Aug13

I just can’t

I have a confession to make.

I can’t talk to God about my cancer.

sister-prayer-new-high-score-funny-memeI was raised Catholic, went to Church every weekend as a child and happily wore a white dress and veil for my First Communion. (I much less happily wore the red robe for my Confirmation; red is sooo not my color). And then I decided I didn’t need Church or God and so walked away from the Church for a number of years. I still believed in God. I still even prayed on occasion. Every final exam season during law school saw me dragging my rosary beads out from under a stack of books, trashy magazines and caramel Nips wrappers on my nightstand and praying like a cloistered nun that I would pass whatever I was taking that semester. Once exams were over, the rosary beads would once again be buried under the detritus next to my bed.

When my husband and I decided to get married, we knew that we would get married in the Church, despite the fact that neither of us had been to Mass for years (with the stereotypical exceptions of Christmas and Easter).

We met with a priest at a local church and this guy was hardcore. He wanted us to meet with him for an hour or two a week for six months. He didn’t believe that the Church adequately prepared couples for marriage and that he saw it as his job to make sure that we knew that marriage was a sacrament and that we acted accordingly.

There is a lot to be said for religious guilt, because we did meet with him every week for six months. And while a lot of it seemed unnecessary, we did start going back to Church. We did start praying again, not just for gifts from God like a closer parking spot or another Super Bowl win for the Patriots, but for the things that really matter, like health and patience and strength. And another Super Bowl win for the Patriots.

Even when I wasn’t a faithful member of the Church, I did always believe that everything happened for a reason. And I believe that God directed us to that particular church and that particular hardcore priest because He knew that tough times were ahead. He knew that having a family wasn’t going to be as easy for us as opening a bottle of wine and queuing up Barry White on the ipod and letting nature take its course. He knew that we were going to need our faith to get through infertility and loss and heartache.

Oh, how I prayed to get pregnant. And to stay pregnant. I prayed to God. And the Virgin Mary. And a whole litany of saints. I wore a St. Gerard medal pinned to my bra (that was a fun conversation with the TSA). We went to special Masses for those hoping to conceive. It was all prayer for babies, all the time.

My prayers and my faith never stopped throughout our journey to become parents, even when loss brought us to our knees. The first phone call I made after I delivered our quints was to our priest to make funeral arrangements. There were precious little we could do for them as their parents, but we could give them our faith.

We remain a staple at Mass every Sunday morning. I’m sure there are many who would prefer that we kept our wiggling, stage-whispering, not-so-respectful kids at home, but we are giving them our faith.

But here’s my problem and what’s been weighing on me for the almost 8 months of my diagnosis:

I can’t pray about the cancer.

I’m not mad at God. I don’t blame Him for my diagnosis. I just can’t talk to Him about it.

When I’m on my knees in Church, I have a really hard time bringing it up. You would think that it would be the simplest thing in the world. It sucks and it’s hurting my kids and I didn’t deserve this. But instead, I simply feel resigned to the whole thing. I did believe for a while prior to my diagnosis that I already had my cross to bear. That God wasn’t going to let any other horrible, no-good, rotten, terrible thing happen to me. Yet, here I am. Lopsided and bald and soon-to-be radioactive.

Again, I’m not mad at God that this happened. I’ve accepted that this is my lot in life. I’m not trying to sound like a martyr, but I do believe that perhaps my lot in life is to be the person that people can look at when they’re going through hard times and say, “Well, my life might suck right now, but at least I’m not Meredith.” And I’m OK with that.

I admitted to my Dad early on in my diagnosis that I was having a hard time praying about my situation. I think about his response every day. He told me, Maybe it’s not your job to pray. Maybe you have to let others pray for you.

So that’s what I’ll do. I’ll let others pray for me. And if you are one of those who are praying for me, could you also just let God know I’m not mad at him? I can’t seem to do it myself.

 

 

Posted in breast cancer | Tagged , , , | 4 Comments
Aug07

Happy Birthday to Me!

I turn 44 years old tomorrow. The women in my family tend to live a very long time (both of my grandmothers lived into their 90’s), so chances are that I’m not quite halfway through my life, but I’m certainly within a few years of the halfway mark.

downloadI was always very good at the book learning and if encouraged with ample amounts of alcohol, can still recite the dagger scene from Macbeth. But as much as I like the Bard and all his works, true knowledge comes from actually living. Day in and day out, with all the pain and joy that comes along with it. I probably couldn’t diagram a sentence or solve an algebraic word problem, but I’m infinitely wiser than I was in my youth. (NB: I said “wiser,” not wise. I’m not quite ready to claim that adjective. Maybe in another 44 years.)

