love is health
A birthday of sorts: 1 year later8/13/2014 Part 1: The reality of life post treatment
Tomorrow marks the anniversary of my mastectomy. It's amazing how time sneaks through us. Despite the last 12 months, my life generally looks the same as before: awesome husband, house, work, roller derby. However looking deeper, I see I failed to welcome a new version of myself, and it's about time I come to accept this new skin. I assumed when treatment was over, I would live happily every after, no longer having to deal with side effects, unexpected symptoms, and physical changes. I imagined my life would be just like it was pre-diagnosis - that my body would rebound back to its pre-cancer state. I didn't know my metabolism would slow so quickly, rendering my chest asymmetrical. I didn't know my knees would ache all the time, or that my skin would bruise so easily. The worst of it - I didn't know I would still be dealing with intense hot flashes months after treatment finished. They interrupt sleep, meals, activities. They come on like a fiery freight train, unstoppable, and hardly mitigated. My body feels alien to my spirit at times, and I fight to remember I am not my body. It's difficult to look into the mirror and see a much older, off kilter version of myself. While I have always embraced and looked forward to aging, these aren't exactly the terms I anticipated. I've had 12 months of a physical transformation I was not expecting, impacting my identity in ways I never imagined. The person I examine in the mirror seems more like a reflection of me at 41 rather than 31. And although I have chosen to not have children, I grieve my fertility has disappeared without choice or trace. I didn't even know that was a risk. Part 2: Reconciliation & Loving What Is There is guilt in grieving. Here I am, a year after diagnosis, alive and well. Perhaps I should only be grateful (?) That's nonetheless a hard pill to swallow at 3am, waking up in sweat-drenched sheets. On occasion I'll lament my hot flashes, only to feel isolated by the recognition others can't empathize. I'm quick to stifle my complaints under the self-governed pressure of "it's been 8 months - get over it". And while I know how totally trivial and silly this sounds in the grand scheme of things - I'm still learning how to have curly hair, especially during monsoon season. I feel like I look like this. You can probably tell I haven't been very compassionate to me while I heal. So eager to get back to "normal" me, I failed to welcome and embrace new me. New me doesn't get hungry 3 times/ day. New me has squeaky knees while doing squats. New me needs naps some days, or risks driving home drowsy. I'm a little softer, a lot sweatier, and shorter of breath. but... New me also has awesome hair that looks amazing after falling asleep with it wet. New me can still nail a 25+ point power jam. New me has won MVP jammer twice this year, captained my team through an undefeated year, is registered for a half marathon in November, and on my way to a half Ironman a year from now. (These accomplishments aren't without assistance. I couldn't have done any of this without luke and my teams. However, that doesn't make them trivial.) Looking more closely, tomorrow is a birthday of sorts - the birth of a grittier, stronger, healthier version of me.
0 Comments
Aw snap. Here comes the serious stuff. Surgery is finally scheduled. After waiting nearly 2 months from diagnosis to scheduling, it's finally going to happen. Come August 14th, my body will be different. I still can't wrap my mind around it all. Breasts are a physical manifestation of femininity and femaleness. The idea of having one taken away and replaced by something foreign is all too uncomfortable to me. Knowing that I will be unbalanced, possibly for the rest of my life, is at times too much to think about, and I just shut down. I just want to skate. So I have been keeping nice and busy. Things are busy at work. Busy at home. Busy at practice. Busy busy busy busy. Intellectually I can comprehend that my tight schedule is just a mechanism of distraction and denial. Emotionally speaking, I can't accept or acknowledge that I need to feel anything other than busy. Oh denial, you feel so safe. Is it practice yet? Yet my body is rebelling. It is trying to tell me everything I have effectively muted. I can't sleep well. I have anxiety dreams. My muscles twitch sporadically - eyelids, biceps, quads. They all quake with a fear that I don't care to admit. For whatever reasons (that I frankly don't want to understand), I have very sufficiently stopped myself from feeling as much grief as is appropriate for this situation. I really just want to skate. For me, there is heroism in asceticism/ stoicism. Only the objective, physical truth that I will be okay no matter what is the only truth I will allow myself to acknowledge. Everything beyond that singular thought is frivolous. Any concern about vanity, sensuality, posture, control, and composure is nonsensical. "But you are human" is what I keep hearing. Yes, but I am a human who aims for excellence and strives to transcend the impracticalities that are often associated with emotions. That doesn't mean I don't feel things. I feel plenty, but I do believe some emotions are superfluous. Sometimes you need a good cry, and then you move on. But to cry, and cry again, and yet again, seems... exhausting (says the girl who can't sleep well at night anymore from all the stress of trying to be "fine"). I hesitated to write about this, for fear of being "that girl", the one who bitches and moans about her feelings in a situation in which you know she's going to be fine. I am not a victim, nor intend to be perceived as one. Yet this song and dance is taxing. It's 8:15 on a Friday night, and I could nearly fall asleep at my keyboard, I am so tired. I am so ready to be done with this obstacle. Consider this post an exercise in therapeutic vulnerability. And at the same time, I can't help but want to strap my skates on and go on like I am not going to lose my left breast in 2 weeks. If not vulnerable, at least I am consistent. I'm not a "Cancer Patient"7/20/2013 I don't see myself as a "Breast Cancer Patient". There was a reason why, upon meeting me, my surgeon said "you're too young to be here". BC patients are usually over 50, often advanced in their staging, and not always fit. There has been a real disconnect between my diagnosis and my self perception. My health has been great to me - I feel great. I still work out regularly, aim to attend 3 practices/ week, and otherwise am living/ feeling the exact same life I did prior to diagnosis. So having to see things that remind me I am "sick" is just... annoying? Contrarian? I can't quite put the words to it, but it is most certainly a mis-fit. So when I get pamphlets with illustrations in them of women supposedly sharing my experience, I get frustrated to see women over 50. I also get uncomfortable seeing women going through treatment. Twice in the past week have I seen women in head wraps, protecting their scalps from the unforgiving AZ sun. It was hard to look at them. I wanted to avoid them - I am afraid I will soon be them. Part of me wants to say "I'll be damned if I have to be a "breast cancer patient". The other part of me recognizes that I, as well as others, don't have a choice. That is a tough pill to swallow, especially as I finally approach a treatment plan. I refuse to accept this diagnosis. Accepting it means surrendering to it, and that -ish don't fly with me. This is part of why I have requested silly boob things: Jokes, drawing, songs, images - things that make me laugh at the idea of being a BC patient. This isn't to say I don't take this seriously. This is to say that I'm not the one who is in danger - its the cancer cells that are. Watch out b!#ches, I'm coming at you like a spider monkey. AboutSnapshots in time across a span of years managing breast cancer Archives
June 2020
Categories
All
|