Things I don't generally like to admit

"Change alone is unchanging." ~ Heraclitus

I'm feeling a little spaced out today. I missed taking one of my antidepressants for a couople of days and it makes me feel a little like I'm having an acid flashback. Not in a good way.

I'm still living in denial about what's going to happen next week. I spent a lot of time trying to get my mind right about losing a breast and I still haven't come to terms with it. I'll just have to deal with it when the time comes.

Have I talked about how ironic it is that this is happening to me? I was abused over a period of years when I was a very young child. I had a father who absolutely could not keep his dick in his pants. I have this rock solid idea floating just below the surface of consciousness that women are valuable to men to the extent that they're physically attractive. See, I don't even like to admit that to myself. My intellect rejects that idea. I am, after all, a feminist.

My breasts have been one of my best features since I was a teenager. Now if it were butt cancer, that might be different. I'm not crazy about my butt and I never have been. Mainly because I don't really have one. Well, I have one now because I work out like crazy and I have well developed gluteous muscles. I've never herd of gluteous cancer before, so I'm not sure that's even in the range of options.

No one ever thought I was very pretty until I was about 18. Lots of people thought I was beautiful after that age and up until at least my early 40's. Some people still do, but that's just because they love me, I think. It's been a hard thing to give up, even though I'm very aware of the many other aspects of myself that are interesting. Nonetheless, it's a hard thing to come to terms with.

I anticipate being a much different person at this time next year. I don't recall when I started to be uneasy with the concept of change, but I'm definitely a little anxious about it now. I suppose that's why I'm so fond of the Nina Simone song, "Everything Changes." It's a heartbreakingly beautiful song. Everything does indeed change, all of the time.

I think there are definitely parts of one's personality that become solidified and resistant to change pretty early on. I'll always be an introvert. I'll always be intellectually curious. I'm sure there are other qualities that I came equipped with at birth that just are what they are. There is a fair amount of damage that was inflicted on me at a very early age that also seems to be immutable.

The ways that those qualities are manifested in my behavior have probably changed over time. Or not. Scientists can't tease out which is weightier--nature or nurture. I'm certainly not going to be able to figure it out. But I digress.

Right now, I think the challenge will be to open to whatever lessons are available to me throughout the coming year. I hope I'm able to recognize them when they become available to me and, having recognized them, embrace them. It's a tall order, I know. May I keep my heart and mind open. It's about the best I could wish for.

America held hostage day 1362
Bushism of the day:
# "First, let me make it very clear, poor people aren't necessarily killers. Just because you happen to be not rich doesn't mean you're willing to kill."
—Bush, speaking about terrorism and poverty
Source: Public Papers of the Presidents, "The President's News Conference With President Macapagal-Arroyo of the Philippines," May 26, 2003

Website of the day; Sacred Text Archive
http://www.sacred-texts.com/index.htm

New Surgery Date

Hurricane Rita postponed the surgery, but today they rescheduled me for October 5. I still have to get there a day early so they can do the CT scan and anesthesiology thing. I asked the physician's assistant, Lori, if we couldn't just postpone it a bit longer until the plastic surgery guy is available. She had mentioned he was booked through November when we first discussed this. Now I guess he's busy through January.

I'm incredibly bummed out. I finally just gave up the whole idea of getting my mind right about this. It isn't going to happen. I'll just have to come to terms with it after the surgery. Or maybe I'll never come to terms with it. I just have to get through it, one way or the other.

Hurricane

The hurricane is threatening to ruin the upcoming trip to the hospital. It would be fine with me to postpone the mastectomy a bit longer, but the nodule problem is making me completely nutty. I'm still planning on going, but I understand that they're evacuating Houston, so that doesn't bode well. I'm unconvinced that the weather forecasters know what they're talking about. Hurricanes are unpredictable creatures who like to veer off suddenly into unanticipated directions.

Of course, on the up side, if I still needed a reservation in Houston, I'd probably be able to get one now. I don't need a reservation, though.

Farewell sex was better than I anticipated. I've been so uncomfortable with my poor mangled breast and I was afraid that would make it hard to have my husband touch it. I was afraid he wouldn't touch it because I think I needed some reassurance that it doesn't ick him out. What a sweetheart!

Tests and Farewell Sex

My surgery is scheduled for September 26. In the meantime, I have to go Friday for more tests! Yet another CT scan (I'm guessing it's of the breast, but no one has seen fit to tell me, the patient) and another chest x-ray. They're also taking blood, but that's not a big deal. I just want them to stop. Stop it. Just stop it.