Thanks to that accumulation of wisdom, these are ten things that I know to be true:

1. I am so much more than my body. My body is broken. Damaged. Mutilated. But I am none of those. Instead, I am love to my husband, comfort to my children, humor to my friends. Broken and damaged and mutilated as I may be on the outside, on the inside I am still me. Snarky, sarcastic, sensitive, loyal, lazy, Grumpy, Sleepy, Sneezy or Doc – I am more than what’s on the outside.

2. Marriage is a constantly evolving thing. You must make a conscious decision to love someone despite all those tiny, little habits that grate on every tiny, little nerve you have. And I like to think that we do that. But every marriage needs an ally. Ours is TIVO. Seriously, TIVO is the unsung hero of my marriage. We have no need to argue over what to watch. It is all right at our fingertips, there when we want it. So when my husband wants to watch yet another show on alien autopsies or Sasquatch sightings, he can do it when I’m otherwise occupied. And I am free to watch “Grey’s Anatomy” and “Friends” reruns without a running commentary from the other side of the couch. It’s all good.

3. When parking in a lot, if there is an opportunity to for a “pull through” space, take it. Seriously. Why wouldn’t you?

4. Friends come and go. Sometimes its hard to realize that someone who was once so important to you is no longer in your life. Maybe there was a fight. Maybe it was just growing apart. Sometimes you couldn’t care less. Sometimes you’re still bothered years later. But there are always new friendships to nurture and old friendships to treasure. Keep 1 or 2 really close friends throughout your life and you will be much richer for it.

5. You couldn’t pay me to date again.

6. Putting off doctor’s appointments is one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done. I put off getting a mammogram for over three years. Instead of getting my baseline at 40, I didn’t go until 43. And they found a lump. And the lump was cancer. And the cancer was aggressive. And it took my breast. And if I had gone at 40, perhaps it would have been caught earlier. Of course, there is an equal chance that it would not have been found until I was 43. The truth is, I’ll never know and I’ll always wonder. But I won’t be putting off any more appointments.

7. No matter how many times I try, no matter what kind of effort I put in, I will never know how many licks it takes to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop. I have neither the patience nor the inclination to wait to get to that chocolate-y goodness. I’ve learned to live with it.

8. Kids are worth it. They are exhausting and gross and sticky. They will suck everything you have out of you. They will run through your money like a mouse through cheese. They will hunt you down in your own home if they think that you are eating a Snickers bar and not sharing any of it with them. And given a chance to do it all again, I would. In a heartbeat.

9. Kids, as worth it as they are, need to learn to succeed and fail on their own. I refuse to do my kids’ homework. If they ask for help, I will of course oblige. But I will not do the work for them. They need to learn to succeed or fail on their own merit. Everyone always complains about kids getting participation trophies. Participation trophies don’t bother me. Kids coming into school with science experiments clearly done by their parents and screwing with the curve irks the hooey out of me.

10. “I’m Sorry,” “Thank You” and “I Love You” are the three most important phrases you can ever utter. Utter them often.

Posted in breast cancer, husband, kids, mom humor | 2 Comments
Aug01

This Looks Familiar

I’ve spent a lot of time over the last several months reminding myself that things could always be worse. That I’ve actually survived much worse. That the cancer and the surgery and the chemo are not the worst things that have ever happened to me.

green eye

Infertility was harder. Miscarrying was harder. Burying five babies was harder.

There are many, many parallels between how I feel now and how I felt then.

As any woman who has struggled with infertility knows, the only thing you can see when you’re in the thick of temperature taking and injectable drugs and disappointing single lined pregnancy tests is pregnant women. And babies. And pregnant women with babies. It seems that every week the mailman brings at least one birth announcement or baby shower invitation. Babies are everywhere. Pictures of them are shown off at work, Facebook is a minefield of baby-related status updates and suddenly your best group of girlfriends can’t make it for Sunday brunch anymore because they all have babies that kept them up all night long.

And no matter how you try to fawn over the pictures and like the Facebook statuses and remind yourself that it will eventually happen for you, too, the overwhelming feeling is envy. Green-eyed, soul-eating jealousy that makes you hate every woman who calls herself “Fertile Myrtle” or falls accidentally with child. Your baby, if ever you are to conceive him or her, will not be the result of forgetting to put in your diaphragm because you were overcome by the passion of the moment and instead will be conceived in a doctor’s office, with a syringe and a catheter while your husband runs an errand at Home Depot.

