Looking good, healing good

Retail therapy, chemotherapy, om . . .

Knitting got me through the days after my chemo treatments.  But, retail therapy got me to my chemo appointments. 

Before most (all) chemo treatments, I stopped at lululemon for a little retail therapy (the upper east side lululemon location is one block away from the Evelyn Lauder Breast Center).  Every other Thursday, I would bribe myself.  A little retail therapy, a little chemotherapy.  I could buy myself a  new sweatshirt (tee shirt, yoga pants, tank top . . .), but then I had to go have an IV stuck in my arm for a few hours and feel like crap for four days.  A little crazy, but it worked.

I had a mantra, if I could look reasonably good, I could feel good.  And, if I couldn't look like me (and I didn't), I would look good as me going through cancer.  Om . . .

When I started to lose my eyebrows, I bought eyebrow powders and gels.  But, I also bought new sunglasses that helped me look a little less snake eyed.  Looking good (or a least not looking "cancer sick"), feeling good.  Om . . .

Now I have a new retail "need."  I need to find an attractive, comfortable bra for women who have had a unilateral mastectomy with reconstruction.  I'm searching for a bra that can support my old breast and not over support my reconstructed breast.

My name is Barbara.  I had breast cancer.  And, I have split personality breasts.  One needs a lot of support.  The other needs none.  Other than a custom made bra--what's the solution?  There must be (or should be) a hybrid bra out there for women like me.  I haven't found it yet.  I've been cutting the under-wire out of my old bras and just making do.  It's a good solution.  It's not great. 

There's gotta be a better bra out there.  Because, there are many (too many) women like me who have had breast cancer and unilateral mastectomies with reconstruction.  What bras are they wearing?

So, readers, any suggestions?

Now, close to one year after my mastectomy, the bras with Velcro loops for my surgical drains are a distant memory.  The bras that I wore through my reconstructive expansion that zippered up the front are long gone.  Both styles, by the way, were very sexy.

I emailed the people at Spanx to ask them about researching a new bra line.  They have the "Brallelujah" to help women eliminate bra strap marks.  Maybe they can develop the "Bar-bra" for women like me--women with split personality breasts.  Maybe they can name the cups "flopsy" and "mopsy."  Maybe they can work with the people at Sloan Kettering (or me) to develop it.   And maybe they can sell the "Bar-bras" at the boutique at the Breast Center.  Maybe.

I'm onto a whole new phase of retail therapy.

Because, if I'm looking okay, I'm feeling pretty good.  For me that's most of the battle.

And, if I'm winning the battles, the cancer war is (a little) less scary.

Knock, knock, who's there? It's Gilly.

Yesterday I wrote that some days I feel like my hair looks like there's hedgehog on my head.

That's not really accurate.  When I don't put in hair gels and pomades and pin it down for an hour, my hair is beginning to look more like Kristen Wiig's hair when she's Gilly on Saturday Night Live--barrette and all.  I'm not kidding.   

Sorry.

Kristen Wiig as Gilly . . . sorry

love, love, love

Happy Valentine's Day

When I took this picture in 2008, the most stressful thing going on in my life was that I was on a mission to get the perfect holiday card photo.  I love getting holiday cards.  I love sending holiday cards.  And, I am relentless about getting a good holiday card photo.  Behind their smiling faces, E and A are hungry and tired and ready to scream.  Behind my camera, I am cajoling and bribing and threatening them to get the "perfect" shot.

A lot of people have asked me if see the world differently a year after cancer.  Not so much.

It makes sense.  I would have thought that getting through last year might help me see things differently and help me cut through some of the nonsense that I used to worry about.  Not so much.

I still obsess about holiday card photos; I still get crazy when things get lost (hats, gloves, sleepover bags, etc.); I still worry about packing all of the "perfect" things for E and A for our vacations.

But, one thing is very different.  I see and feel and experience happiness in a much bigger, more intense way.  That sounds trite, I know.  But, really, when I hear E playing the clarinet, when I overhear A reading to J before bed, when I listen to Katy Perry sing "Firework," I am overwhelmed.  My senses are overloaded.

Last weekend at a friend's birthday party, I looked around the room at all of the friends and family and dancing and music and love and fun.  And, I know that I saw it differently than I would have before last year.  The colors were brighter, the love was warmer, the dancing was more fun and the fun was easier to be a part of. 

It's as if a year of cancer has cracked through (some of) the nonsense that I used to worry about and let me see and be more a part of the beautiful and fun and funny things going on around me. 

That's the silver lining.

What is not beautiful or fun or funny about a year after cancer is (still) the hair.  It may be beautifully dyed, and it may be growing quickly.  But, to me, most days it looks and feels like a hedgehog on my head.

I miss the woman with long hair whose biggest worry was getting the "perfect" holiday card photo.

It really is (still) all about the hair.

Knit/Purl Jam

I learned how to knit six years ago.  I was home full time juggling preschool and activities for E and nap schedules for A.  And, I needed a hobby.

I fell in love with everything about knitting.  I loved the yarn.  I loved the knitting needles.  I loved the patterns and the books.   I loved the mechanics of creating knitted objects out of strands of yarn.

Repetitive.  Meditative.  Calming. 

I stayed up knitting after everyone was asleep.  I fell asleep thinking about knitting.  I dreamed about knitting.  And, I woke up thinking about knitting--and when I could find time in the day to knit.

I looked at people and had visions of yarns and scarf patterns for them.

Jay's aunt and I used to lament that there was so much beautiful yarn and so many great patterns and so little time to knit it all.  "So much yarn, so little time," we used to sigh. 

Last year I had a lot of time.  And a lot of yarn.  Knitting got me through the year.

Repetitive.  Meditative.  Calming.  

I knit when I was waiting for my diagnosis.  I knit on the train going to Sloan Kettering.  I knit in  waiting rooms.  I knit in exam rooms waiting for the doctors.

I couldn't knit during chemo because of the IV--not so easy to knit with a needle in your right hand.   

I knit though all the chemo side effects.  My chemo brain couldn't follow the plots of most novels or movies.  But, I could almost always sit and knit--and feel productive. 

I can't remember a lot about how I got through the chemo side effect days.  I know that I slept a lot.  I know I knit a lot.  On days 3 and 4 after a treatment, I know I cried a lot.  A lot of my chemo memories are already (thankfully) a foggy blur.

But, I have many knitted objects that are the physical evidence of my days sitting on the couch, watching reality TV and knitting through the chemo haze.

I knit a lot of scarves.  Patterns that didn't require a lot of concentration.  Just cast on and knit and knit and knit.  And cowls.  Just knit around and around and around.

Repetitive.  Meditative.  Calming.  

I just kept knitting . . .

and knitting . . .

and knitting . . .

and knitting . . .

and knitting . . .

and knitting.

Last year was many things.  

From a knitter's perspective, it was The Year of Magical Knitting.