Beautiful Angels

There are angels among us. I have often felt their presence, but never more profoundly than during and after my cancer surgery in October 2014.

They wield scalpels and stethoscopes. They bring food for your family. They send cards, flowers, messages. They bring you your breakfast when you can't get out of bed. They curl up in your lap and purr. They pray for you.

You don't see their wings, but you often recognize their faces. But sometimes they are strangers.

The day after the surgery to remove both my breasts, I was hurting physically and emotionally. My friend, Peter called me. "I have something I think will cheer you up," he said.

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Indeed. Peter had secured a poster promoting a concert by singer-songwriter James Maddock. James had signed it to me, wishing me well. It really lifted my spirits to have a personalized message from an artist that I admire so much. It was a simple gesture that had a big impact.

The poster James gave me

I first discovered James when he played a concert nearby. I had never heard of him. By the end of his opening song, I was hooked. He is British, but his music seems uniquely American, rooted in the folk-rock traditions of the United States. He is a fixture in the fertile music scene in downtown New York. He has a distinctive raspy voice, an amiable stage persona, and a quirky social media presence. He's released three studio albums, and his newest, The Green,  is now out and available here at Amazon,. His lyrics seem deeply personal, but listeners can interpret them for themselves.

Like me, James is 50-something, and his songs tend to reflect the themes that inhabit those in our stage of life:

• A longing for more time to explore the roads not taken ("Another Life")
• Messy relationships ("Mister Universe," "What Have I Done?")
• The vagaries of love ("Stoned On You," "Love is a Flower")

One of his loveliest tunes is entitled "Beautiful Now." The lyrics tell of a man looking at an old photograph of his beloved, taken long before he knew her. As he gazes at the picture, he notes her youthful splendor and radiance. Then he hits us with this chorus.

"You were beautiful then/ But you're way more beautiful now."

Those lyrics have taken on a new meaning for me. I don't have the body of my youth, but it had been replaced by one that was stronger, curvier, more confident. The surgery abruptly changed it, and I have been struggling with the "new normal."

At first, I thought the scars and incisions that snake their way across my chest were ugly. They hurt and I hated them. James' lyrics prompted me to re-think them. Now I see the gentle curves and delicate folds as the beauty of health and the brilliance of life. They are beautiful now.

So thank you, James, for taking the time to cheer up a stranger when she needed it. Thank you for your music. Thank you Tracy Plass and Peter Swarr for making it happen.

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Please enjoy this live version of James singing "Beautiful Now."

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

As I continue to recover from breast cancer surgery, I realized that my relationship with cancer will be an ongoing one. I have further treatment to come and continued monitoring for many years. But how to describe this complicated relationship? I have been searching for the right word. A few that I've considered:

• Fear - My tendency with fear is to hide under the bed and wait for whatever is scaring me to go away. This is not a good strategy for maintaining health. We all know people who avoid doctors and tests because they are afraid of what they might find. So fear is not the right word.
• Hate - It's easy to be angry and hateful about cancer. I've seen it ravage the bodies of people I love. Some of them didn't survive. But hate is a heavy burden to carry. To me it also implies malice and intent. Those little cells were once a normal part of my body. For a variety of reasons, they broke bad. I don't think they were out to get me. If I did hate them, I forgive them now. They are gone.

In talking to my husband about this, we came up with a new word: Respect. I respect cancer. I respect its power. It is an adversary worthy of my due diligence.

I respect cancer enough to have routine regular screenings, one of which resulted in my diagnosis. I respect cancer enough to find out as much as I can about it and its treatment. I respect cancer enough to seek out the best medical professionals to help me fight it. I respect cancer enough to carefully follow post-operative care instructions and recommendations for ongoing treatment. I respect cancer enough to research diet and lifestyle changes that can help me keep it at bay. I respect cancer enough that I will do whatever I can with my life to help those who are coping with it and to see it eradicated.

So, I have a new mantra I repeat in my head. They are the words of the incomparable Otis Redding that have been immortalized by the Queen of Soul herself, Aretha Franklin.

"R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Take care, TCB"

Baring the Scars and Bearing the Scars

Nothing prepares you for the first time you look at your mastectomy incisions.

Nothing.

No amount of preparation and looking at photos of other surgeries. No amount of love and support from your spouse and family. No amount of emotional strength (you think) you have.

When I took my first shower after surgery last week, I finally had the courage to look in the mirror. I saw myself as torn apart. Ripped. Ruined. And I cried. I gave myself permission to mourn the way my body used to look. But in the midst of the tears came another image.

The new smoothness of my chest reminded me of the days when I wore undershirts and camis. I remembered the cute little sundresses my mom dressed me in. There were no worries of bra straps slipping or too much cleavage showing. I could almost feel the golden California sunshine of my 1960s childhood.

