Cancer Pacifist

art from Yakuto.com

I am a cancer pacifist.

No, this does not mean that I eschewed (or will eschew) all treatment or that I intend to throw up my hands and crawl into a corner to die if it should come my way again.  Death by cancer suicide is not my preferred way to go.

 

But, still, I have always been extremely uncomfortable with the “cancer warrior” label.  I am SOOOO not a warrior.  I did not *choose* to fight.  I *would not* choose to fight.  I did not nobly take up shield and sword and mount my cancer-fighting steed. 

At best, I would be considered a cancer draftee, not a warrior.

Still, even being a draftee is not “me”.  I am not a natural fighter.  I am a born and bred preacemaker.  I value kindness above most things, I strive to NOT fight, to NOT struggle, to find peace.  Truly, I had already had enough struggle to last a lifetime, even before cancer came along.  Over my struggle quota here, God, can we just move along?

Maybe my lack of warrior spirit is why I really never went deeply into the “why me” pit and all of the darkness that I think could have come to me with that.  I am more of a “why not me” kind of gal.  I would not wish my cancer on anyone else, therefore I could not really rail at God and say “why me,” because there is no one else I would rather give it to.  So, if there is no one else I would give it to, then I guess it is mine to have and deal with.  Weirdly logical, eh?

During all of my treatment, I always thought I would get better, because my life has taught me that I can do hard things and come out (reasonably whole) on the other side of them.  Not that there were not a few curveballs in there, or that I did not have moments that shook my faith a bit.  Still, cancer for me has been less of a fight and much more of a meditation.  I had to be STILL to fight my cancer, not struggle against it.  I had to stop and do what I needed to do for my body.  I had to let the medical world help me, and I had to ALLOW them to help me.  I had to stop and pray for my spirit.  I had to stop and make time for music and poetry and art for my soul.  I had to do things that comforted me on every level I could be comforted.  I had to focus INWARD, not outward.

So, I do not want a ribbon – no matter the color.  No badge, no medal, no warrior recognition or symbol.  I do not need those things to know that I have won and cancer has lost.  Even if cancer takes my life some day (and I sincerely hope and pray that it does not), it will never win.  Cancer did not change me for the worst, it focused me for the better.  Cancer did not kill me, it made me more alive.

Dancing

I was so excited to take dance classes when I was a little kid. 



Photo Credit:  lakidstuff

I loved the polished look of the studio’s expansive wooden floor, the sparkling mirrors bisected by the well-worn barres, the dust motes twirling and hanging in the air, the snug hugged feeling of my new leotard and tights, my stick-straight hair Dippity-Doo’d into a minuscule bun, the little bows on my wee dance shoes. I loved the scratchy music from the LPs on the record player [I am older than dirt] and moving my round little body to it. I just wanted to close my eyes, lift my arms, point my toes, and dance and spin and never stop, ever.

I did not love the looks and giggles from the other girls, the harried impatience of my dance teacher when I got the steps wrong (again!), me trying SO HARD to learn a new routine as the steps flew past (never sticking in my head even for a minute), the tension at home to make it to class on time (and me feeling like the added stress was entirely my fault), and my mother’s dumbfounded exasperation at the end of the session when I said I would not dance in the upcoming year-end recital. "Why are we paying for dance class, if you won’t dance?" she yelled at me, followed by "You will not take class if you don’t dance [at the recital]".

I did not understand her point of view. I *was* dancing – at every class, daily in my room practicing the steps, on the playground, around the neighborhood, and in my bed at night (I would raise my arms, point my toes, and dance myself to sleep almost nightly laying in bed ). I thought dance class was beautifully and delightfully about DANCING, until the sad day that I learned dance class was  horribly and unavoidably about PERFORMING.

I have never been a performer.

I have always been round, and shy. I have always hated to draw attention to myself, either good or bad. The few times I simply HAD to perform (church children's choir, school program, Blue Bird meetings), I got an ill, hot, squidgy swirling in my stomach that then flew up to my throat – an awful feeling that that I would throw up or faint or die, right on the spot. I would do ANYTHING to keep from feeling like that.

I just did not know that the ANYTHING would include giving up dancing.

I tried to go along with the whole idea of the recital, I got fitted for the costume, I learned the routine, I practiced and, on the big night, I just could not do it. This was not dancing. Dancing gave me joy, made me feel beautiful, made me feel alive. This recital thing did none of that. I felt hot and sick and ashamed. I did not dance and, true to her word, my mother abruptly ended my dance class career.

I wish there was a do-over. I wish I had been braver or less caring or whatever would have made me perform.  I wish I had been in a dance class for dancers who did not want to be performers. I wish that I had continued to find joy in my body’s movement, that I had stayed with classes and trained my body to move and stretch and dance. I still wish, even more fervently now, that I could close my eyes, lift my arms, point my toes, and dance and spin and never stop.

If only there was a dance class for old, fat chicks with life-long esteem issues who secretly long to dance but never, ever want to perform. I would find some shoes, extra-extra large leotards, and never, ever be late.

