything a doctor could prescribe. We lend strength to each other and get on with life. That’s thriving.

 

 

 

 

Revisiting Somethings I Really Want to Say About Mother’s Day, Again

Like many moms, I’ve experienced some pretty different and interesting Mother’s Day gifts over the years. On this day Moms will be given gifts that might have Mom give pause and think to herself, “hmmm, did I drop you on your head or some something when you were younger?” She might really want to say out loud, “WHAT were you thinking?” She will smile anyway. You’re her kid.

There are also Moms who will get the kind of gift that will bring tears of joy, genuine gratitude and maybe even pride.

If you are lucky enough to have mom still with you this Mother’s Day, I want to say there are cues and clues your Mom might offer when and if you ask what she would like for Mother’s Day.

Some moms are coy. When asked what is wished for on Mother’s Day, they wave you off and say with a breathy sigh, “Oh, honey, you don’t have to get me anything.” This is a lie.

You might not really have to purchase anything gift-wise, but you’d better have at the very least a pretty and elaborately designed die-cut Hallmark card with gooey sentimental verse, in the mail, and delivered no later than the Saturday before Mother’s day. You get extra points if it’s delivered Thursday or Friday giving her more time to show it off and admire it. This also indicates that there was forethought in this particular selection. Moms like it when their kids think about things in advance. It shows good training.

That same question to a different Mom might get you this response, ”Please, you don’t get me anything, just a card if you want.” THIS would be MY response and it is not a fib. I really don’t want the card, but if you feel you must, don’t waste the stamp, because I know you are going to stop by anyway, I will still proudly display it in recognition of your thoughtfulness and good training. You are, after all, my kid.

Pay very close attention if, when asking that same question, you get a response like this, “Just once, I’d like to stay in bed all day, drink my coffee with the Sunday paper and my book, have some Chinese food delivered around 2 o’clock and just decadently hang out in some solitary time.” THIS is what I really want. You asked. I answered. Don’t make a screwed up face because it’s not what YOU want.

This decadent self-indulgent wish can only be achieved if the house is vacated. If you counter the suggestion that this could be achieved in the living room, this is a fantasy on your part even if the house is empty. There are too many ‘to-do’ things in plain sight of moms that are simply not in anyone else’s field of vision.

If you offer to make dinner, make the meal she requests. If it’s meatloaf and baked potatoes, make her meatloaf and baked potatoes. A counter suggestion for something you would find more tasty undermines your own offer in the first place. 

Another thing I want to say is, “Don’t expect your partner to buy your own Mom a Mother’s day card.” If you’re already buying a card for your wife, include your own Mom’s while you’re at it, unless of course your wife forbids you from making the selection. That also indicates good training.

Mother’s Day shouldn’t be a complex ordeal. It is simply one day that officially and maybe a little superficially honors Mom. It is the occasion to honor the gift of our own mother. It is the opportunity to shower her with a little more love, care and warmth that we might not take the time to do throughout the rest of the year. No material gift can match our love for Mom, but it does attach meaning and significance to the occasion in our own small way.

Here is one final sentiment that I really want to say about Mother’s Day. My own Mom is dead but I remember her every Mother’s Day with purchasing the card I would have sent to her and I give it to my Mother-in-law. She loves it and proudly displays it, right next to the one purchased from her son and me. Of course I mail it so that it arrives by Thursday.

Old Man Winter and Mother Nature are Beefin’

I think Old Man winter and Mother Nature are beefin’.

It feels like there’s a tug of war between the Old Man with his brown and bare brittle limbs and this entity we call Mother whose life force is to nurture us with budding flourishes of blooms and pollen. Let us not forget the pollen.

The hard frozen ground is trying to thaw. It struggles to awaken and yield to restart this cycle of growth and abundance only to be reclaimed again by harvest and Old Man winter. 

So, here’s my question, Madam Mother Nature. What’s up? 

Is this a "couple" thing? Are you and the Old Man at odds with each other?

That Old man had his way with us this year with a seemingly appropriate seasonal cold and just enough snow for a picture post card look. The snow wasn’t a burden. It was pretty and didn't linger.

I can see your struggle. The trees are budding like a slow blush. The daffodils are almost done and my tiny Siberian irises are still standing but should be fading by now. The tulips are up but not budding.

So what’s up?

Those March winds are still with us. In case you haven’t checked your calendar, we are in April. I know this because I’ve just paid the bill for our Spring clean up and first lawn cut. 

I don’t mean to sound impertinent or ungrateful. I do appreciate the rain. It was desperately needed. But seriously? Couldn’t that be spread out over a span of days rather than during an entire week? 

