Being Me . . . moving forward
(Still CaringBridge entries--bear with me)
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| Visiting Day |
Sunday, July 26, 2010
No references to celebrities (with or without breast cancer) or to the song that is currently playing in my head today--just a general update.
We just got back from visiting weekend with E. in Maine. She looks great (so tall), has a nice group of girls in her bunk, and seems to be having a great time--lots of girls laughing and singing at camp. But, saying goodbye after a one day visit is really so hard. Hardest on A.--he's always the first to cry, and then like M. family dominoes, we all start to cry. Then E. (hopefully) goes off to fun evening activities, and I worry about how she is the rest of the night.
I strategically planned to have my reconstructive surgery after visiting day. So tomorrow is the big day. It's an outpatient procedure--so as soon as I'm feeling well enough to walk from the post-op bed to the recovery chair, they'll feed me a few graham crackers, offer me a cup of coffee, and they'll send me home.
While I'm not looking forward to the surgery, I'm not as nervous as I have been before all of the other surgeries--how's that for desensitization? The woman who still passes out at the sight of blood (or the thought of the sight of blood) is not nervous about surgery-- curious.
And, honestly, reconstructive surgery sounds so much better than mastectomy. Reconstructive sounds like when I'm done there will be a better, stronger, healthier me. Reconstructive almost sounds restorative. I will be restored.
It also sounds like the beginning of the end of this wild ride of 2010.
(And, for the record, the song playing in my head is The Beatles, "Here Comes the Sun." Andrew watched "The Bee Movie" on the way home from Maine. And, somehow it fits).
(And, for the record, the song playing in my head is The Beatles, "Here Comes the Sun." Andrew watched "The Bee Movie" on the way home from Maine. And, somehow it fits).
Moving forward,
With love and gratitude,
Barbara
With love and gratitude,
Barbara
Monday, July 26, 2010
I'm home.
I'm tired.
I'm medicated ("I Wanna Be Sedated"--The Ramones).
And, I'm DONE!
(with surgery).
The next phase is radiation--starting the end of August.
Thank you so much for all of your emails, snail mail and phone messages. I am truly getting through "Cancer 2010" with the support and love of family and friends. [And a whole lot of knitting (a great new project with my favorite yarn), lots of TV (hello again and again, Weeds DVD's; welcome back, Mad Men; and my new favorite, Bethenny Getting Married?) and late night reading (currently, Cutting for Stone--next in queue, The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet )].
moving forward,
with love and much gratitude,
Barbara
I'm tired.
I'm medicated ("I Wanna Be Sedated"--The Ramones).
And, I'm DONE!
(with surgery).
The next phase is radiation--starting the end of August.
Thank you so much for all of your emails, snail mail and phone messages. I am truly getting through "Cancer 2010" with the support and love of family and friends. [And a whole lot of knitting (a great new project with my favorite yarn), lots of TV (hello again and again, Weeds DVD's; welcome back, Mad Men; and my new favorite, Bethenny Getting Married?) and late night reading (currently, Cutting for Stone--next in queue, The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet )].
moving forward,
with love and much gratitude,
Barbara
July 2010
In an earlier post I may have mentioned that reconstructive surgery sounded restorative to me. I'll admit that was a great attitude to have the night before surgery. But, the reality of my reconstructive surgery is that it was more construction than restoring. More cutting and suturing; less namaste and savasana. I had this image of coming out of surgery and feeling mentally and physically restored (and somehow restorative yoga factored into my image).
I also had myself convinced that this surgery was simply a "swap." Swap out the tissue expander (that's been in place since my mastectomy), and swap in the permanent implant. I kept telling a friend "this procedure is not a big deal, just a swap, one foreign object out, one foreign object in."
Good attitude. Nice try.
The exchange procedure (as it is called in the cancer business) is "simply a swap," a routine procedure for my surgeon. And, I will ultimately feel and look restored. But, the reality is that surgery is surgery. And, recovering from a routine surgery is uncomfortable and exhausting. And, I was uncomfortable and exhausted all last week. Not even close to feeling restored. And, since E. is away at camp, and A. is at day camp all day, I took full advantage of resting and sleeping and healing all week. It's hard to know if I was as uncomfortable and exhausted following each of my other previous procedures. I didn't have time for that much sleeping and resting with the others. So last week was uncomfortable. But, it was also a luxury to be able to rest and heal--and truly start to restore.
I have my post-op visit with my surgeon tomorrow--and once my surgical drain is removed (sorry for the graphic detail, but drains are a big part of this whole process--so much so that I could (and still might) write an entire journal entry on the drains), I will really be up and about again. Back to yoga and exercise (research indicates that 30 minutes of cardio a day is a key factor in the prevention of a breast cancer recurrence) and errands and packing for our family vacation. E. comes home from Camp Walden on the 13th. And, on the 14th we are driving to Quisisana, a family resort in Maine (30 minutes from Camp Walden), to spend a week together as a foursome.