What did I do to deserve the pain of trying and failing, month after month? What did those women do that was so right in this life that  made it so easy for them? Was I being punished for somehow not being a good enough person? Did it mean that I was going to be a crappy mom and infertility was just the way to keep me from ruining members of the next generation?

My infertility struggle had a happy ending. I acknowledge that I am incredibly blessed and lucky, because I know that not everyone gets to know my joy. But the scars remain. They’re faded and not noticeable to anyone but me, but they’re there.

I figured that going through something so tragic meant that I was safe from further harm. I remember a conversation with someone who was struggling after the Newtown school shooting, worrying that her kids would never be safe and wondering how you go on in a world so f’d up. I remember very plainly saying that I chose to believe that the worst thing that could ever possibly happened to me had indeed already happened and that nothing else that was thrown at me could ever be that bad.

Enter the cancer.

And again, I say, carrying quintuplets and losing them after five months is the absolute worst thing I can imagine. But this cancer thing isn’t easy. And my old green-eyed friend has been visiting me a lot lately.

You know what a 44 year old breast cancer patient has in common with a 12 year old boy? All we think about are boobs. Our endgame is probably different (at least I hope so), but I’ve become obsessed with breasts. And given that it’s summertime, there are a lot on display. But unlike the average 12 year old boy, my thoughts are again full of envy and resentment.

What did I ever do to deserve this? What did I ever do to deserve this lopsided freak show that I hate so much I can’t even look at myself in the mirror?

What did those women – the small-breasted, the well-endowed, the saggy, the perky, the nursing, the silicone-enhanced – do that was so right in this life that they get to keep both of their breasts?

Am I being punished for not being a good enough person?

Now I know that I am not being punished. And I know that the cancer is likely just a random fluke of cells not doing what they’re supposed to do. And I know that just because a person looks like they have it all together and their life is perfect does not mean that they don’t have their own struggles.

Turns out that logic and envy are entirely different animals and never the twain shall meet.

I am going to be fine and healthy again. I have finished chemotherapy and have radiation and hormone therapy to look forward to, as well as my reconstruction surgery probably next spring. Perky boobs are most assuredly in my future.

But I will never be the same as I was before cancer in the same way that I am not the same person I was before infertility and loss. The body heals and the heart learns to continue on despite the pain, but the scars remain.

And that green-eyed bitch is always just over my shoulder.

Posted in breast cancer, envy, husband, infertility, kids, miscarriage | Leave a comment
Jul21

Change of life?

I worry that I’m not going through this cancer experience the way I’m supposed to.

cancerCancer survivors always seem to talk about how their lives were changed by their diagnosis, they achieved clarity of purpose and were able to set aside petty concerns in order to focus on what really matters. Cancer turned out to be a blessing for them and their lives are richer for it.

I worry that I’m not one of those with the ability to turn cancer into the best thing that ever happened to them.

My cancer scare changed my life. I’m grateful for every new, healthy day I have. It has helped me prioritize my life. ~Olivia Newton-John

Cancer changes your life, often for the better. You learn what’s important, you learn to prioritize, and you learn not to waste your time. You tell people you love them. My friend Gilda Radner (who died of ovarian cancer in 1989 at age 42) used to say, ‘If it wasn’t for the downside, having cancer would be the best thing and everyone would want it.’ That’s true. If it wasn’t for the downside. ~ Joel Siegel

I feel more inspired than ever, and think that I will finally achieve what I have long been wishing for: a balance of work and privacy – a harmony.” Kylie Minogue

Impressive. Inspirational. Impassioned.

But my question is this:

Who has the time to sit and reflect on ways that cancer can change their life for the better when they have a husband, three kids, a job, a home, carpools, PTA obligations, Girl Scout meetings, football/cheerleading/baseball/softball/t-ball/basketball practices, summer camp and chemo?

I’m busy. I have a lot to cram into any given day, including those days when I’m hooked up to the cancer-equivalents of cyanide and anthrax. And reading all the inspiring quotes about cancer being a blessing or a gift seem designed to make me feel like I’m failing at being a cancer patient.

This is not to say that I’m spending my time feeling sorry for myself. I’m simply involved in the business of my life. When I look at my calendar for this week, it shows camp drop-off, camp pick-up, playdates for each of the kids on different days, chemo appointment, a movie date and a trip to the Town Hall to pay the property tax. Yes, I’ve had to rearrange some things to accommodate my chemo appointment, and I won’t be working the second half of this week, but other than that, my calendar looks much the same as it did pre-cancer diagnosis. And I would venture to say that it’s going to look quite similar post-treatment.

