Countdown: 12 Days

Only 12 more days until reconstruction surgery. I'm losing weight and my therapist thinks it might be as a result of the adrenaline surging through my body. The closer I get, the more anxious I become.

I don't have any fear that the surgery won't go well. I chose M.D. Anderson because they 're experts at breast cancer and my plastic surgeon has performed this operation hundreds of times. I'm anxious because I don't wish to be hurt anymore. I'm tired of constantly being hurt in one way or another for the past year.

I start to think of it--the drains, the alcohol swabs, the pain--and it makes me terrified. I can't stand the smell of rubbing alcohol from my previous two surgeries (the surgical biopsy and mastectomy). They will make me eat chicken broth, which is another thing I hate from my last hospital stay.

The bed I was in the last time I was there was designed to prevent bed sores, I think. It periodially inflated itself in some places, especially if I changed position. The mattress would compensate by poofing up in some other area. It made a mechanical noise every time it moved and it used to wake me up every time.

I was sick for a couple of days after my mastectomy. Nurses would come in and tell me to drink water. Whenever I drank water and immediately threw up.

I try to console myself with the thought that I will have a new breast when it's all over. Pain trumps the thought of looking normal again. I don't want to do this, but I'm going to have to do it.

Breast Cancer Has Been Good to Me

"Every act of conscious learning requires the willingness to suffer an injury to one's self-esteem. That is why young children, before they are aware of their own self-importance, learn so easily." ~ Thomas Szasz

Even sugar couldn't help me yesterday. I was in a black mood all day. When I got home, I had a card from an old high school friend of mine. She included one of those holiday update letters that people seem to like to send. It sounds like things are going well for her and, though I'm certainly glad for her, it further damaged the day. It hasn't been a good year for me. That goes without saying. I don't have any business comparing myself to her or anyone else, though. Things are what they are.

I'm feeling better today. Nothing has changed, of course, but I'm not interested in questioning too much for fear of slipping down into the darkness again. I really hate that.

I've been thinking maybe I've lost some weight in the past couple of months. I never weigh myself. When I started working out regularly, I actually gained weight by adding muscle mass. I can always judge more accurately by how my clothes fit. I put on a pair of jeans this morning and they were a little loose, even though they were just washed. A month or so ago, I had trouble getting into them.

I'm never hungry anymore. I guess that's been going on since I finished up chemo. For a while, I chalked it up to radiation, but it's been five months since that was over. I know when my stomach is empty for too long, but I don't ever feel hungry. It makes it difficult to tell when I've eaten enough...or too much. After lunch, I didn't feel like eating the rest of the day. I made myself eat a tangerine around 6:00 p.m. because I definitely didn't get enough fruits or veggies earlier. That was all I had, though.

I generally end up feeling a little sick after I eat, so I'm really never particularly interested in food. I'm not sure why it makes me not feel well. My mom speculated this morning that maybe I've been worried about the upcoming surgery. (Surgery countdown: 17 days) I've definitely been anxious.

For a while now, I've been working hard to silence the little Fascist inside my head. It's some remnant of my childhood self that really marshaled all of my personal forces to successfully escape from the kind of life my parents had. I had tough expectations of myself. Any misstep was cause for severe self denigration. If I wasn't perfect, I was a terrible person.

The little girl in the brown shirt still thinks she needs to monitor my behavior. Not only does she punish for current imperfections, she also has a very long memory. I can still drift into "I'm a terrible person. I hate myself." very easily, even for things I did when I was 8.

However, every day now, I remind myself that I'm worthy of love. I'm worthy of the same level of kindness I extend to everyone else. When the little Fascist pops up, I'm more able now to stop the accusations.

It's a sad thing that I've only recently been consistently aware of that voice. For years, whenever my mind was unoccupied or whenever I wasn't completely pleased with my behavior, the haranguing began automatically. I'm hardly ever completely pleased with my behavior or, if the behavior is okay, my motivations are questionable. The nasty little voice was a constant companion.

At some point, I would notice that voice, but I wasn't necessarily able to stop it. I didn't necessarily believe that I should stop it. Hey, it worked for me for years. Why stop now?

I'm stopping now because I have breast cancer. Breast cancer has been very, very good to me. I'm a lot kinder to myself. I've had a lot of time to sit around on my sofa and listen to whatever comes up in my head. I don't need that voice anymore. It's no longer critical that I work so hard to be a good person, a hard-working person, to be completely beyond reproach in every way. It took this catastrophic illness to recognize that.

To revisit the beginning of this post, I'm alive. I'm not in pain. I know for right now that I'm doing the best I can. In some ways, it hasn't been a bad year at all.

Official Surgery Countdown Begins

"I don't know why we are here, but I'm pretty sure that it is not in order to enjoy ourselves." ~ Ludwig Wittgenstein

I can tell it's getting time for a new oncological procedure. I have once again completely let go. Letting go followed quickly on the heels of detachment and dissociation.

Last weekend, I ran a red light. This is not a thing I would normally do. I know lots of people do it several times a day, a little like Russian Roulette. I tend to stop for caution lights unless it looks like the asshole behind me has absolutely no intention of slowing down and that, if I don't keep going, I will probably be launched through my windshield. I didn't even see it. That was a very frightening experience, soI let my mom drive the rest of the day. After it happened, I could definitely feel a slight fuzziness in thought process. I could tell there were fairly large areas in my brain where there were no synapses firing.

