The significance of September. Altered. When vulnerability IS trauma. Tomorrow.

The significance of September.

This used to be a time of year that I yearned for. That moment when August turned September was the moment my heart felt light and my soul soared and my face smiled. I loved waking up on September 1 with my outfit already picked out and my nails already a perfect fall-toned hue with a gratitude for getting through yet another summer of dog-day blahness. It wasn’t just any ol’ day. It was SEPTEMBER. Because then came October. Then November. Then December. Favorite seasons, fall colors drives through the mountains, birthdays, holidays, my wedding anniversary, SNOW, Christmas lights on houses around town, traditions, Grandma Sheets cookies, scarves, boots, sweaters. Any weariness I was trudging through felt instantly energized. This new day meant a renewed me. 
Yes, a singular day meant that much to me. 
And then another day took all that away from me. 

“But Amber, you can still love all of these things. Don’t let one day take it away.” 
“But that one day did take it all away. It took away the way it was. The way it felt. …The way I was.”

And therein lies my point: Everything has changed. August 25, the day I got “my Call” changed me literally overnight and also every day since. September 1 still ushers in all of the old feelings but now {with a caveat}. I can still access my yearning for this time of year and be so grateful to have made it through another dog-days {for the dog-days now represent so much more than they once did}, I so still love the long sleeves and the big sweatshirts and the scarves {because mastectomy botched my body and cancer changed my shape and sweatshirts make me a little less insecure}, long drives to see fall colors are still breathtaking {always remembering that one time when I wondered if my hidden drains were going to burst from the altitude while little girls were in tow on a hike cut short because I was recovering from a 9-hour surgery}, birthdays and holidays and anniversaries and traditions still occur and bring joy {though chemo makes them feel different now – less for granted for sure, but waaaaaay more complicated}, snow remains my favorite {as I sit in pain when I’m cold because of nerve damage and body ruin, ntm the memory of 2017’s first snow being on my first chemo which left me confused between ‘I feel seen’ and ‘how dare you’}, {bald} birthdays and Christmases and anniversaries, nausea then and {nausea forever that changes how I eat and enjoy food}, girls no longer little, but grown and {living lives forever changed}, relationships {broken and patched and scarred and different}, and a body {embraced for its resilience and resented for its abandonment}.

The significance of September has changed. Not only as it was the first to follow that stupid 25th day and that stupid Call, but also it was the month that the Call turned real. The 8th will always be {that day} of amputation that unraveled into the devastation that was recon/decon/14 surgeries later only to be left with disfigurement and emotional trauma. The 19th will always be {that day} that the ‘cinch’ of a complete hysterectomy, would CAPITAL “F” F me up and throw my body into a complete hormonal disaster that I will now forever live with. The 26th will always be {that day} when a port was placed with a catheter directly into my heart for the poison of chemo to course through, not only obliterating cancer cells but obliterating the Amber that was.

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Altered.

My physical body.
My emotional self.
My intellectual capacity.
My relational nature.
My soul identity. 

Each a constant reminder
that I am never not without
the trauma of cancer.

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When vulnerability IS trauma. 

Have you ever considered what trauma is? Like what you think it really is? It can be car wrecks and war and abuse and violence, for sure. It can be physical and emotional and relational and spiritual, of course. It can be death and dying, absolutely. For me – it is also vulnerability.

The vulnerability of my literal life being in the hands of other humans – Surgeries. Treatment plans. Continuing care. Showing up to these people and handing over my life for them to hopefully care for me from a personal commitment to the Hippocratic Oath, all while knowing that their version of the Hippocratic Oath comes from a place of human bias and is filtered through human opinions and natural subjectivities. Does this doc see things the way I do? If not, do they care to hear how I see things? Will they do it their way anyways without me knowing? Will they care for me either way? Will they value me like they would their own or do they just say that? Will they pay close attention or will autopilot cause a dangerous disconnect? I want them to emotionally connect with me so that I matter deeper to them than just a number, but I want them objective enough to do their job. What are even the right boundaries? Will they get enough sleep tonight? Will they get into a car accident this morning? If so, then what? Not only is what I’m going through scary and completely out of my control and blindsiding me, but I can’t even know if they will wake up in a stable enough mood to themselves show up to care enough to keep me alive. And just for added complexity, not always do we get the option to be selective with who is in our care teams. Ugh. The sheer trust is itself, vulnerability. And therefore, the vulnerability is traumatizing.