I would rather be a success at the business of my life – being a wife and mom and volunteer and professional and friend. I want to look back on this experience and regard cancer as simply another unfortunate obligation in my calendar, not as the thing that forced me to reevaluate everything that’s important to me. Because if that’s the case, it means that all that I thought was important before the cancer diagnosis was wrong. That I needed to get the cancer in order to hit the reset button on a life that was headed in the wrong direction. And that is simply not the case.

I’d rather fail at being a cancer patient than fail at my life.

Posted in breast cancer, kids, parenting | 3 Comments
Jun30

Desperately Seeking Inspiration

I haven’t posted for a few weeks. I’ve been desperately trying to come up with something funny to write about or something inspirational to post.

Turns out, I’ve got nothing. f cancer

Oh, except this.

I’m pissed.

I have always had a love-hate relationship with my body. For as long as I can remember, I wanted my body to be different. I distinctly recall walking home from school in third grade and being eaten alive with jealousy watching girls with straight, skinny legs walk home. I wanted those straight, skinny legs with the protruding knees. Instead, I had thighs. Hateful, hateful thighs. And as I got older, there was more and more that I wished were different about my “let’s-just-call-me-Rubenesque” body. From my size-11 feet to my very thick eyebrows, I wanted to change it all.

This isn’t too say that there weren’t and aren’t things I love about myself. I’ve got great hair, at least I used to. I have an interesting eye color. My nose is the perfect shape and size. And once upon a time, I had terrific (undergarment-dependent) cleavage.

Oh, and we can’t forget my sparkling, sarcastic, snarky sense of humor.

But on balance, I always thought there was more to despise than celebrate.

And then I tried to get pregnant. And hating my body moved from purely cosmetic reasons to railing at the injustice of my reproductive system’s failure to do the one thing it was put on this earth to do – conceive and birth a child. I took every pill, every shot, every suppository the doctors told me to. I tried every tip I found online,  from the sublime to the ridiculous. After tragedy and disappointment and heartbreak, I finally got my body to succumb and do what it was supposed to do.

I thought we had come to an agreement, my body and I. After infertility and loss and pregnancy and birth, we were supposed to be on the same page. Sure, I could do more for my body by eating less junk food and going to the gym more often. And certainly my body could do more for me, by sleeping through the entire night once in a while and putting off perimenopause a little bit longer. But other than that, I thought my body and I were getting along just fine.

Until I got the cancer.

Now my body is mutilated. I only have half the number of breasts and underarm lymph nodes that I’m supposed to have. I have a plastic device inserted under my skin to ease the delivery of the poison that is supposed to save me. I have no hair, itchy skin and a peculiar awareness of my gums that is hard to describe.

I truly wish that I could say that I’m being more patient with my body, loving myself more through the difficulties of treatment and reaching a new understanding that my body is me and hating my mastectomy scar (you know, instead of my thighs) was now the furthest thing from my mind.

But I can’t.

Because I’m pissed.

Pissed that I’m mutilated. Pissed that I’m bald. Pissed that I’m going through menopause early.

I need someone or something to blame. So my body is going to have to take one for the team on this. And it looks like it’s taking my sense of humor along for the ride. It’s hard to feel funny or inspirational or even human when you’re consumed with trying to figure out whether that twinge of pain is chemo related or just a function of being almost 44.

Of course, I’ve made it my mantra to always find the funny. So that’s what I’ll do. I’ve actually found some funny, which I am more than happy to share. Because this? This is funny.

Posted in anger, breast cancer, envy, infertility | Leave a comment
May28

Change of Plans

bald momI fear I may have backed myself into a bit of a corner here. I have been so focused on the “positives” of cancer (perky rack, good painkillers, free food) and making the process easier for my kids (later bedtimes, more cupcakes, playing with my boob), that I hadn’t stopped to consider that my life would actually change once treatment started.

I was an idiot.

I had my first chemo treatment last week. Well, my first treatment was aborted due to an immediate and serious allergic reaction to the first chemo drug they gave me, taxotere. When 5 nurses and you oncologist rush into your little cubicle, pushing Benadryl and asking you whether you would describe your breathing as heavy or pressured, you should probably take note that this isn’t going to be as easy as buying a wig and slathering on an extra layer of sunscreen.