And, that, I know, will be restorative.
Moving forward,
With love and gratitude,
Barbara
Quisisana (Italian)--"a place where one heals oneself"
I also had myself convinced that this surgery was simply a "swap." Swap out the tissue expander (that's been in place since my mastectomy), and swap in the permanent implant. I kept telling a friend "this procedure is not a big deal, just a swap, one foreign object out, one foreign object in."
Good attitude. Nice try.
The exchange procedure (as it is called in the cancer business) is "simply a swap," a routine procedure for my surgeon. And, I will ultimately feel and look restored. But, the reality is that surgery is surgery. And, recovering from a routine surgery is uncomfortable and exhausting. And, I was uncomfortable and exhausted all last week. Not even close to feeling restored. And, since E. is away at camp, and A. is at day camp all day, I took full advantage of resting and sleeping and healing all week. It's hard to know if I was as uncomfortable and exhausted following each of my other previous procedures. I didn't have time for that much sleeping and resting with the others. So last week was uncomfortable. But, it was also a luxury to be able to rest and heal--and truly start to restore.
I have my post-op visit with my surgeon tomorrow--and once my surgical drain is removed (sorry for the graphic detail, but drains are a big part of this whole process--so much so that I could (and still might) write an entire journal entry on the drains), I will really be up and about again. Back to yoga and exercise (research indicates that 30 minutes of cardio a day is a key factor in the prevention of a breast cancer recurrence) and errands and packing for our family vacation. E. comes home from Camp Walden on the 13th. And, on the 14th we are driving to Quisisana, a family resort in Maine (30 minutes from Camp Walden), to spend a week together as a foursome.
And, that, I know, will be restorative.
Moving forward,
With love and gratitude,
Barbara
Quisisana (Italian)--"a place where one heals oneself"
Tuesday, August 10, 2010 6:41 PM, EDT
If I were writing a screenplay for a dark comedy about life with cancer--oh, what's that? Showtime is already producing a dark comedy series on "The Big C" starring Laura Linney (premiering Monday night, following Weeds)? Damn. They must have a few writers who were "lucky" enough to have had the cancer experience years ahead of me. Okay, so I'm a little late to the game. But, really, it's genius. Life with "The Big C" is often a dark comedy.
Anyway, if I were writing a screenplay based on life with cancer, I would include the hair loss, the wig(s), the doctors, chemo, surgery, drains and all of the usual cancer details and anecdotes. But, I would also include eyebrow and eyelash loss. Hair loss is easy to disguise--somewhat traumatic in the actual losing of the hair, but very easy in the disguising. I get compliments on my straight wig everywhere I go. I've even started telling people that it's a wig instead of just saying thank you. I can't take credit for the seemingly keratin-treated straight hair anymore--it seems dishonest.
And, as it turns out, hair loss is even relatively easy to adapt to. I've never covered my head when I'm home with my family. In the beginning, E. needed me to "cover up" with a hat if we were in the same room. But, a few weeks in, even she got used to the "at home" look. Right from the start, A. told me that he knew that E. didn't like seeing my bald head--but, he was "okay with it." With him, he said, I could have a bald head "like when E. goes to art class." In fact, in this wild year of cancer, my six year old boy with the big blue eyes has created a new bedtime routine. Every night he kisses me good night--and then he insists on kissing my bald head. My boy--I often wonder how much of this his six year old brain is taking in and how much he'll remember.
But, enough about the hair, the lack of hair and the hair substitutes. The eyebrows and eyelashes--they are another story. Mine held on for a long time, but four weeks after my last chemo treatment they really started falling out. Yes, there are eyebrow pencils and fillers and stencils, and there are eyeliners to give the illusion of eyelashes. But, when there are only three, maybe five, eye brow lashes hanging on--I do not have the skill or the interest in building a better brow. I don't have it in me. I have a great eyebrow support team, my aunt (a bc survivor) gave me all of the best tools--eyebrow brush, eyebrow definer color (in "soft brown"), eyebrow stencils and articles on the best way to create and shape an eyebrow. She taught me how to "make an eyebrow" long before it was necessary. Still, I can't do it. I look like a clown--or at best one of the actresses from the '20's who painted on dramatic, better brows.
E's one reference to cancer on visiting day at her camp was "your eyes look freaky." Damn the eyebrows! Funny, though, I thought my eyebrows were looking pretty good that day. I had been resisting the urge to cry--just to preserve the few remaining eyelashes and bits of eyebrow--just for E.
So I mentioned my inability to build a better eyebrow to my friend (who just finished her cancer treatment), and she told me to try Laura Mercier's brow powder instead of the brow definer. Who knew there were so many options?
So, this is what I know. I hate this cancer. I can make the best of it, and I can often make light of it. I can put a smile on my face and get through every day and every treatment since I was diagnosed in December. I can even pretend that I'm writing a screenplay (that someone has apparently already written) about life with "The Big C" (premiering Monday on Showtime, following "Weeds"). And, sometimes, I can even find the humor in it. But, really, I hate the cancer that used to live in my body.