And then there is the vulnerability of all of the touching. In all of the intimate places. But with no intimate intent…or so I hope (see above…does this doc actually respect my body? Me? I can only hope as I’m not privy to the secret catacombs of their minds). Compound this with the fact that this touching confuses parts of the feeling-brain even when the thinking-brain knows what’s up. Which….by twisted, cruel design….shows up when it’s not a doctor and life isn’t hanging in the balance. I’ll tell ya, that’ll eff things up royally. To willingly allow another to touch me ALL, yes all, over just so I might live all while knowing the reality of this primitive-brain-imprinting – that’s a special [horrific] kind of traumatizing vulnerability.

Grief is vulnerable. Especially today when grief is mishandled, misunderstood, mistaken, misconstrued; under-acknowledged, undermined, unfounded; invalidated. “You’re fine now, right!” “You survived! Be happy because some people don’t get to.” “Leave it in the past.” “It’s just a bump in the road.” “Why are you STILL talking about this? Shouldn’t you be over it already?” “What is wrong with you that you can’t move on?” “Now you’re just looking for attention.” We’re made to think our grief isn’t warranted and we should be ashamed of it. Yet, our grief connects us to our humanity…so if my grief is a target of judgement, so is my humanity, therefore so is my vulnerability. And when my vulnerability is targeted, it is weaponized, leaving me traumatized.

To trust another’s expertise and advice while facing life-altering decisions is vulnerable. To trust myself to ultimately make the ‘right’ decision without a crystal ball is a whole bunch of layers deeper. Sometimes I’ll get it right. Sometimes, though, it doesn’t always work out. And I don’t get to know when whichever will happen until it’s too late. And the kicker – people really like to remind me that when it’s gone right, “God did that!” and when it’s gone wrong, I chose poorly. Merely guessing when it comes to my life – even if I have done all of the everything to make the best choice possible by thinking through e.v.e.r.y.s.i.n.g.l.e. option and scenario while believing with the strongest faith imaginable and STILL not knowing what will actually happen – the vulnerability of the unknown and the responsibility of choice is profoundly traumatizing.

Mortality, all by itself, is vulnerable. Cancer proves to me my frailty. (Yeah yeah, my resilience, too, but absolutely my frailty). It’s easy to get caught up in the comfortability of existing. It’s the opposite to accept the tenuousness of living. Dining with Death but not actually dying is a surreal experience…you get to see your life flashing before your eyes, memories and moments flipping through like an old video reel, nostalgia echoing in corners of your heart, all while sitting inches near the sharp edge of Death’s Scythe, seeing the reflection of light gleaming off its edge out of the corner of your eye. Even if you believe in an after-life or heaven or God’s design for your numbered days, the sharp-edged truth remains that life is not actually predictable and certain. Sitting at that table, gratitude-filled for each breath while sensing urgency for making the most out of the next not knowing when the last will be the last is a traumatizing vulnerable desperation.

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Tomorrow.

Tomorrow is October. 🫥

For some that means almost nothing other than the standard, predictable march of time. The next season. Just another day. For many, though, October is wrought with complexities difficult to fathom. A lot of which you’ve just read, along with all of the ones unsaid. So, as my favorite time of year continues in its {forever altered state}, may I leave you with this:

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September’s Message

You will probably notice the pink (for Boobs not Barbie, mind you) that steeps into all of the nooks and crannies of everywhere. Don’t be fooled by the slogans and marketing schemes. Don’t believe everything you see and read. A large majority of what is promoted in the name of breast cancer awareness is actually for non-cancer profit. Our stories are exploited and diminished for the bandwagon. Don’t believe me? just google it. So, instead of giving money “to research” by purchasing items from huge conglomerates, before donating “to the cause” through large foundations, consider the individual people you know who have been affected (patient AND caregivers alike) (and ALL cancers not just breast) and offer that individual person your kindness and empathy, your intentional words of encouragement, your tangible help; go to a local cancer center once a month (not just October) and take care packages to patients; venmo someone $5, they don’t even need to be affected by cancer, to get themselves a small treat on you because you care about them. . . Please, I beg you, do not see this sea of pink and minimize the totality of cancer to that. Instead, see the pink and let it light a fire of compassion in you. For what is on the outside is never the full story. I don’t hate the pink, I just want it to ignite something different.

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I’m grateful you spend your time to read my thoughts. Thank you. So much. See you next month! 🩷

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