The people at my office have arranged for a massage on Thursday morning. I can't wait. I love massages, but I haven't scheduled one all summer because of my breast. It sometimes still feels very painful to touch and that's completely unpredictable. Sometimes I have no pain, sometimes I do. Makes it a little hard to plan.

Hubby and I are having farewell sex this evening. I'm not sure how open I'll be to that with one breast missing. Just in case, I'm giving him (and me) one last hurrah. Who knows, I may schedule in another tomorrow night. You have to have something to look forward to, you know.

A Year Without My Breast

Before we can become who we really are, we must become conscious of the fact that the person who we think we are, here and now, is at best an impostor and a stranger. - Thomas Merton

I'm just back from the city where I'm being treated for breast cancer. Shortly after I returned yesterday, my surgeon's physician's assistant called me to tell me she can't schedule the plastic surgeon until the end of November. In addition to the mastectomy, I'm also scheduled for a bone marrow test and they'll install the port through which I'll receive chemotherapy. None of us feels particularly comfortable with waiting that long. My other option is to have the mastectomy done on September 26 and leave things as they are until later. Much, much later. Lori informed me that I won't be having reconstructive surgery for a year. Once again, I was not prepared for that news.

As a survivor of sexual abuse and the weirdest fucking childhood of anyone I know, the mastectomy triggers a lot fear. It's a terror that is both predictable and astounding.

My breasts and I have always had an unusual relationship. On the one hand, they were one of my very best features. Even as I've gotten older, they haven't begun to sag. On the other hand, I've had more men hold conversations with them than I can count. It can be annoying beyond compare to try to have a serious, intellectual discussion with someone whose eyes never get above my chest. On the other hand, breasts are the source of enormous power. That hasn't mattered as much after I met my husband. My hubby loves my breasts. On the face of it, you'd think that would be a good thing. It is a good thing until one of them is getting ready to disappear for a year.

I know Hubby loves me for much more than The Girls. He loves my intelligence and sense of humor, my gentleness and compassion, my creativity and humor. Nonetheless, I find that I'm terrified that he'll leave me when only one of The Girls shows up to party on date nights. It's so hard for me to confront those fears and I think that, no matter how much reassurance he gives me, I probably won't be able to rid myself of them.

That's because the problem is me, not him. When you've spent many years of your life reaping the benefits of being pretty, you just have to start to wonder if the world will be more difficult to navigate when that's no longer a factor. Do I have something to offer the world other than the way I look? Of course. Maybe I'm just uncertain as to whether other people can recognize those things.

I hate it that I feel this way. If, twenty years ago, someone had told me that there would come a time when I would be afraid of losing my attractiveness, I would have told them they were fucking idiots. And yet. Here I am. I can't help but think that this ha something to do with the values with which I was raised. Specifically, the idea that men really are shallow assholes who only respond to women's sexuality.

In my house, if the woman wasn't having sex the right way (i.e., the way my dad wanted it), then one could be replaced. Or one could be beaten until they got it right. Sex was the be all, end all. You cannot imagine how wrenching it is to write about this. It feels like something inside of me is being ripped apart. No matter how much I may identify myself as a feminista, the bottom line is that it seems I've adopted those values. It's just one of those nasty little secrets I've kept from myself.

I suppose the opportunitiy to be seized in this situation is a greater acceptance of myself, without regard to how I look. I suppose I should use this time to test the assumptions I've made about men and about me. Opportunities abound. I guess the question I'm left with is whether I'm strong enough to see them and, having seen them, can I find my way to embrace whoever will be still standing at the end of this year. I know she will not be the same woman who now sits here, typing.

More Tests

This will be the last blog for a little while because I'm going out of town (back to the hospital) tomorrow morning and won't return until at least Thursday afternoon. I had made a reservation at my usual hotel, but I discovered this morning that I didn't make one for tomorrow night. Oh, no problem, I thought, all of the evacuees are probably living in quarters that are a little more convenient and a little less pricey, given the long-term nature of their hejira. Wrong. Wrong in a big way. I tried to add a day to my existing reservation, but they were booked up. I called my mother and gave her some numbers to call of hotels close to the hospital and I went online to see if I could track something down. I found another hotel, same chain as my usual, but it was downtown and extremely expensive. Then I found a hotel they chose to describe as "high rise." It was very close to the medical center, but it could definitely be iffy accomodations and the most important thing to me is to be as comfortable as humanly possible. My mom found one that's pretty close, we think. I ended up cancelling all reservations for tomorrow except for the one my mom made. I don't know how I managed to get myself so confused about the dates of my medical tests, although I think it likely has something to do with the fact that I don't want to go.