What’s up with this "wind chill feels like" temperature?

I need 50+ degrees so I can attack my attempts to grow a magnificent garden of bachelor buttons and zinnias with my dollar store seeds. Hopes and dreams being dashed by temps that feel like 30’s instead of 50’s and there's that bitter wind. 

I know there are things in life that can’t be controlled, weather being at the top of that list. 

So here’s my wish for you and me. Tell Old Man winter to beat it. His time is up.

I have seeds to plant and hopes to nurture, And the shore is calling to me. End this conflict and kick him to the curb with the rest of the winter clean up. 

 

That's my dad!

A young man stands up among thousands of loudly cheering people. He is beaming as Tim Walz, his dad, is about to accept the nomination for a very public office. His pride and love for his dad has him so overcome with emotion he is moved to tears as he exclaims to the crowd, “That’s my dad”! The crowd might not have heard his exclamation because of their own joyful cheering.  The cameras did not spare this young man’s very personal and loving response. 

It was raw. It was heartfelt and full of unconditional love.

I found Gus Walz’s reaction to his dad’s acceptance of his vice president nomination on that stage refreshing. How many 17-year-old boys are self-aware and confident enough to be so openly emotional? As a culture many boys are sometimes brought up to not cry or show emotion that might be perceived as weakness. 

It is bullshit. 

                                                

Within minutes Gus Walz was ostracized by small minded and mean people who have no fffing idea what it is like to have a neuro-disconnect. A disconnect that can impair one’s ability to appropriately function in situations that can trigger overstimulation.  

Auditory hypersensitivity may cause one to overreact to sounds or overly noisy places, especially arena noise. If it can’t be filtered out the overload is mentally and emotionally challenging. 

I know first-hand what this is like. I have a grown grandchild who suffered a TBI as an infant. He leads a productive life, but noise can be a trigger, especially if he’s tired. It's brain fatigue. Dyslexia haunts a few in my family. My oldest granddaughter has found a way around her type of dyslexia by challenging herself to specific learning modes. Noise is not her trigger but she has learned how to navigate what does overwhelm her through her working life. I know myself as a brain tumor survivor. I don’t go anywhere without my noise filtering ear plugs. 

Neuro fatigue is your brain’s signal to take a break. It is a very real thing. But sometimes one can’t control the environment. Noise and crowds are sometimes a part of life. 

Whether or not neurodivergent how many 17-year-olds are equipped to know how to control an external environment especially of crowds and noise? There is no handbook or manual. We have to figure it out as we go along and we have to accept it.

Unlike computer code there are no patches to fix what the brain lacks but only workarounds. 

I wish for all those that said mean and obviously uneducated remarks never have to figure out such workarounds. 

Have a nice quiet day. 

Breast Elegy: Breaking Up Will be Easy to Do - Surviving vs. Thriving

Breast Elegy: Breaking Up is Easy to Do - My true Breast Cancer Journey set to rhyme. 

 

It’s been 20 years since we started this dance

And now I decided you are not worth the chance

 

This relationship has been deteriorating for a few years now

I have decided to end it with a quiet kapow!

 

It wasn’t a difficult decision for me

Some won’t understand or be able to see

 

This journey started with lots of anxiety 

That soon dissipated with time and propriety

 

Advances in medicine are quite subjective

Treatments and results depend on perspective

 

And so this relationship has taken its turn

It’s some peace this time, for which I  yearn

 

That’s not to say that I’ll never miss you

Right now you’re not much more than tissue

 

Adios, dear boobs, it’s time for heavenly ascension

I need no more negative apprehension

 

Although you’ve made it hard for me to forget about you

I plan to spend more life without you than with you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Grammy, An Angel and "Todzilla"

Advent: The Coming of Something Momentous.

Advent for me is always what the definition is: waiting, lying in wait for something to happen. Growing up in the Catholic Church, my memories of Advent are of the dark purple vestments the priests wore for the four weeks at Mass, the Advent wreath, the hymns of waiting for the Savior’s birth (“Oh Come, Oh Come, Emmanuel”), and the bare altar that suddenly exploded on Christmas eve into a stage of brilliantly lit Christmas trees and holly lining the altar and a spectacular manger scene complete with the Holy Family, a crèche with lots of blessed hay spread around, shepherds and angels in diaphanous white gowns with wings that looked like Michelangelo himself had created them. Fast forward into my younger Mommy years, and immediately after Thanksgiving my Advent was coupled with that feeling of “lying in wait for something to happen”– and always with the angst of did I get it all done?! right up to midnight of Christmas Eve.

