love lost

surrender to the

story being told. do not

argue fate. snow melts.

 

Still reeling

“You look great.”  That is what everyone says now when they see me.  “No, I mean it.  You really look great.”

My response when they repeat themselves:  “Do you want to see my boob?”  Yes that is exactly what I say followed  by something like, “Yeah, that is the funny thing about cancer.  If you do not have chemotherapy and lose your hair,  you look good, like you are not even sick.  I call it the secret disease.  If you did not know me, you would never know I was sick.”

I do not feel like a sick person.  I felt the best I have in years when they discovered my most recent tumor back in March.  Never better.  Strong, steady, happy. . .  all that.  Then boom, they dropped the C-Bomb.

“Ms. Nichols, I am sorry to tell you but we have found a mass in your right breast.  I think we need to do a biopsy.”

“Today?”

“No you will have to wait about 10 days.  Please see the nurse.  She will set you up with an appointment. ”

My mind is racing.  Ten days.  How can I wait that long to find out whether I have cancer?  You just will.  And I did.  I convinced myself the results would be negative.  Well they were positive.  Surprise.  My second round of cancer and only two years after the first bout.  Two frigging years.

But I did not begin this post to tell you about my cancer.  I am trying my best to write about my experience after cancer, after surgery, and radiation.

“Now the surgery is a fairly simple procedure.  We will remove the mass and the centennial lymph nodes.”  Okay how did I miss the part about injecting dye into my breast to find that “node or nodes?”  Did the surgeon tell me I would be placed on a cold metal table only to have a plate of concrete lowered to just inches above my face?  No he did not, because I would have explained that I could not do that.  “I am extremely claustrophobic.”  Let is suffice to say that I survived this ordeal, but I did have to ask once to be pulled out so that I could close my eyes, recite my mantra and use my breath to stay calm and in the moment.

Did the surgeon tell me how painful the catheter that he placed in my boob after the surgery would be?  No.  Nor did he tell me that the radiation itself my be painful.  No.  In fact, all medical personnel stated unequivocably that the radiation would be painless.  Let me make this perfectly clear.  I am do not consider myself a wimp, but I suffered, yes suffered from extreme discomfort when anyone touch the device which I wore in my right breast for 8 days and 7 nights.  All the gauze padding in the world did not relieve the stabbing sensation in my breast.   When the doctor asked, which he did each time I came in for a treatment (twice a day), “Are you in any pain?”  I said, “Yes, all the time.”

His response, “Take another Percocet.”

“But they give me such terrible stomach cramps and constipation.”

“Get a stool softener.”

“Any suggestions.”  He blurted out a couple of words I never heard of and immediately forgot.

“Okay are you ready for the treatment?”

The radiation did not hurt, but hooking the machine up to my boob was excruciating.

“This should no hurt.”  the nice man administering the treatment said condescendingly.

Crocodile tears are rolling down the sides of my cheeks.  Every time he touches one of the limbs of my device, my body convulses.  Radiation doctor says, “We will have to give you a stronger pain medication.  I am going to write a scrip for long release morphine.  That should do it.”

“Morphine?’

“Yes you will take on every 12 hours and continue to take the percocets an hour before you come to treatment.”

And so it went for 5 days.  At one point, lying on the table, reciting my mantra, I thought, I am going to have post traumatic stress from this.  I did and I am.

My emotions are off the charts.  Giddiness moves quickly into boredom, into anger and resentment, into bitchiness, into fear and foreboding and finally into deep sadness.

When I joke about cancer, people’s expressions reveal disdain and shame.

“Look, if I can’t joke about cancer, who can?”  There is humor in every situation and I plan to look for it.  I only made a crack about all my friends buying me dinner the week of my radiation.  I guess that is one of  the cancer “perks.”

Hardest part about being well now is everyone still looking at me with deep, questioning eyes when they ask, “How are you doing?”  To most who inquire, I say, “Fine.  Really I am good.”  To my closer friends I reply, “Physically I feel great, but mentally I am off the charts.”

“Oh, but I thought you got a good report.  All clear, right?”

“Yes, all clear.  No cancer now.  But will there be more?  No one knows.  No one knows.  Each day is a gift.”

 

 

 

okay

cancer wants to live.

the universe wants to be

noticed. love is painful.

 

 

what should I say

i will see you on

the other side.  look out your

window.  at the light

 

 

 

 

the void

towels folded perfectly.

lawn of the month.  money in the

bank.  what is missing?

what happened

unreconciled loss.

wine,vodka, dark chocolate

covered almonds.  sunday

 

at a loss

sprained foot, limited

mobility.  want to ride

like the wind.  i sit

 

stealing

time, money, energy

given freely or taken

on the sly?  karma

oncologist

in this case he is a man

a man who I do not know

a Dr. Martin.  I am sure he is

a good doctor.  he was recommended

by my friend and doctor, Jeff Warren.

my fear, it is not about him as a person

but about the work he does, deciding

what cancer patients should do.  what

treatment they, I, should pursue to rid

my body, specifically my right breast,

of the tumor “they” say is cancerous.

who to trust with my life?

It’s a big question.

fear of the unknown,  fear of dying.

not very poetic or beautiful but

very real.

wringing my hands

I just noticed I was wringing my hands.  Today I am afraid to die.  Some days I am not afraid,  This is not the kind of fear that takes the form of anxiety.  I do not feel anxious.  Yesterday I was angry.  Some days I want to play the victim role, but it really no longer suits my personality or my level of understanding.  Life is a gift and to spend it in the role of the victim is such a waste.  So depressing, self-absorbed, lonely, whiny, always complaining about how had life is and what a bad rap I had as a kid.  So what?

My childhood does not define who I am today.  If it did I would be sitting in some bar drinking my lunch or I would be living on the streets like my brother.  Wringing again.  I just did it again.  I stopped writing to wring my hands.  What is up with that?

As I was driving down Waynoka today on my way home from Kroger, I had an ah hah moment.  My life is a miracle.  It is a miracle that I am alive today.  My mother, step-mother, father, grand mother, brother are all dead.  So are Jimmy’s parents and his sister.  Life is fleetingly wonderful, one Hell of a roller coaster ride.  I am not much for roller coasters, the ones at the fair that go straight up and then straight down.  Not so much.  It’s a little easier for me to ride the ups and downs of life, which even when they are brutally challenging, are never as extreme as the rush you get when hit the top of the ride and start flying down at a million miles per hour.  Too much.  Too fast.

I am more of a Goldie Locks kind of girl.  I want things to be just right, even if only for one nano second.  Just to say, “Yes, this is the bowl of porridge that I want.  It is just right.  Yes, this is the bed I want to sleep in with you.  I love you and I love our bed.  Yes, this is the chair I want to sit in and read.  I love to read.”  Life is good.  Right now, in this very moment, with my belly full of my home-made corn bread, life is really good.