After my allergic reaction, it was back to the drawing board with a new chemo cocktail the next day – Paclitaxel and Cytoxan. I will refrain here from my justified damning of the insurance industry. According to my excellent oncologist, paclitaxel is a better drug than taxotere but since it is so expensive, insurance companies will only cover it after a documented allergic reaction to taxotere. So thank you, severe flushing and heavy, pressured breathing.

Those two drugs seemed to go through with little problem. I felt tired – which could have been leftover from the massive doses of Benadryl they had given me the day before – but I felt good enough the next day to run all over creation doing my errands and feeling kind of smug that the chemo wasn’t keeping me from my to-do list.

On that to-do list the day after chemo? A shot of Neulasta in my arm to boost the production of my white and red blood cells as well as my platelets. In a nutshell, chemo kills the fastest growing cells in your body, which includes not just the cancer cells, but your hair, nails, blood cells and platelets. The Neulasta is supposed to stimulate your bone marrow to make more white and red blood cells and some more of those platelets to help you with clotting and prevent you from bleeding out from a simple nosebleed. The nurse said that I could feel achy, like I had the flu.

Springtime Saturdays in my family are busy. There are usually two flag football practices – one for each boy – and then t-ball for the youngest boy, baseball for the oldest boy and softball for the girl, plus any number of birthday parties and playdates. Sundays are a little slower, with only two flag football games (plus church and family visits), but Saturdays are crazy. Anyone out there is wondering how many kids to have? Only as many as you have licensed drivers. Because everyone needs to be somewhere at the same time and in the opposite direction.

I felt great until mid-afternoon Saturday. I even sat on metal bleachers watching my son play baseball for an hour and a half. Smug. I was definitely feeling smug about how good I felt. Then I climbed down from the bleachers and was almost brought to my knees by the pain in my bones. This wasn’t like the flu. This was like being hit by a truck. A truck that then backed over me a couple of times to make sure I felt every minute morsel of pain like a character in “50 Shades of Grey.”

My Memorial Day weekend was not full of swimming and parades and watching my daughter ride her new bike like I had planned. It was lying in bed, taking prescription painkillers leftover from my mastectomy and watching the clock to see when I could take another hit of Aleve.

I’m pissed off. This is not how it’s supposed to go. I’m supposed to breeze through treatment, with humor and cool wigs and colorful headscarves, amazing all those around me with my bravery and stiff-upper-lipped-ness.

Instead, my first 5 days after chemo have seen me whining at my husband, yelling at my kids and sticking pins in a voodoo doll of my oncologist, because this is not “mild discomfort.” (I feel like I should defend my oncologist against my own ravings, as he is a brilliant doctor and simply one of the kindest men I have had the privilege of meeting. If you need to go through something horrible, kindness is one of the most amazing gifts to receive. But since his name is on the prescriptions, he is, fairly or unfairly, the target of a lot of my whining wrath.)

Today is Day 6 and I’m feeling pretty good. I went to work for a few hours, took a nap and even picked up my kids at school. My taste buds only seem to recognize the flavor of nickels and my appetite either has me dying for KFC mashed potatoes (which will end up tasting like nickels) or never wanting to eat again.

People are asking me how I’m doing. Sending emails and posting on Facebook and asking me in the car lane at school how it’s going. What am I supposed to say? That I can’t believe I have to do this the entire summer? That this sucks so much worse than I thought it would? That I’m not brave or inspirational or stiff-upper-lipped at all but am, in fact, a big giant baby who wants to wake up tomorrow and find out that this has all been a horrible dream?

Instead, I say I’m fine. That I’ve had a rough few days, but it can only get better from here. Because at the end of this, I want to look back and remember how strong I was when it was really hard. Even if this doesn’t seem to be going at all how I planned.

Of course, getting the breast cancer was never in my plan in the first place.

Posted in breast cancer, parenting | 4 Comments
May13

To Shave or Not to Shave – That is the Question

Whether it is nobler to allow your hair to fall out on its own or just let your husband take the clippers to it and stop postponing the inevitable.

It’s possible that I am  more upset about the prospect of losing my hair than I was about losing my breast. On a daily basis, I never did much more with my breast than stuff it in a bra (marital privilege prohibits me from disseminating any other activities). But my hair? Every day, multiple times a day, I do something with my hair.

It has been permed, straightened, short, long, light brown, dark brown, red, blonde and a very strange orange color that occurred when the not-terribly-experienced stylist tried to turn the red hair blonde with a single process dye. That was a fun few weeks during which I considered legally changing my name to Bozo.

I have spent thousands upon  thousands of dollars fighting frizz, coaxing curls and chasing whatever the latest hair care fad is – Morocco owes me a big “thanks a lot!” for the influx of Moroccon-argan oil related cash.