But, what I love is the sisterhood of breast cancer. I love the aunt and the friend who made sure I had all of the best eyebrow tools to help me look like the best me. I love the friend of the friend who lent me the aforementioned straight hair wig. I love the woman I met at the radiologist's office yesterday who wished me luck on my first appointment. I love the survivors in my town who check in on me to see how I'm doing. So for the record, the cancer truly sucks--BUT the sisterhood of women who have had or currently have cancer is amazing.
I got the eyebrow powder last week, and my eyebrows have started to grow back in. I must say these eyebrows are not looking that "freaky" anymore. Just in time, E. comes home on Friday.
moving forward,
with gratitude and love (and "eyebrows"),
Barbara
Anyway, if I were writing a screenplay based on life with cancer, I would include the hair loss, the wig(s), the doctors, chemo, surgery, drains and all of the usual cancer details and anecdotes. But, I would also include eyebrow and eyelash loss. Hair loss is easy to disguise--somewhat traumatic in the actual losing of the hair, but very easy in the disguising. I get compliments on my straight wig everywhere I go. I've even started telling people that it's a wig instead of just saying thank you. I can't take credit for the seemingly keratin-treated straight hair anymore--it seems dishonest.
And, as it turns out, hair loss is even relatively easy to adapt to. I've never covered my head when I'm home with my family. In the beginning, E. needed me to "cover up" with a hat if we were in the same room. But, a few weeks in, even she got used to the "at home" look. Right from the start, A. told me that he knew that E. didn't like seeing my bald head--but, he was "okay with it." With him, he said, I could have a bald head "like when E. goes to art class." In fact, in this wild year of cancer, my six year old boy with the big blue eyes has created a new bedtime routine. Every night he kisses me good night--and then he insists on kissing my bald head. My boy--I often wonder how much of this his six year old brain is taking in and how much he'll remember.
But, enough about the hair, the lack of hair and the hair substitutes. The eyebrows and eyelashes--they are another story. Mine held on for a long time, but four weeks after my last chemo treatment they really started falling out. Yes, there are eyebrow pencils and fillers and stencils, and there are eyeliners to give the illusion of eyelashes. But, when there are only three, maybe five, eye brow lashes hanging on--I do not have the skill or the interest in building a better brow. I don't have it in me. I have a great eyebrow support team, my aunt (a bc survivor) gave me all of the best tools--eyebrow brush, eyebrow definer color (in "soft brown"), eyebrow stencils and articles on the best way to create and shape an eyebrow. She taught me how to "make an eyebrow" long before it was necessary. Still, I can't do it. I look like a clown--or at best one of the actresses from the '20's who painted on dramatic, better brows.
E's one reference to cancer on visiting day at her camp was "your eyes look freaky." Damn the eyebrows! Funny, though, I thought my eyebrows were looking pretty good that day. I had been resisting the urge to cry--just to preserve the few remaining eyelashes and bits of eyebrow--just for E.
So I mentioned my inability to build a better eyebrow to my friend (who just finished her cancer treatment), and she told me to try Laura Mercier's brow powder instead of the brow definer. Who knew there were so many options?
So, this is what I know. I hate this cancer. I can make the best of it, and I can often make light of it. I can put a smile on my face and get through every day and every treatment since I was diagnosed in December. I can even pretend that I'm writing a screenplay (that someone has apparently already written) about life with "The Big C" (premiering Monday on Showtime, following "Weeds"). And, sometimes, I can even find the humor in it. But, really, I hate the cancer that used to live in my body.
But, what I love is the sisterhood of breast cancer. I love the aunt and the friend who made sure I had all of the best eyebrow tools to help me look like the best me. I love the friend of the friend who lent me the aforementioned straight hair wig. I love the woman I met at the radiologist's office yesterday who wished me luck on my first appointment. I love the survivors in my town who check in on me to see how I'm doing. So for the record, the cancer truly sucks--BUT the sisterhood of women who have had or currently have cancer is amazing.
I got the eyebrow powder last week, and my eyebrows have started to grow back in. I must say these eyebrows are not looking that "freaky" anymore. Just in time, E. comes home on Friday.
moving forward,
with gratitude and love (and "eyebrows"),
Barbara
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| Who is that woman with the light eyebrows and the Brett Michael's hair? |
Quisisana (Italian)--a place where one heals oneself
Summer 2010--we all really needed a little healing, and Quisisana (Center Lovell, Maine) did not disappoint. It was the greatest week. We were together. We had a beautiful cottage on the lake. The entertainment, staff and food were amazing, as always. We all got to do a little hiking, a little reading, the kids did a lot of swimming, and BOTH E. and A. learned how to water ski.
For one whole week we were just a family on vacation. No one knew our cancer story. No doctors, no procedures, no treatments. We had a vacation from our real life for just one week.
Thank you, Jane. See you next year!
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| Water skiing on Lake Kezar |
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