My Own Private Terrorist Attack

A number of people have asked me if I feel like having breast cancer has given me a “second chance” at life. And certainly the “second chance” theme infiltrates so much of the literature about surviving cancer. It may just be a matter of semantics, but the very phrase “second chance” makes me quail. This may be, at least in part, because I’ve done a lousy job with all the second chances I’ve had in my life.

Anyone who thinks that second chances are precious, are rare, just hasn’t mastered the fine art of ducking out on things. I feel like I’ve had ample opportunity to reinvent myself throughout my life—new schools in childhood, new cities as an adult, college, career, divorce—and every time I’ve ended up tossed around, tumbled dry, and out the same imperfect soul. I’m not saying that Incarnation Number One of me was right from the very start; I’m suggesting that change isn’t my forte.

And “second chance” sounds so nigh-fatal, as though I wrested my fate as it dangled from the Scythe—Phew! That was a close one!

Okay, I don’t like to admit it, but in some senses that’s a little true. It’s just not true in that “right in the nick of time” sense. There was wiggle room, albeit not room for a big ol’ wiggle; my doctors weren’t gasping for breath and wiping their brows after my surgery—no high fives all around for defusing the C-bomb just before the ticker ran out.

Given my track record, this is better than a second chance, really. Having breast cancer carries with it not a clean slate, but one marked with a prescribed message.

Having breast cancer is like my 9/11. In the months following 9/11, everyone suddenly loved the United States. We were flooded in sentiment and affection. It didn’t matter what we were like on September 10; no one cared about that on September 12.

(You don’t have to agree with my politics to understand the analogy, but it helps).

I haven’t been offered a second chance with my diagnosis. It’s more like redemption, of a sort. I am awash in admiration and good will. There is this persona lingering in the periphery, a costume I could slip into if I wish.

Just two days after I shaved my head, a woman stopped me on the street to tell me how brave I am. And even though I’m only halfway through chemo so far, if I had a dime for every moment like that I’d have more than enough to buy a pack of cigarettes (A little dark cancer humor there). I am unwaveringly floored by the kind sentiments of strangers, but I’m no longer shocked speechless when someone says, “You go, girl!” when I walk by. When asked who her hero was on a college questionnaire, a student wrote that I was the bravest person she knew. “You’re gorgeous bald,” said a co-worker with whom I’d never shared a conversation before, “And you have to know that you’re sending such a powerful message to the girls you teach.” In the first four days back at work, I was given every compliment in the book by every manner of coworker—those who like me, those who didn’t, and those that never gave me a passing thought before. There are people praying for me that I’ve never met and probably never will. Even the grumpy guy who hadn’t spoken to me since last September shot me a smile in the hallway.

The post-cancer me is like the United States on September 12, 2001.

But this is not a second chance, not a blank slate. It’s a tremendous opportunity. Suddenly everyone thinks the world of me; where before was indifference is now admiration, where was dislike is now forgiveness. In everyone’s eyes I am a far better person than I was before cancer, and I didn’t have to do anything to earn it except keep showing up

But what did we do in the months following 9/11? And what did we do with all that love and goodwill? We squandered it. We blew it. We took advantage of the fact that the world felt sorry for us and used it as license to do unspeakable things. We blew it, post-9/11, or rather our government blew it for us. Imagine what the world would be like right now, if we’d spent the past seven years using our good stead with the world community to combat disease and poverty and environmental degradation. Imagine if we’d combined all the trillions of dollars we’ve poured into this ill-conceived war with all the support that was initially offered to us by the world community after the terrorist attacks. Our government turned away from perhaps the greatest diplomatic opportunity ever offered to this country.

I don’t want to be that same ninny. I don’t want to look back on this period in my life five years from now and think, “if I only had that same break again.” Please, God, I don’t want this same break again.

Can I be wiser than my government? Yes, I think I can.

Day 18: the Perils of too much Alone Time

Overall, today has been a pretty good day. Yesterday was not so good. (I just gave the blog the once-over and realized that I'd added the tag "fears" to an early post. Yeesh, like EVERY post isn't about my fears).

Yesterday was my appointment with Glamour Shots. Probably, in the end, an enormous waste of money (what a racket that is! I had a coupon but still dropped some serious cash to order three 8X10's. Normally each photo you order is $60). The women there were very sympathetic and did seem to "hear" me when I stressed that the photos should "look like me, only better." I did engage in some serious eye-rolling when they whipped out the rose petals and sunglasses. But in the end, the hair and makeup person did a great job, and I found three nice pictures out of the several dozen that they took. The photo service will "glamourize" the photos with some serious airbrushing, but I couldn't get over the fact that even all made-up and gorgeous, I looked tired and old.

And if I hadn't been in a funk up til that point (and I was already calf-deep in the funk), that certainly sent me on a spiral downward.

I didn't really recover until this morning, and even then I don't know what put me back in a saner frame of mind. I guess being productive helps (I tend to make things a zillion times worse when I am blue by becoming a lazy lard-ass and then feeling even worse about myself for being such a slug). I graded around 30 papers this morning, probably more generously than normal. Then I headed out to the Kentucky Flea Market, which was, in the end, a fun goofy time. Swung by Borders and picked up a gift for a departing colleague and Lowes for some paint. Then passed by the house, picked up some cds that I'd loaded onto the iPod and brought them to Half-Priced Books, where I traded them for $20 and five bargain hardcover mysteries.

Then back to Quills. And here I am.