It's Just a Car

I just got back from clearing my possessions out of
my car and turning it over to the salvage people.  One last search in the glove department and under seats, chasing stray quarters and personal items.  One last time to sit in it and appreciate it.  I know it is – was – just a car. 

Still, I am unutterably sad. 

Back in June, my newly-minted teenage driver had an accident in said car.  It was stupid, as all accidents are.  It involved undrivable weather conditions, ignored parental warnings, a strong desire for freedom, a dash of thrill, and a heaping helping of the innocence and arrogance of youth.  Of course, it also involved cars, another driver, air bags, police, frantic phone calls, court dates, repair shops, insurance claims, and, ultimately, a salvage yard.

Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful it was not worse.  My kid and her illicit, unapproved  passenger are okay (calling her passenger’s parent to tell them of the accident and do the appropriate things was an out-of-body bad experience I do not wish to repeat), the other driver is okay, our insurance will cover the damage to his car, it is not my only car, and we will probably be able to replace it to some degree with some other vehicle.

But, it is so much more than the loss of a car.

I am confronted with my child’s strong will and how easily she threw over her shoulder all of the cautions I have given (and even how easily she disobeyed a couple of rules).  I thought she was more mature; I thought she knew better.  Do I not know her?  Do I trust too much?  I feel let down, victimized, guilty, angry, and sad.  Mostly sad.  Things are not the same since the morning of that accident.   We will rebuild trust, but we will still have *this* behind us.  Ugh.

I miss what the car represented.  We had such a happy time shopping for it – it was a car my hubby and I bought for me.  It was luxurious – more so than any other vehicle I have ever owned. I did not think I deserved a car that nice, but I was secretly pleased with how it looked, how it ran, how I felt when I was in it.  That car was an assurance of times that were okay financially, it was a happy harbinger of good family events to come, it bespoke a certain achievement – status, if you will --  that took us a long time to achieve.  We felt like such adults when we bought that car.  It was fun to drive and own.  We went EVERYWHERE in that car.  The family came together in that car to do good stuff, fun stuff, and just the generally necessary stuff a family does.  It held us comfortably, with room for all of the trappings we needed.  That car hauled face paint to charity events, countless kids to music and sports events, friends to wineries and fireworks displays, paper mache cows to Tennessee, sun-burned bodies home from the beach, my dad's ashes to their final resting place in Arlington Cemetery, and so much more.

So, I will sign over the title and get a check.   I will find another car we will fit in, we will make do with, we will run our lives out of.

But, it won’t be that car.

The Random Disaster Tape

For almost as long as I can remember, I have had a random disaster tape playing in my head.  The scenery and characters change, but the plot is relentlessly the same.  This is how it goes ...

I enter a room, and I have to know EXACTLY where every person or animal is.  I have to know where the exits and entrances are, and I immediately take note of how I would exit quickly if I needed to.  I notice places that a person might hide or where a weapon or object might be concealed. I notice anything (and I do mean ANYTHING) that could be used as a weapon against me.  I size up every living thing and assign it to a "friend" or "foe" category, but I am aware that "friend" can be a very fleeting designation.  Honestly, very few people make it into the "friend" category in my disaster tape.  As I move around, or anyone else moves through the room, I constantly re-assess all of the above.  My throat gets dry, my hands sweat, my heart jumps in my chest, and I am so nerve-wired that I am surprised my hair does not spark and ignite.  I do the disaster tape continuously and constantly, even if it looks like I am shopping, or visiting a friend, or eating in a restaurant, or cooking dinner.  There is no time off from this set of tasks.  Ever. There is never ANYTHING I do that does not involve a disaster tape of some sort, even if it is an activity I enjoy, with people I trust.  If I do not do these things, and do them well, bad stuff will happen.  Not only will bad stuff happen, but it will be my fault because I did not do the disaster tape well enough.

You see, in my past, bad stuff DID happen.  A lot.  And I could not stop it.

It is emotionally and mentally exhausting to live this way, and I have been living this way for 48 years now -- since I was about 7.

So, the cost of this is that I do not relax easily, I do not de-stress easily, I do not "vacation" easily, and I do not sleep easily.  The only place I can be even a little relaxed is in my own home.

Sometimes, my disaster tape is playing very faintly in the background of my life.  Even I barely notice it sometimes.  I might just have to have "extra" emergency supplies in my car or my purse to feel like everything is okay.  (You need pliers, duct tape, needles, a flashlight, bandaids, an emergency whistle or clean water?  They are all in my car or my purse.  Every day.)  I might just need to sit or stand near the door.  Even my family might not be aware my disaster tape is playing.  This would be a "good" day for me.

Sometimes, I am so consumed by my disaster tape and the need to figure out my safety zone that I can do little else.  That is a "bad" day.

I can go from feeling "safe" to "unsafe" in the blink of an eye, and sometimes even I do not see it coming.  Sometimes I do not even know what triggered the change from "safe" to "unsafe".