In my Grandparent years I still feel the “lying in wait for something to happen.” But the angst is replaced with anticipation for how I’m going to knock the socks off my grandkids with an experience they might not have had the opportunity to enjoy with their overbooked and exhausted parents. Sometimes it’s an expensive event, but the memories are priceless. This year it cost me less than $25 for my granddaughter Meghan.

Meghan is tiny in a family of non-tiny people. She is also “affectionately” nicknamed “Todzilla,” and lately, “Toddy.” She actually is proud of the moniker. Her small size is a shrewd disguise for her huge temper, the volume of her articulate voice and not the least of all her razor sharp intelligence. Her brain never shuts down. I find it amusing more often than not, but she gives her parents an emotional workout.

An application was sent home  for which role a child would like to be in the Nativity play. My daughter Kate asked Meghan if she’d like to be something different this year, maybe a shepherd or a reader. Meghan’s response was without hesitation, direct and terse: “No! You said I could be an angel.” Okay, we won’t dwell on the double entendre in the statement, but this is life with Todzilla, and angelic is not one of her characteristics .

Meghan’s mom was in that very place of anxiety I remember so well. When she called, I could hear in her voice the restrained panic: “Toddy wants to be an angel in the Nativity play, we don’t have a costume. The play is in two weeks.” We dug out last year’s costume. Because she is so petite the angel dress still fit her. But then we found the homemade wings and the halo. Toddy looked at them and stated, “I thought we threw those away.”

It was a set of fairy wings we purchased at the Dollar Store and covered them with foil. The only thing we could find were pink ones and had no time to find anything else. Meghan had declared she could not have pink wings in a white gown, so we improvised. We thought our resourcefulness of using the shiny foil did the job, but apparently other parents’ angels were adorned with real feathered angel wings trimmed in maribou. There was nothing homemade about their wings. Meghan looked angelic throughout the Nativity play, but she continued throughout that evening about how she was the only one with “silver wings.” That was last year.

This year, Meghan’s had no change of heart about the homemade wings and halo. We tried to convince her that her wings were special because they were different. But Toddy wasn’t having any of that nonsense and walked away, arms folded and chin out. With two weeks until the play, I was confident I could find a set of angel wings that would be suitable to Meghan’s standards.

Naturally, I consulted the internet. The initial search resulted in a lot of “sold out” or “out of stock” findings. It was beginning to look bleak. The feeling of anticipation and confidence that these wings were going to be a slam dunk was ebbing. After taking a break from the search, I went back online, determined we were going to have feathered wings for Todzilla in time for the play. Thanks be to God for persistence, patience and OrientalTrading.com: feathered angel wings, trimmed in white maribou, $8.50. Expedited shipping was more than the cost of the wings, but it did not matter.

They were delivered as promised and when I displayed them for her, Meghan exclaimed “Oh my God! They are HUGE!” Although the wings are almost the same size as Meghan, they are beautiful and look like real feathered angel wings.

The halo never fit well on her head, so we’re going to forgo the halo and go with a trimmed white headband. Toddy is just fine with not wearing a halo. As she so astutely observed, “it’s always slipping off my head.” YEA, No kidding.

Merry Christmas

 

 

I've shared my feelings on leaves before in Leaving the Leaves back in 2014.

Every year I have the same argument with my family. Every year, as soon as the leaves begin to change color, one would think we are expecting a blizzard. The anticipation of how much of a mess the leaves will make is unbearable to them. They linger by the windows, gaze out and watch for days into weeks, seeing and monitoring how the leaves are falling and wonder out loud how and when the leaves will be cleaned up. 

 

Every year I say the same thing, “Leave the leaves.” Their reaction is the same every year too, “WHY?”, more a whine than an inquiry. 

 

I never understood the purpose of raking up dying leaves only to expose the drying grass. It seems to me a dumb and wasted effort. 

 

Autumn is my favorite season and personally, I have always liked the look of a pile of leaves. I like the crunch under my feet as I shuffle through a nice pile of tawny crisp leaves just waiting and ready to be pulverized for their end purpose of food for the earth. Then there’s the smell of moldering leaves, musky and woody, to remind you that it’s almost finished its life cycle and ready for the last stage of their seasonal performance. Why not wait until the show is totally over? 

 

The best collection of falling leaves is under our maple in the back yard. Over the years this Maple has become a grand old lady. Every year it is a spectacular transition of dark green to blazing red to a brilliant yellow that almost glows in the sunlight. When the leaves begin to lazily waft to the ground they go from the yellow to a rich tawny gold where they collect in an almost perfect ring around the base of the tree, like a skirt that’s just dropped from a waist. 

 

I insist we leave the leaves where they fall and will eventually break down over the winter. It’s only natural.