foggy morning

what can you say 

about the fog

that hasn’t already been written 

that it rolls in like a blanket

soft gray tufts drape the ground

in slinky damp 

that it disguises some features

while others glow

against its dull backdrop 

that it drifts away

taking with it the otherworld

created or revealed 

there is nothing new to write

about the fog

but I did it anyway

 

 

rumors of my demise are greatly exaggerated

--Mark Twain

Several people who used to read this blog feared I had died when I stopped posting, thus the infamous quote for a title. 

Of course it's more than understandable they thought that. If I read a blog written by someone with breast cancer and they abruptly stopped posting, my mind would go there. It is where anyone’s mind would go.

But I’m still alive and doing well, cancer-wise. Four years have passed since my Stage II-b  diagnosis. You know, when I first heard “II-b” it sounded like "to be" and I was immediately reminded of, “to be, or not to be, that is the question.” Silly, I know. Besides, and with all due respect to Will Shakespeare...that really wasn’t the question I was asking myself, at least not at the time.

It wasn’t the question that rattled around in my head the last couple years since the end of treatment, either. That one was: Now what? As in, this destroyed my life as I knew it...how do I move on now?

In the midst of an extended crisis I always wish I could hit some magical button and fast-forward to the time just beyond it...naturally, who wouldn’t? During chemo I would lie in bed, feeling sick and weak, and try to send my mind into that future. I kept thinking, what did I want my life to look like after this was over? What was really important to me? Those were better questions. All I needed were the answers.

Turns out it wasn’t grand ideas or unfinished dreams I longed to spend my future accomplishing. What I wanted most was just a return to the little day to day stuff. I missed the gentle rhythm of my life. Morning routines, mealtimes, bedtime rituals, those quiet patterns that weave in and out of an average day – all those moments, those times I could no longer ebb and flow with because I was suspended in another time, a time out of time...a time to be ill.

And then something vaguely resembling an epiphany came to me. The insight was pretty simple...so simple that you may find it obvious. But at the time it felt very important to me. It still does.

The way you spend most of your days is how you end up living your life.

That is the sum total when all is said and done. I didn’t care about checking anything exciting off my bucket list. I didn’t care about fixing my laundry list of regrets. And they were long lists, let me tell you. Instead I just wanted to go back to doing the simple things I already spent most of my days engaged in.  That was enough because what really mattered most were all the tiny, precious daily moments of just being.

I thought I’d hold on to these poignant little realizations and after cancer treatment my life would be filled with deeper appreciation. But that’s not what happened. In fact, it was the total opposite. By the end of treatment I became bitter, morose and riddled with self-pity. I’m not sure why...maybe the hard knocks of a cancer journey fraught with some bad luck finally took its toll. Maybe it was a stage in the natural healing process. Or maybe those sorts of crystalline realizations about existential reality are just illusive by nature. Probably a little bit of each.

Just like for good ole Sam Clemens, someday the reports of my demise won’t be an exaggeration, they’ll be true. And so it will be for everyone eventually. But for today I'm still around. I get more time to heal, more time to question, more time for savoring the sweetness of life when I find it, for appreciating the many chances I have just to be here, just to be. In regards to "the question"...it certainly sounds like the best answer. 

six words: cancer treatment

Didn't kill me, getting stronger now.

fair day and another step begun

The title above refers to a young adult novel and the ballad it was loosely based on, neither of which at first glance really have anything to do with this blog. 

I read the book as a young person and the title always stuck with me.  All I recall about the plot is that it was a love story where the heroine had an almost unshakable faith in her destiny & was willing to do whatever it took to fulfill it.   

That doesn’t describe me much lately.  But when I thought about coming back here to blog again those words kept echoing in my mind...perhaps because they resonate as a statement of moving forward, and that’s what I want to do.  It’s what I am doing, a little at a time. 

Since the end of cancer treatment I’ve been lost.  Really lost. The same lost I refer to in some of my last blog posts -- here it is two years since then and to be honest not much has changed on that front.  I find myself wondering if maybe this is the kind of lost some people never quite find their way back from.  And I also wonder now if that really matters anymore. 