And as of next week, I won’t have to shampoo, condition, highlight, cut, curl, trim, straighten, clip, defrizz, bitch or moan about my hair. For months.

I’m a hair twirler. I love the feel of my hair. It is thick; I’ve never had a hair stylist not comment on how much hair I have. There is no better hair-related feeling, in my mind, than running my hand through a fresh blowout. Now, I’ll be running my hand over my bald skull. I’m going to need to find a new nervous habit. Nail biting is out since I’ll probably lose them as well as my hair. Perhaps pencil gnawing or cracking my knuckles? Suggestions are welcome.

It is interesting to wonder about how I would look bald. I wonder if I have any heretofore unknown moles or beauty marks hidden underneath all this hair. I suspect it’s freckled. I can only hope there’s no Gorbachev-shaped birthmark lurking just below the surface.

I’ve purchased my first headscarf. It’s a lovely ecru color with lace and some sequins. The mannequin in the ad looked stunning. Of course, the mannequin in the ad had high sharp cheekbones and a perfect smokey eye and was, in fact, a mannequin. No way I can compete with that.

I’m trying to figure out where to buy a wig. Insurance will cover what they call a “hair prosthesis.” Rather than one mimicking my own current hairstyle (suburban Mom long layers with highlights), I think I’ll try to mix it up a bit. I’ll go back to being a redhead (maybe people will stop asking me where my kids got their red hair), perhaps try a very dark brown, and, of course, a pink wig which will make my daughter happy.

There are bright spots, of course. I can’t adequately express how over-the-moon thrilled I am that I won’t have to shave or wax for months. An entire summer without my Venus razor and Skintimate shave gel – bliss! Losing my eyebrows will suck, but not having to deal with nicks and cuts? That’s probably a pretty good trade off.

So, to get back to my original question: to shave or not to shave? I’m a bit of a control freak, I admit, and I do like the idea of doing things rather than having things done to me (see marital privilege above). I think that I would prefer to shave instead of waiting for hairballs to start trailing me wherever I go. I think shaving my head will be an empowering way to take back control of my life from the cancer.

Of course, that means I actually have to shave my head.

And buy a wig.

And pencil on some eyebrows.

And figure out how to craft a perfect smokey eye. Without eyelashes.

Yep. I’m going to look like Bozo again.

Posted in breast cancer, chemo, control freak | Leave a comment
May09

Crappy Mom, Table for 1

In these days leading up to Mother’s Day, I’m struck by a single thought.

I’m a crappy mom.

There are so many positive affirmations out there this time of year. “Don’t worry, Mom, you’re doing great” commercials and cards, both the Hallmark and e-versions, are ubiquitous and inescapable. But I feel like I’m barely holding it together and the casualties are these kids of mine.

On the best of days, I have little patience and generally go to bed hoarse from all the yelling I do. There are so many things I could do better, but I generally don’t. Sometimes, it’s because I’m overwhelmed with kids and job and house and volunteer stuff. Sometimes, it’s because I’m lazy. Sometimes, it’s because I just can’t muster up any enthusiasm for the boring minutiae that is so important to the elementary school set. My kids are fed, usually clean (or at least able to pass the smell test), and they’re still alive at the end of each and every day. My yardstick for good parenting isn’t long, but it does exist.

But it’s not laziness or boredom or the overwhelming-ness that is motherhood which is making me suck as a parent. It’s the cancer.

How do you tell your kid that you can’t listen to yet another rendition of the entire Frozen soundtrack because you’re too busy researching when your hair is going to fall out?

How do you respond to your kindergartener when he tells you that if you lose your eyelashes, he won’t be able to love you anymore?

How do you prepare them for the scariest thing you have ever gone through when you’re too scared to prepare yourself?

I’m an adult with a pretty good life. I love my family, I have wonderful friends, a good job and a nice home (at least on the outside; don’t you dare walk in the door if the cleaning lady hasn’t been there within the last 48 hours). And I’ve been knocked on my ass by my diagnosis. Even knowing that at the end of it all I’m going to be fine and cancer-free and rocking a brand-new, perky rack, there are still times when I want to wallow and freak out.

My kids are still kids. They’re almost 8 and soon to be 6, and none, or very few of their friends, know what cancer is. I want to go back to January when my kids didn’t know what it was either. When they weren’t asking when my hair was going to fall out or if I was going to lose my breast. Or if I’m going to die.

