the voice

the voice of reason

compassion, guiding me thru

treacherous waters

 

 

love lost

surrender to the

story being told. do not

argue fate. snow melts.

 

wandering

60 years later

I still wander the rooms of

that cold, empty house

 

 

 

 

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.”

 

 

 

what next?

torrential, relentless

rain, darkness, obscured vision

void after cancer

 

THE GUEST HOUSE

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whatever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

what happened

unreconciled loss.

wine,vodka, dark chocolate

covered almonds.  sunday

 

spring storm

sprinkle of sadness.

splash of regret.  memories

lost in the mud of time

at a loss

sprained foot, limited

mobility.  want to ride

like the wind.  i sit

 

May 22- One Year One Day at a Time – Content

Damn.  Where do I start?  How do I write about contentment.  I only know how to write skilfully about depression, anxiety, sadness and the like so I have a problem.  I do not feel depressed, anxious, sad, etc. Is it worth writing if the subject of one’s writing is “another good day?  I was taught that dram and turmoil at the great subjects of true literature.  Anna Karenina, War and Peace, Reservoir Dogs, Catcher in the Rye, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.  More recently Doubt, Grace, Angels in America.  

I have nothing related to pathos about which I am compelled to write.  So I write Haiku. It’s okay, but it lacks the depth I long for.  Perhaps I am hovering over something I am afraid to see, afraid to look to face.  I don’t think so.  I am content.  I feel whole.  I am healthy.  I am happy.  I like the work I do and I believe I am very good at it.  I love my husband and am grateful for my children, their success and their well-being.  I do not feel deprived or helpless or down trodden.  I no longer feel like a  victim of my god awful childhood.  I have no fear about the future.  I have a comfortable life filled with meaningful work and good friends, new friends.  Today I have friendships I value, people with whom I want to spend time.  My friends are no longer just my drinking buddies.  I have girlfriends with whom I share a deep connection and with whom I have never had a drink.  That’s different.  Not even something I went looking for.  They came into my life.  I liked them so we spend time with one another.

I sit here now at 8:00 pm in my bed with my stuffed animals, Fruffy the dog.  That is what Amelia calls him.  And the green Monkey also known as Papa Monkey.  Jimmy, my husband, said this morning that he no longer knew with whom he was sleeping, me or Amelia.  He was referring to a bed full of stuffed toys.  I hold them, at night, next to my breast.  They are for me, the childhood I never had and my connect to the granddaughter whom I love.   They are joy.  She is joy.  I am joyful.

Tomorrow we leave for DC and from there to Little Washington, Virginia for  our friend, Steve’s 60th birthday, a blue grass festival on the lawn of his gentleman farmer’s estate.  I will definitely be posting pictures.

This is contentment.

erase

blot it out,  the ink

stained memory of sadness

in my finger nails