The directionless funk that has permeated my life these last couple years drove me into a depression.  I have been wallowing in fear, pointlessness and if only’s.  I functioned, but beyond that....?  Not much else.  Nothing has made sense; nothing has drawn me back into my own life.  

At first I thought if I could find my way again, whatever that meant, then I could get back to this (or perhaps some other) blog and maybe the rest would fall into place.  Writing in some form is a fundamental part of who I am, so without it I don’t feel like me.  But weeks turned into months turned into years and I couldn’t bring myself to write.  The more I couldn’t write, the worse I felt. I just drifted...aimless.    

Dropping this blog was a shame on many levels.  It might sound grandiose but blogging really did give me a deeper sense of connection – to others out there in the blogosphere and to my own sense of self.  Writing for even a small audience clarified my thoughts and feelings...and it showed me the trajectory of my experiences in ways I might not have noticed otherwise.  And...it was fun :) 

Not to mention I’ve “met” some of the most amazing people EVER.  When I went back and read some of the comments left thru the years it brought me to tears.  I’ve been blessed.  And I am filled with regret over not staying in touch.   

Anyway, lately it has slowly dawned on me that being lost might not be the worst thing to happen, both to a person and a blog.  In fact, I’m guessing there are plenty of other people out there who feel the same way.   So, I have no idea what this is about, but I’m gonna figure it out as I go along, one post...one step at a time.  And, why not?  It’s a fair day, and this is another step begun.

once in a pink moon

Saturday, April 27th  falls just on the waning side of the full moon -- a moon that is appropriately known as the "pink moon"...apropos for me, that is, because it will be the four year anniversary of my breast cancer diagnosis.   

I was actually planning a blog post last week, the first in almost two years.  But then the terrible bombings in Boston happened.  It just didn’t seem the right moment to inaugurate what I hope will become a new era for my simple little blog.   

I’ll put that post up after the weekend, but in the meantime I wanted to take a moment to talk about one of the many heroes to come out of Boston. 

Today I was deeply moved, as I’m sure many were, by the interview with Heather Abbott...particularly the part where she referred to how futile it was to dwell on the negative or focus on all the "what ifs".  That hit me hard - but in the best possible way.   I've done my fair share of obsessing over things that cannot be changed. 

Her eloquence and determination to move forward despite her injury was very natural, indicative of the inherent spirit of bravery she possesses.  Heather Abbott is the epitome of grace...a fitting topic for this, my first new blog post as I begin trying to pick up the pieces of my own life.

 

Since the pink moon heralds the renewal of spring, may it shine graciously on all of us... 

 

 

 

 

A day to forget

I’m having a hard time. There’s no way around it. I keep trying to turn the corner but I just can’t seem to do it.

Sometimes it’s the big things, the obvious stuff that would keep anyone up at night…like, will the cancer come back, will I live a natural lifespan? That’s understandable…I can deal with all that long term, I think. But it’s actually the little things that hold me back from moving on…I’m finding the subtle stuff worse. All those countless reminders, the myriad ways that the aftermath of cancer infuses every nuance of my life. That’s what is eating away at me. And not just me.

Daniel has a number of mosquito bites on his leg and he is very upset by them. At first I thought it was the idea of a creature biting him that was the trouble, but he seems more worried about the appearance of the red bumps. I’ve had to assure him numerous times that they will go away, he won’t be marked forever.

This morning I think I finally figured out why it has been so disturbing for him. He asked me if the boo-boo on my reconstructed breast would ever go away. The scar from the skin necrosis is significant, and what’s left of my nipple & areola is markedly different than my unaffected breast. I told him that no, it would not go away, but that was okay. I explained again to him that the boo-boo didn’t hurt, it was a scar from when Mama had cancer. Did he remember that, I asked? No. He burst into tears that my boo-boo was there forever -- and that’s when I knew…he was afraid his mosquito bumps would be too. I reassured him over and over again that his bites were not the same as Mama’s scar. He seemed to feel better but was still quite sad that my boo-boo was permanent. I told him that I was okay with mine, that I even was happy to have the scar because it was from the doctors taking out cancer, and if they didn’t do that I would have gotten very sick and not been here to take care of him and watch him grow up.