They have been reassured time and again that I’m going to be fine, but to be honest, as much as the surgery and the ensuing complications sucked, chances are, the worst is still ahead of us.

I’m going to lose my hair. And probably my lunch. And I can make jokes about not having to shave or wax, but it’s going to really, really suck. Not just for me. But for them.

As a parent, you want to protect your kids from the bad, scary, sucky things in life. There is nothing I can do to make the next part of this suck any less for them. It’s going to be hard for them to spend the summer with a mom who probably won’t be able to take them to Six Flags half a dozen times. The mastectomy and axillary node dissection have ruined my bowling arm so that summer favorite is out. Movies will probably still be on the list of things to do, unless I’m too nauseous or exhausted to get out of bed. In no way will this be our best. summer. ever.

However, since the worst hasn’t happened yet and is still a few weeks away, I am trying, in my lazy, overwhelmed, unenthusiastic way, to help them take away fun memories of this time. How do I do that?

Let them play with my boob.

My prosthesis is a source of neverending entertainment for them. Stereotypically, my boys seems to enjoy playing with it more than my daughter, but they all find it hysterical. Our morning mantra before getting in the car has changed from “put on your shoes, grab your backpack, let’s go” to “put on your shoes, grab your backpack, find my boob, let’s go.” And it cracks them up every time.

My boob is made of some sort of Tempur Pedic material, covered in stretchy lycra-like fabric. And it is apparently the perfect size for paddleball. Or a game of catch. Or pass the parcel. As long as they keep it away from food, the bathroom and the cat, I’m OK with them playing with it. I’d rather they didn’t invite their friends to join in on the fun, but as a family activity, playing with my boob is fine by me. Because I can’t stop the next part from sucking, but I can make this part fun.

I’m sure there are some that will say that allowing them to play with my boob is inappropriate and I’m a crappy mom for ever allowing them to even know that I have a fake boob. You know what? I don’t care. When my kids are laughing because my husband is playing paddle ball with my boob, it means in that moment they’re not afraid of what’s going to happen to me or how it will affect them. Those moments are all I want for Mother’s Day this year.

Happy Mother’s Day!

MLV

Posted in breast cancer, chemo, kids, mom humor, parenting, whining, yelling | 4 Comments
Apr28

Top Reasons Cancer is Awesome

Well, not really. Cancer sucks. It really, really, “insert your favorite expletive here” sucks. But, for me, it hasn’t been entirely bad. The proof? 

1. Everyone keeps telling me how young I am. I’m 43, going on 44 and no one has called me young in about 15 years. However, apparently I’m almost an infant in breast cancer terms. Every doctor, every nurse, every random person I meet who knows about the cancer tells me how young I am. If I could get them to tell me how pretty I am, I’d need for nothing else.

2. Yeah, yeah, chemo makes your hair fall out. But it’s not just the hair on the top of your head. It includes leg hair, arm hair and those horrible straggly things that crop up on your chin. I hereby declare 2014 the Year I Don’t Have to Shave or Wax All Summer. Thank you, poisonous chemicals floating around in my body.

3. I can take naps whenever I want. No one questions me. No one criticizes me. No one blames me. In fact, my naps are encouraged. I love naps.

4. I haven’t had to cook for a month. People have brought lasagnas and fajitas and meatloaves and then some more lasagnas. Anything that gets me out of having to figure out what to make for dinner is A-OK in my book.

5. As I believe I’ve mentioned in previous blog posts, I am not an optimist. I am not a glass-half-full kind of girl. I’m pessimistic and snarky and sarcastic and proud to be so. But the positive reinforcement engendered by a cancer diagnosis may have me changing at least the pessimistic-side of my personality. People have been saying such nice things about me, and I’m embarrassed to even write them here. But when people are telling you how wonderful you are, can you really stay negative? (My sarcasm and snarkiness shall remain firmly in place, however. I can’t let the cancer completely change who I am.)

6. I didn’t have a lot of friends growing up. High school was horribly lonely and isolating. That experience used to bother me, but now I think I was just saving up for now. I have more friends supporting me and making me laugh and offering help than I could ever possibly thank or pay back, including some from my high school days. The people in my life are awesome. And while I knew that I had good people in my life before the cancer diagnosis, I probably didn’t have the level of appreciation for them that I do now. (Especially the ones who have brought me alcohol and/or cupcakes.)

7. A foam breast prosthesis is a party waiting to happen. My children have worn it on their heads, my daughter has used it pretending to be pregnant and I’m becoming quite adept at adjusting it mid-conversation without calling attention to myself. My incision is still tender so I don’t wear it when I’m at home, and this has given rise to my children’s favorite new game, “Find Mom’s Boob.” I’m thinking of a photo study, a la Flat Stanley, with my fake boob as the star. Someone get me an agent!