In retrospect, I didn't really get much of substance done today, but at least it kept me out of my own brain for most of the day.

There's a lesson to be learned here. Something about "it doesn't matter how much you think about shit... yadda yadda." Or something about "idle hands... yadda yadda." Mostly, "don't give into the dark side." Or something like that. Because let me tell you, I've been leasing to own in the dark side for the past eighteen days. And that ain't good.

It's also been very not good for me to be alone all this time. I swore up and down to Jason and to Ma that I would be A-OK for six days on my own. Not entirely true. Not entirely untrue either. I just should have been more proactive about finding someone to have fun with this weekend, rather than wallow 24/7 da solo.

Day 11: Weekend Musings

So, Ma is coming on May 27. We talked on Friday when I heard about the surgery. I told her that she should plan on staying a week. She said, "No, ten days." I said, "Please make sure you make a reservation on Southwest or something you can change. You have to understand that I will only start feeling good when I can take care of myself." And we, I thought, left it at that.

She emailed me her flight plan this morning and she reserved for 14 days. Again, trying very hard to balance her needs and my needs. I thought 10 days was a fair balance. What do I say now?

The public-ness of my cancer is getting a little exhausting. Colleagues I don't even know ask me about my surgery. I'm getting emails from parents of students I've never taught. I'm grateful. Really. I don't want to sound like a shit who's worn out by all her well-wishers. It's just contrary to my nature. I have a well-earned reputation among my friends and family as being a person who hibernates when things in my life turn ugly.

I have no doubt that I have actually lost friends because of my solitary nature. Certainly during my divorce I turned away nearly every offer of help and solace that I was offered. I was embarrassed. (And believe me, that's a story for a whole 'nother blog) And that kind of pain is pain I would much, much rather sit on and let hatch into whatever ugly thing it was going to turn into.

But I find myself having to re-wire my brain to handle this.

There's a lot of re-wiring going on.

As I worked on "coming down" from my prom meltdown, I realized that I had only just begun to think of the larger, long term consequences of even a best-case scenario. Best case scenario being that I have the mastectomy, they test my lymph nodes and discover that it hasn't spread, and by some good grace they also decide to forgo chemo and radiation. Breasts gone, but otherwise only the reconstruction process to face. (Let's all pause for a moment to give a little cheer for best case scenarios)

Best case scenario, I'll never breastfeed a child. Okay. I can handle that. Truth be told, I've always been weired out by the idea of breastfeeding. Still, though, we all know now that breastfeeding is the way to go. Any future child of mine will not have the many advantages that breastfeeding offers. I wasn't breastfed.

Best case scenario, I'll never have sex with the girls again. In fact, I'll never find sexual pleasure from my breasts again. I'm still processing this. This, to me, seems like the best case scenario's greatest tragedy. And, I have a feeling, that as I lie in my hospital bed waiting for the surgery, I expect that this will be one of the things most on my mind. Truth be told, this thought has all the makings of Meltdown #2. I'm just not there yet. It's still just a ghost in the periphery.

But let's put that thought aside for now.

So, Jason leaves town on Wednesday. That means a whole week almost of me alone with the girls and my thoughts. He pressed me to have my mother come early (and in retrospect, if I'd pushed for that, maybe I wouldn't be looking at 12 days post-surgery with Ma). He said, "You may not realize it, but I've been subtly trying to keep you busy." I had realized it. This is his busiest time of year and yet he's been pushing for outings and projects. Today we repainted the front porch; and while the porch needed repainting, it's way low on the list of things we need to do around the humble abode.

Impending hospitalization and knowledge that it could be a month before I'm able to really "work" again is a good kick in the keister insofar as getting stuff done is concerned. This weekend not only did we repaint the porch floor and the front door, we planted my vegetable garden, weeded extensively; I cleaned out my car and got him a new battery. I've been better about cleaning up after myself and doing laundry and dishes.

I worry about keeping myself occupied during my recovery. Even when I go to bed at night, I dwell on the fact that I sleep best on my stomach or my side and that will be impossible for a while. Will I be able to hold a book? All I want to do is read. The crazy geek that I am, I thought that this might be a perfect time to learn a new language, and my first thought was that I've always wanted to learn sign language, but will it hurt too much to use my hands and arms in that way? I'm a huge TV fan, but recently our sattelite has decided that it can't "see" over a tree that grew gigantic during the spring. No local networks for us now. So I figure I can rent seasons of TV shows that I've missed, but what's really worth watching? So far all I've decided upon is Battlestar Galactica.

It's nice to dwell on minutia like that every once in a while. Better than thinking about sex without my breasts or whether or not chemo will fuck with my already questionable fertility. Or facing surgery without Jason to hold my hand. Or whether or not the fact that I've had weird cramps in my gut is a sign that the cancer has spread. Or that one in ten women have to have their breast expanders removed and reconstruction postponed because of infection. Or that I will most definitely not be able to use my ticket to Bonnaroo this year. Or that in the heat of June, I'll have to wear clothing that conceals the drain bulbs from my surgery. Or that I will not be able to weed and care for the garden of tomatos and peppers and peas that I just planted. Or that I will not be well enough to be able to use the $2300 grant that I received from my school this year. Or that I may have to have chemo and will lose the hair it took me three years to grow and that I may have a funny-looking head and will not be able to pull of the Sinead O'Connor badass cool look that I like to pretend I'll be able to pull off. I don't want to wear a wig. I want to be bald and beautiful if I have to. That's a big issue for me.

Sigh. Great thought process to have before I go to bed.