It’s hard to believe he doesn’t remember the summer of my mastectomy in 2009, but then again, why would he, he was only 2 at the time. He barely remembers me being sick from chemo in 2010 either. However he does fondly recollect my hair and every once in a while he’ll say how much he misses it. It’s longer now, finally down over my ears…but still not long enough to play with the way he used to.

Daniel doesn’t remember nursing, either, and that breaks my heart to pieces, I will truly never get over having to wean him and the painful process that was. He’s heard us talk about nursing, tho, and I’d like to think on some subconscious level it’s still there in his little soul, all those tender moments, that precious experience. After seeing a baby nurse on TV last night he asked me if I could ever give him milk again from my “ta-ta” (what we used to call it). I hesitated for a minute and by the time I was ready to answer him he’d moved on to another subject. I’m glad. I don’t know if I could have held it together even after all this time.

The trifecta came just a few moments ago. I decided to clean out a drawer of a long dresser by our front door. The first thing I pulled out was a receipt. It was from an upscale maternity boutique, one that I visited only once. I needed nursing bras. Michael had found a silly little baseball cap and bought it for Daniel. It was listed on the receipt by what it said across the front…“Boob Man” -- $15.00 .

My kid had mosquito bites, I cleaned out a drawer and WHAM, here I sit trying not to drown my keyboard in fresh tears. Forgive me, I know Memorial Day is something different, but right now for me remembering is overrated. Just once I’d like to forget.

Joy To The World

I'm not sure what to blog about so I’m just going to share what I’ve been thinking lately...it's about joy, I've been thinking alot about joy.

Do you have enough joy in your life?

What do you do that brings you joy?

Right now there are days where for the life of me I can’t think of a single thing that would actually bring me joy – not anything realistic anyway. I mean, winning the lottery would be totally amazing, so would a free trip somewhere exotic. Finishing my novel would surely bring me veritable fits of joy – and maybe someday I’ll get there but for now I’m not even close, so that leaves me pretty much back to square one.

No question, being a mom often does bring me great joy (among other things, lol.) My kids can completely delight me on a regular basis just by being themselves. I'd say delight is right on par with joy. Fulfillment, too, is at least a close relation to joy.  Probably my most fulfilling moments in all of my life have been as a mother.

In the last couple of years or so my other moments of fulfillment have mainly come from writing, in one form or another (the slow progress of my novel not withstanding). I do sometimes find the actual practice of writing itself joyful-ish, to a certain degree. But truth be told it’s also equal parts maddening and agonizing depending on the hour. Apparently I’m in excellent company: I recently read that when Virginia Woolf was asked about her love of writing she retorted that she loved having written.

Still, I do get a thrill writing something profound or witty…I've even had the rare experience of writing something that took my own breath away. However, touching another person in any way with my writing is probably the most profound joy outside of motherhood that I’ve ever known. Those moments can be rather few and far between…occurring just often enough to keep me going, but not nearly often enough to keep me "joyed up" for very long.

The last time I remember actually being joyful for reasons beyond motherhood or writing was…well, I don’t remember but it was no doubt probably before cancer. And I’m also guessing it was fleeting. I think I was regularly happy…happy blogging here, about getting my novel underway, about finding more time for poetry…happy in my marriage, with my children (always) and even getting there about myself. Frequently my life achieved a satisfying rhythm that often brought me a certain amount of contentment…but it’s hard to remember now when looking back thru the lens of cancer if I felt much joy before my diagnosis.

But then again, what is joy anyway? How do you describe it? Is it like pornography, indefinable but you know it when you see it?

Would I still know it if I saw it?

For now joy remains elusive. Happiness is not a frequent visitor either. It was two years ago yesterday since finding the damned lumps and I still feel like I’m in the thick of it. Cancer duties linger…there are scans, appointments, maintenance. Michael now has his own set of appointments, scans and research…he’s the one in a holding pattern now. In between I try to reassemble my life. But I feel like components are missing. Pieces of me were taken away with the scalpel that contained more than flesh, tissue and cancerous tumors. I think they contained some of my capacity for joy.

But I'm still looking for it because you never know.  You just never do.  It could be anywhere.