It's not that I want my body to look like a little girl's - I'm having reconstruction done. But that fleeting image reminded me of two important things:  1) that beauty comes in many different forms and 2) my body has been constantly changing since the day I was born.

I recall when I was pregnant with my son. My body dazzled me almost daily with the changes it made to grow a little human boy. I am no less astounded by my body's ability to be up and walking mere hours after major surgery and that my use of my arms is coming back so swiftly. It is now working hard to scar over the incisions and heal. Amazing! Among the strongest parts of our bodies are the scars.

I am fortunate that the surgery went well. The sentinel nodes were clear and the margins were clean.

I have since spent more time with those incisions. They are healing well. I don't feel as troubled by them, and I know the scars will continue to fade. I have begun the process of reconstruction with a wonderful plastic surgeon. He told me from the start that I won't be the same. All I want is a little piece of "me" back. I don't think I want to fill out a D cup again. A little extra perkiness would be nice.

So, cheers to change. As my husband and I gazed at the new topography of my body he said,. "This is what healthy looks like."

A Tribute to My Husband

This is dedicated to all the caregivers.

No one expects bad things to happen. That is why on our wedding day, the happiest of days, we are reminded of the sad ones to come. There will be worse times. There may be poorer times. There will be sickness. Stick together, and you'll make it.

I am fortunate to have married a man I love, and one who takes our marriage vows seriously. We are in one of those sickness times now - I am facing a double mastectomy to treat cancer. Dan has risen to fulfill his vow.

We met almost 25 years ago in a Connecticut newspaper newsroom. I was a 30-year-old reporter and editor in the middle of a fairly successful writing career. He was a newly-minted college graduate, 21 years old and in an entry-level reporting position. On paper, maybe he wasn't the best choice. But I saw a person who was open and honest and loving. He treated women well, especially me. Oh, and did I mention he's drop-dead handsome? 

Our wedding day

We married in June 1992. Since then, we've experienced the better and the worse of our vows. He's supported me after the death of my beloved stepfather. He coached me through a days-long labor that culminated with the birth of our son. He encourages me in my writing career (he's a big fan of this blog) and supported me when I tried out a new career as a reading support tutor in our local schools. 

He makes me laugh on a daily basis. He is the smartest person I know. He is the one editor I really trust. If my writing needs improvement, he shows me how to fix it. If he says it's good, it really is good. Did I mention the handsome part?

He now finds himself in the role of caregiver. While he is going through this experience with me, his is unique.He has been the voice of calm when I have been afraid. He has made the phone calls to help me get the care I need. He has been the extra eyes and ears during sometimes overwhelming tests and doctor appointments. 

He is the very definition of a cock-eyed optimist, a mix of Annie and Pollyanna. But when we got word of a second cancerous area, it hit him hard. He is now helping me face surgery that will change me. He will be the one caring for me in the difficult post-operative days. He has been relentlessly on-message: "After this you will be healthy."

It is the storms that make us appreciate the days of smooth sailing. We know the storm clouds have been gathering in the distance. The sky is darkening. Soon the rain will be lashing the windows and the waves will be crashing.

Please hold Dan up in your thoughts and prayers next Monday during my surgery. For me, the time will pass in the blink of an eye. He will be the one watching the clock tick.

Breathe and Reset

"If you've met one person with breast cancer, you've met ... one person with breast cancer. For although there are certain aspects of the experience that are seemingly universal - the initial terror, a reckoning with mortality, and initiation into the bewildering world of treatment - breast cancer changes the lives of those it confronts in ways that are unique in every case." - Judith Newman, Allure Magazine October 2014

That is how the wonderful writer, Judith Newman begins her article, Live to Tell, in this month's Allure magazine. She goes on to interview six women whose lives have been touched in different ways by

#breastcancer. The truth of the words in her introduction resonated with me and my experience. It is truly unique and each woman must navigate it in her own way.

I am still awaiting surgery. Several truly upsetting snafus forced me to change doctors, hospitals, and ultimately my decision about what kind of surgery I'm having. I'll detail that nonsense in another post, but suffice it to say, I'm with the medical team I need to be with having the surgery I want and need. 

The change forced me to take time to reflect on what was happening to me. I have found a few truths of my own to pass on.