That's been the almost incessant litany this weekend. I do not want to go do this. That kind of inner chatter just annoys the hell out of me. I used to do it all the time about working out. I'd start at around 3 p.m., with my regular workout time scheduled for around 7 p.m.: "I don't want to work out." "You have to." "Yeah, but I'm tired and I just don't see why I shouldn't take a break." "You have to work out." Finally, of course, I would just do it. I finally managed to find a way to break out of that stupid incessant arguing with myself, but I haven't been able to transfer it to the breast cancer scenario. My current response to not wanting to go is, "It'll be okay. I'll get it over with and everything will be okay." Oh yeah. That's really helpful. About twenty minutes later, I get to start the argument all over again.

Hubby's performance is imploding because of his co-author's atrocious behavior. He's managed to get fired from the production, which is so impressive, really. How does the co-author get fired? Now he wants to renegotiate rights to archival materials, script, et., etc. The performance is this coming weekend. My husband seems to be dealing with all of this relatively well. I know he's already stressed out about my breast cancer tests, so I'm sure this magnifies it exponentially.

That's all there is today because that's all the time I have.

Two Questions and the Answer

Whosoever wishes to know about the world must learn about it in its particular details.
Knowledge is not intelligence.
In searching for the truth be ready for the unexpected.
Change alone is unchanging.
The same road goes both up and down.
The beginning of a circle is also its end.
Not I, but the world says it: all is one.
And yet everything comes in season.

Heraklietos of Ephesos


Yesterday, I found myself pondering two questions.
Does god hate me?
Does the relentless afflictions in my life really reflect god's profound love for me, because god knows I'm up for it?

I really get tired sometimes of endlessly bucking up and surviving the nasty things that seem to follow me around in life, right from the beginning until today. I generally try not to see the broad panorama of my life because it's just a bit much to embrace. First there was my parents, then my uncle, then a rape, then a suicide and, finally, breast cancer. I would really appreciate it if the universe would just give me a break for a while.

I'm already getting anxious about my upcoming visit to the hospital. It will be a fun-filled adventure featuring CT scans, a bone scan and more blood work. The blood work is just a small blip on the radar screen, but the thought of having to lie still on a table for two hours is unnerving. When I had surgery, they made several attempts to do an MRI so I was on and off that table several times. By the time I got to the surgery holding area (I know there's another word for that, but my word is more indicative of how it felt), my lower back was in so much pain. Too much pressure applied for too long in that area. After they put a pillow under my knees, I was much better. There will be no pillow this time. I've been waking up at 5:00 a.m. lately and, though I'd like to blame it all on the corticosteroids I'm taking for poison ivy, I know that anxiety plays a role, too.

It's okay. Telling myself over and over that I don't want to do these things is really stupid and counterproductive. Somewhere in here the universe is sending me a message. Ultimately, I believe it is a message of love and growth. Staying open to that understanding waxes and wanes. If I get too absorbed in the suffering aspects, it may just prolong my inability to see clearly the potential for positive changes.

Sometimes Ignorance is a Blessing

After deciding I could read just a tiny bit in my "Living Through Breast Cancer" book, I was demoralized once again. I have yet to find even one sentence in that book that hasn't upset me. I know that's what happens; it happens every single time I open the damn book. Nonetheless, I don't seem to be able to stop myself. I'll think, "Oh, this part will be okay. This is past all of the torture stuff." Finally, I've figured it out. I can not have the book in my house. My mother volunteered to take it and she even offered to read it. I don't really wish for her to read it because it's too upsetting. Obviously, I don't have any control over whether she reads it, so I've let that go. As she started to leave with the book on Sunday, I had this panic attack and I tried to get it back from her. She's not going to give me the book back. Damn.

I've moved on to a book written by Bernie Siegel, M.D. He's a surgeon who's handled a lot of cancer cases. I had to call a halt to reading that book because his premise is that those of us who get cancer do so because they've given up on life. What the hell is that supposed to mean? Isn't that just blaming the victim? I have most certainly not given up on life. Sometimes I take a brief hiatus, but I always regain my will to engage in life. The fact that I have this blog is ample evidence that I haven't give up anything. I have, in fact, reclaimed something that I'd stopped doing long ago. If I was going to give up on life, I would have done it in 1965, after my suicide attempt. I guess I'm going to finish the book--because I compulsively do that--but I don't agree with his central premise.