8. Oh, but isn’t my cancer and it’s subsequent treatment just comedy gold? Forgetting to put on my boob before I run errands? Posting on Facebook that I’m radioactive? It’s just funny, man. I mean, it sucks. And it’s scary. And if I had my way, I would not be lopsided. Or about to be bald. Or having to write this at all. But it’s got to be funny. It has to be or how the hell would I get through it?

Posted in breast cancer, chemo, mom humor, parenting | 1 Comment
Apr22

Random thoughts post-mastectomy, post-bonus-four-days-in-the-hospital and post-implant removal

1.  It hurt. It really, really hurt. That being said, I find that I have a very high tolerance for pain. Conversely, I have almost no tolerance for discomfort. Cut off my breast and I’m off pain killers within two days. If there’s a bedspring poking me in the ass, though, I am inconsolable until someone gets me a donut-shaped pillow.

2.  I was quite weepy going into surgery. I haven’t been particularly weepy throughout this whole cancer diagnosis thing, but I had a hard time holding it together before surgery. I do believe they put me under with a smile on my face, however, as the last two words I remember hearing as they pushed whatever lovely narcotic that sent me into la-la-land were “nipple clamps.” It just goes to show that no matter what the context, the phrase “nipple clamps” is funny.

3.  I am a “need to know-er.” I hate surprises. One of my finest skills is the ability to unwrap Christmas presents and rewrap them so precisely that no one knows I’ve ever peeked. The waiting part of cancer is all but killing me. I still don’t know about radiation or chemo and not knowing causes me physical pain. I may have stepped over the line from “need to know-er” to “batshit crazy” when I found myself in in the toy aisle at Target asking the Magic 8 ball if I was going to need chemo. Recognizing you have a problem is the first step.

4.  My surgery was at Beth Israel Hospital in Manhattan, mere steps from Union Square. I can only imagine how many bagel shops there are within spitting distance. And yet my breakfast each morning consisted of a cellophane-wrapped bagel, emblazoned with the words, “Proudly made in Des Moines, IA.” I’m not casting aspersions on Iowa – I know lovely people from Iowa. But if you live in Iowa, do you want your corn marked “Made in Manhattan?” I didn’t think so.

5.  During my second stay in the hospital for an unknown infection, I broke a nail. The lovely patient care associate who was there to take my blood pressure commiserated, saying, “Isn’t that just the worst?” And I, who had just had a breast cut off and was confined to a hospital bed for four days for an infection, totally agreed with her. It’s all about perspective.

6.  I’m a pretty goal-oriented person, I think. First, get the hell out of the town I grew up in. Then, go to college, move to NYC, go to law school, get the good job, get married, have kids. My life followed a pretty good checklist until I got to the magic age of 40. I’ve been fumbling along for a few years, trying to figure out what the next big step of my life is.  I appreciate having the goal of kicking cancer’s ass and someday being one of those uber-cool chicks power-walking through NYC at midnight in my bra, but it does feel a little bit like my mother saying in response to my complaints about being bored during summer vacation, “If you can’t find something to do, I’ll find something for you and you won’t like it.”

7.  When I was younger and not so many things were sagging, I was a big fan of the low-cut v-neck blouse. Sure, I’d pay lip service to the notion that I wanted the cute guy in the bar to look into my eyes and not at my boobs, but really, what girl doesn’t want the cute guy to look at her boobs? Now it seems like everyone I run into can’t help staring. Like they’re trying to see if they can see a difference (yes, yes you can and no, no you don’t want to see it. I’m a freak show right now). The old lady at church, friends’ husbands, the clerk at the pharmacy counter. Eyes up, people!

8.  I’m not the best of thank you notes. I do have a stack of lovely cards sitting on my kitchen counter waiting for me to get my act together and send out thoughtful notes to all who have dropped off dinner for my kids (they’re really bummed that we’ve moved back to boxed mac & cheese and chicken nuggets after the gourmet meals they’ve been enjoying the last few weeks), picked my kids up at school, carpooled for me, sent cards, brought wine, took my kids on lengthy playdates and listened to me whine, cry, bitch and moan about my situation. I promise that I will get to them. In the meantime, if I haven’t properly thanked you yet, please know I am incredibly grateful for your generosity and friendship.

Love, MLV

Posted in breast cancer, gratitude, humor, surgery | 2 Comments