I was so honored to get to spend time with a dear friend today, a day after her lumpectomy. She is incredible. Her strength, her beauty, her faith, her humor, her authenticity. She is such a light in my life and cancer cannot dull her radiance. I’m devastated that she and I have this in common, that we now share language that, not so long ago, was nonexistent. That our husbands and children now have stories too similar.

She and I have 6 mutual friends in addition to each of us having our own separate friends, all in this club. This awful, terrible, crappy, unwanted, sh***y, unfair, brutal, nasty, dreadful, every-bad-word-in-the-book WORST club.

Yet. . .

These are some of the most incredible women I know. Strong. Resilient. Powerful. Faith-filled. Loving. Compassionate. Empathetic. Selfless. Every-amazing-word-in-the-book…making this the BEST club.

A club I want nothing to do with but a club that I’m deeply grateful for. A club that forces a desperately cruel connection but a club that offers a beautifully extraordinary companionship.

#cancersucks #weare1in8 #worstandbest

*Post 930

Six Weeks Ago Today :: 10/21/17 :: Post 54

I’ve been very reflective today. And emotional.

6 weeks ago, today, I came home from a life-altering surgery. I came home with scars in the place of breasts that had been with me since I first grew them. Scars in place of breasts that made me feel feminine. Scars in place of breasts that fed my daughters with such life-giving milk. Scars in place of breasts that have been a part of intimacy and relationship. Scars in place of body parts that were a part of me.

It was strange thinking back to that today – I haven’t taken the time to reflect on it much since I’ve been back to work and since chemo started…those things have been somewhat consuming. And it was much more emotional than I thought it would be.

I thought back to the night before surgery. The feelings I had that night of ‘tomorrow there is no going back,’ and ‘I will never again be the same.’ The feelings of disbelief, of anger, of exhaustion. Realizing that I’d never lay in my bed the same way again. Grieving because intimacy the way it was would only end up being a memory, never again to be felt in that way. Falling asleep wishing I would wake up and find it was all a bad dream.

I thought back to the morning of…the upset and nervous stomach, the fear, the unknown, the forced determination, the physical pain of a sick breast and body, the emotional pain of extreme grief…. The drive to the hospital was a quiet one. I wondered what lay ahead. Who I’d meet. How I’d feel laying in my hospital bed before surgery. And after. How Chris would see me. How he’d react to my disfigured body. How I would react to my disfigured body. What it meant to have drains coming out my sides…would my surgeon do 2 or 4. Would the day run smooth or be wrought with complications. We sat quietly with a few other strangers as we each waited for our turn to be called…and a nice older gentleman said, “I imagine what you have ahead of you today, I hope for you it goes well.” I said, “thank you, me too.”

I thought back to the people I met that day – the older man; the receptionist; the hospital registrar and escort; the radiologist and nurse that injected me with radioactive fluid so my surgeon could find cancer in my lymph nodes; my plastic surgeon who came in and drew all over me; the 2 nurses that prepped me for surgery; my breast surgeon who came in and we talked volleyball cuz she played in college, too; my anesthesiologist; the one surgery assistant (the last thing I remember) that was talking to me as I was wheeled down the hall and into an elevator; the 2 post-op nurses; my overnight nurses. Each one of these individuals having an impact on my life, holding it in their hands in one way or another, on a day that brought such grief and loss but also strangely, how I can see it today, new beginnings.

I thought back to the walk to the car leaving the hospital. The odd feelings of relief and grief together with each painful breath. Thankful that the cancerous tumors were removed but unbelievably sad as I looked down and had nothing but scars and suture tape and foreign plastic objects inside of the holes left behind by removed breasts.

I thought back to the arrival home. My girls so happy to see me. Me so beyond grateful I survived surgery to see them and yet so scared of the treatment road ahead. Going up to my chair where I would sleep for the next five and a half weeks straight. “Settling in” for what would end up a rough recovery. Not being able to even lift my arms. Being foggy from meds. How very very emotional those days and weeks were. So many tears. Counting the losses. Fearful of unknowns. Physical pain from head to toe. Daunted by the long road ahead with many more difficult bridges to come……

Looking back, in and of itself, means that there is hopeful future. Being able to look back today means I have moved forward from that place. I grieve differently…more fully present in it even when it is painful. Hope has a new and far deeper meaning because loss has run through the depths of my soul. I see my children in a new light, how beautiful and resilient and unique they each are. I love my husband in a new and transformed way as we’ve experienced an intimacy only breast cancer can create. I experience relationship with my mom with an altered gratitude for how incredibly selfless and strong she is and always has been. I see future difficulties with a new lens knowing that I can and will survive them even when seemingly impossible.

6 weeks ago I laid on a cold steel table for 6 hours, intubated, catheterized, anesthetized and naked….the epitome of vulnerability…not knowing if I’d wake up but knowing that if I did, I’d never be the same….

I live my life, changed. Each day is different. It was like that before all of this because each day is its own day. But walking through this year, in all of its treachery, has taught me how to be in a new presence. And it has been every bit of the hardest year of my life. And I look to see more difficulty that lies ahead….

That at some point, I will also be able to reflect back on.

It’s also an incredibly difficult thing to be sitting here, grateful I made it through that, yet I remain in the trenches of cancer. This is more like a war rather than a battle…. I’ve battled surgery and while I’ve “won,” the casualties are extensive. And now I find myself on another battleground. Round one of chemo.

And another. My hair has started falling out and will be shaved off on Tuesday.

And another. Round two.

And another. Round three.

And another…

And another…….

And another………..

Today I spent time in reflection of where I’ve been. I also looked at mastectomy tattoos….for the day that I can look back again.

It Has To :: 10/21/18 :: Post 403

I’ve heard this a couple of times in the past few weeks:

Joy and happiness are two very different things.
Happiness is based on circumstances that are good.
Joy is peace, patience, perseverance and perspective in all things…in all circumstances good and bad.
Joy is gratitude even in the pain.
Joy is hope.

I hurt like hell tonight. This revision has definitely been harder than the first. But I hold joy even in my confusion. Even in my pain.

This all will matter. It has to.

October 21 of 31 :: 10/21/19 :: Post 766

I’m bitter. 

Tonight that is all I’m feeling.

Some days I can hold two opposing feelings or experiences or realities or expressions at the same time. Most days I can make sense of the bad through a filter of gratitude. Often I can remain authentic in the ‘ick’ while also authentically appreciating what perspective the ‘ick’ offers. 

Today…I’m just bitter at cancer. I hate what it’s taken. I hate what it’s destroyed. I literally cannot get those things back. Sure I can find “a new normal” and certainly I am capable of joy and laughter and undoubtedly I’ve written many times about how I like who I am now more than who I was before diagnosis…. but my devastating reality is that there are things I really loved before cancer hit that are gone. All gone. 

…Body parts. 
…Pain-free sitting. Or standing. Or laying down. Or walking. 
…A settled stomach. 
…Feeling where nerves were severed. 
…Intimacy and pre-cancer-everything-works-like-it’s-supposed-to sex (sorry if that’s TMI, but they definitely didn’t prepare me for that and no one talks about it).
…A normal rationale when I have a sore throat or a headache or swollen ankles. 
…100% capacity. 

Cancer, I despise you. 

Breast Cancer Awareness Month…

…Day twenty one – I appreciate the authenticity when people tell me that they don’t have any words or they don’t know what to say. The ability to simply accept whatever reality I share is far greater a gift than any words.