Then I went to do my weekly grocery shopping. I'm a very decisive woman. My motto used to be, "If you need a decision, just call me and I'll make it." As I wandered through the aisles, I would periodically find myself just standing there, blanked out, unable to decide whether I should get bread or whether I even needed to go down Aisle 9.

Chemo brain, I thought. I've read it can go on for a decade after one finishes chemotherapy. Last Monday, more chemo brain. Standing in the middle of my bedroom, wondering which clothes to put on. I took four or five shirts out of the closet and ended up leaving them on the bed. The plan was to wear jeans. Then I thought maybe I just needed to switch to a skirt and that would solve my blouse impasse. Wrong again. I took out several skirts and they made their way onto the bed, too. Finally, after standing there for a while longer, I decided to go with a dress. Ah, yes. That way you only have to pick the appropriate shoes for the dress. I was up for that task.

I mentioned to Therapist that I was having this standing around like a deer in the headlights problem and I attributed it to the chemicals still floating around in my body or lodged in places like my liver. I noted my irritation and frustration. She parried with her diagnosis of dissociation.

That might explain my general level of detachment I've noticed for the past couple of weeks. It makes perfect sense. What do I do when I'm anxious? I dissociate. Does the upcoming surgery make me anxious? That word doesn't begin to describe how I feel.

I'm still detached, but I managed to get through grocery shopping on Sunday and getting dressed this morning without aimlessly standing around. I had a little panic attack last night, but then I suddenly remembered that I'm not in control here. Oh yeah! I can let go. So I did. Whatever happens will happen and I'll get through the week in the hospital with God's grace. I don't have to worry about those five days.

This phenomenon seems to be limited to breast cancer-related issues. I may not be able to let go in any other situation, but there seems to be an automatic on/off switch when it comes to breast cancer. Suddenly I'm on autopilot and at peace with whatever comes. I'd really, really like it if they would stop hurting me, but my life has never been about what I like or dislike. It has always been about what must be done. I'm okay with that. I mean, I might as well be because who cares what I want? Not the universe, obviously.

The current surgery countdown is 22 days.

Surgery Countdown

On Friday, my therapist asked me what my plans were for Christmas. I was dumbfounded. Plans? I'm supposed to be making plans? Well I don't have any. My big plan is to hide from myself as long as possible how quickly January 8 is looming on the calendar.

Nonetheless, I'm festively attired and jingling still. How can I sustain both? Well, that's why people call me "complex." It's just one more dichotomy amongst many others. I haven't done any Christmas shopping. I don't even have any plans to shop. I haven't decorated my house. I haven't participated in thinking about a menu. I try not to hear Christmas songs, even though they're absolutely inescapable.

I lose track of days and months. Have we gotten through winter yet? I actually had to think about that question over the weekend. Let's see...I know it's not May. Are we close to May, though?

I rode my stationary bike on Saturday and, instead of feeling a bit more energized, I just ended up feeling more exhausted than when I started. That fatigue followed me all day yesterday and today I still seem to be at least partially brain dead.

Breast Cancer Has Been Good to Me

I've been blithering on all week, so just a short post today.

When my hair came back after chemo, it came back really curly. I used to have a few small waves in my hair, but most of it was straight. The waves used to drive me crazy because they always ended up ruining my hairstyle in one way or another. As a matter of fact, before cancer treatment, the hair I currently have would have driven me crazy. It's impossible to style and kind of curls in unexpected places and directions. The hair right over my ears flips forward towards my face. People tell me they can't believe I ever had long hair. They think the current length is fabulous. It's about 1.5 to 2 inches long. I'm happy. I'm just happy to have hair. I've come to be very accepting about things that would have made me miserable a year ago. Yay for breast cancer!

Surgery is looming in front of me. January 8. Whenever the thought enters my mind, I have to banish it almost immediately. It's terribly anxiety-provoking. The thought of being in a hospital for a week, the thought of the nausea/vomiting I experienced during the first two surgeries, the prospect of having a couple of drains attatched to my body--it's all pretty awful to contemplate. Over and above all that, the nagging question is, when will they stop hurting me? I'm tired of being hurt. Really, really tired.

However, my choice to do this now does have some up sides. I like to think that, in the not too distant future, I can be through with the hurting. I will also have a breast again. That's very exciting. My prosthetic breast has developed what I like to think of as continental drift. It edges its way towards the center of my chest. It's kind of like a breast unicorn or something. I just try to find a private place and rassle the damn thing back over to the side. I have no idea why it started doing this. I've lost some weight, so that may be part of the problem. The thing is, I'm okay even with that.

There's nothing like a year of cancer treatment to increase your ability to accept where you are physically. Weird ass hair, breast in the middle of my chest...it's all good to me. Seriously, breast cancer, though I wish I never had it, has been a good thing in many ways. However, this is about as much growth in self-acceptance that I'm ready to have right now. I'd rather not deal with the prospect of cancer returning somewhere. Breast cancer can metastasize in various places throughout the body, but no matter where it is, it's always still breast cancer. Enough, enough! No more growth experiences!

Having said that, I'm putting all of this out of my mind for the day. The breast unicorn is signing off for the week.