• Decisions. They are yours to make. At my first meeting with my new surgeon (a breast specialist), she told me the type of surgery I have is my choice. "But I won't let you make a bad one," she said. I realize now the first surgeon I was with was steering me toward what was easy for him at a time that was convenient for him. It really had little to do with me and my treatment.
• Fear. Deal with it. Don't ignore it as I did. Fear is a way of informing our experience. I was so filled with dread as my first surgery date approached that I was afraid I wouldn't survive the operation. I realize this fear was grounded in the fact that I didn't trust the doctors I was with and had ignored several red flags that should have made me put the brakes on this whole procedure. A paperwork problem made the decision for me and I am truly grateful to be where I am now.
• Prayer. Yes, it matters. No, I can't prove it. But there is something buoying in knowing that people you care about are praying for you. There is also great power in the knowledge that people who do not know me are praying. A colleague I don't know very well asked if she could put me on her church's prayer chain.Absolutely, I replied.  In my darkest moments in the past two weeks when I didn't know where to turn, I prayed to God to deliver me. In His tender mercy, He did. He put angels in my path who knew what to do. . 

I still have breast cancer, and I know I am facing trying days ahead, but a weight has been lifted from me. I have control back. I am ready to be healed.

They're Real and They're Spectacular

In an episode of the sitcom "Seinfeld" titled The Implant, Jerry decides to break up with his girlfriend, Sidra (played by Terri Hatcher) because he is convinced she has had breast augmentation. In the end, Jerry finds out Sidra's breasts are natural. As she walks out on him, she lets him know what he'll be missing."They're real and they're spectacular."

Terri Hatcher and Jerry Seinfeld

It pretty much sums up how I've always felt about my breasts. I've always liked them, and age and childbirth have done little to diminish their beauty. So it is with sadness that I must bid farewell to my right breast.

A second core biopsy last week revealed another cancerous area about 6mm from the original tumor. My doctors say a lumpectomy would not have an aesthetic result and would risk leaving behind some malignant cells. So on September 24, I'll undergo a mastectomy.

This is a surgery that cuts psychologically as well as physically. For example, I didn't cry when surgeons cut out about 12 inches of infected colon. But when my doctor called me this weekend (it's never good news on a weekend) to tell me of the second tumor, I did.

 It sneaks up on me. Today a fashion magazine came in the mail and all I could think about was how the surgery would alter me and my clothing choices. This is not an earth-shattering tragedy, but I took a few moments to feel really sorry for myself. This week I started back at school to begin what promises to be an exciting school year. But almost as soon as I start, I'll be taking some time off. Can you tell I'm having a bad day?

I've put off any reconstructive surgery. I'll wait to see what kind of ongoing treatment I'll need first. That means I'll need to learn more about what my body will be like after this surgery.

Any advice you have for me is welcome.

Schrodinger's Cat

In the 1930s physicist Erwin Schrodinger devised a thought experiment in which a cat was placed in a sealed box, along with a Geiger counter, a flask of poison, and a radioactive source. If even the smallest particle of radioactivity was detected, the flask would crack open and the cat would die (this is all hypothetical, by the way). Schrodinger posited that before the box was open the cat could be thought of as both dead and alive, simultaneously.

The experiment is more complicated than I have laid out and meant to illustrate a theory of quantum mechanics. But to a non-scientist like me, it speaks about the power of the unknown and the devastation that can be wrought on even a microscopic level.

 I write about it here because I feel like I have been inhabiting the netherworld of Schrodinger's cat. As I have awaited the results of medical tests, I feel like I have been both healthy and sick simultaneously. The results were not what I had hoped.

I have #breast cancer.

A routine mammogram detected a suspicious mass. A biopsy revealed it to be stage 1/grade 2 invasive ductal carcinoma. I have consulted with an oncologist and a surgeon. I have had another biopsy, with a third scheduled for next week and then we decide on a course of treatment.

While cancer is a disease that can still strike fear, the most difficult part of this journey is the unknown. Even though I have a diagnosis, I still don't know exactly what treatment is in store for me. I know the possibilities. Cancer at this stage is very treatable, but a conversation with the surgeon this morning revealed complications. An MRI, showed a second suspicious mass, close to the tumor that was already biopsied, and a third spot that requires a stereotactic biopsy next week. Only then will I have a surgery date and a treatment schedule.

The unknowns are legion: how much pain will I be in, how much time will I have to take from work, what will I look like, and more. No one can answer some of those questions - I will have to experience them. I have spent many hours reading about breast cancer treatment and reading the blogs of those who have gone through what I am going through now. To those women, I say thank you. Reading your stories has made me less afraid. I can only hope to pay it forward with my writing.

This all comes at a time when I have been feeling good. I thought health problems were behind me. It is hard to think of something so tiny (1.2 cm) causing so much trouble.

Some of you reading this have been aware of my diagnosis. Others will be hearing about it for the first time. Still others don't know me at all. I invite everyone to come along with me on this deeply personal journey.
The cat is out of the box and she'll be just fine.