I have had to come to grips with the fact that some things, I just cannot do.  Ever.  I can't sleep in a room with strangers (bad stuff happened at night).  I cannot be in total darkness (ditto).  I cannot be in a situation without an identified exit or safe place.  I hate to be touched by strangers (no pedicure or massage for me).  I cannot stand loud noises or loud voices.  I abhor surprises.

I have learned over time to willfully tone down my disaster tape somewhat, so that I can be an effective employee, a hopefully not too annoying wife, and a functional mother. The effort of blocking my disaster tape for an extended period of time is so, so exhausting.

Very few people know this about me.  I believe that others probably think me standoff-ish or unfriendly sometimes, or perhaps awkwardly shy.  I am pretty sure that they are not aware that I am paralyzed with fear, trying to figure out whether "fight" or "flight" is more appropriate right then, and how quickly I could do one or both.  Part of the legacy that spawned the disaster tape in the first place also made me nearly mute about it.  It was drilled into me for years to not talk, to not reveal, to not draw attention, to not let others get close to me, to not trust anyone. 

I wonder sometimes what people would think if I publicly revealed all of this about myself.  Would they be horrified?  Would they not want to deal with it and me?  Would they be sympathetic?  Would I find others who also go through this on a constant basis?  I think I would feel better about myself if I knew this was not my unique problem.  Misery loving company, I guess.

15 Down, 80 to Go

Let me explain.

Yesterday, I *FINALLY* finished the 15 cancer treatments I have been trudging through since last year (Chemo is my friend! Radiation is my friend!).

So, 15 Down!  Hopefully, never again.  Been there, done that, got a couple of t-shirts out of it.

What I l am left with is the 80.  Sigh.  Let me explain FURTHER.

I lost a butt-ton (yes, that is a measurement) of weight, from 363.6 to 203, a few years ago.  Go, me!  Took me about a year and a half to get it off.  A mixture of Medifast, exercise, tons of water, and some sensible choices.  I was looking so much better, and feeling better, too.  I had not weighed that little since after my eldest was born (*cough* almost 30 years ago now).  I had put a little poundage back on (up to 215 or so), but I still felt pretty good and was doing okay.

That is, until I wasn’t, and I did not feel good at all.  Breathing is overrated, but you really focus on it when it hurts.so.much. to do.  So, I had to get that taken care of.

Now that I am feeling better health-wise, I am feeling HORRIBLE weight-wise.  I used the last 8 months or so as a huge M&M pity party.  I left 215 far, far behind.

Today was "moment of truth" time.  I stepped on the scales (totally naked, having drunk nothing, having peed as much as I could, and thinking light thoughts).  But, truth is truth.  I have put back on 65.8 pounds.  Erk.  For the math-challenged, that means I weigh 268.8.  For reals.  That is a LOT of for reals.

So, I have put myself back on Medifast and am doing the plan.  Shake, shake, pour, pour, drink, drink.  Most of my exercise still consists of running to the bathroom to pee from all of the liquid intake (have a pesky nerve problem in my left leg from treatment this time, and I have to get through rehab on that before I get the green light to hit the gym or take off on some other exercise adventure).  I will be working (hard!) on the rehab, so that I can get on the other side of it quickly.

This is where I *was*

I can't find a body shot.  Since I am the person taking the pictures always, I am not ususally in the pictures.

And this is where I *am*

(I am the enormous blue blob painting a set panel, and it is even partially shielding my true size, which is big.)

 

I *WILL* get there.

A Day Late (We Were Busy with Sombreros and Desserts)

She is fearless  and fragile,

Independent, yet hates to be alone,

Beautiful  and comedic,

Thoughtful and messy,

Smart  and quick-witted,

Musical and artistic,

 

 

Friendly and outgoing,

Deeply introspective and emphathetic,

Generous and angered by injustice,

She loves quickly and hugely,

And can be hurt just as quickly and hugely,

Strong charactered and strong willed,

Yet takes advice to heart,

The best baby pterodactyl I know,

She makes me laugh, and cry, and be proud

Sometimes all at once.

She is my gift child I never thought I would have,

And she is treasure beyond compare.

Happy 17^th, sweet Anne.

I love you to the moon and back, baby.

How in the HELL Did THIS Happen?

I am 20 days from my 55th birthday. 
 

FIFTY-FIVE!!!!

The wrinkly old broad looking back at me in the mirror is just as shocked as I am. 

When did my hair get so grey (and in need -- SERIOUS need -- of a re-dye)?  When did my lips thin out (I am WAY too good at doing my mother's "disapproval" mouth now).  When did the old lady hands graft themselves onto my arms?  My hips?  Larger than life now.  My ass?  Larger than my hips.  My boobs?  Heading south --- they might need a new zip code now.  My nose hair is longer, and my patience is shorter.  I have AGE SPOTS.  FREAKING AGE SPOTS.  More than one.  SEVERAL more than one.  And big enough that I just CANNOT keep convincing myself it is an overachieving freckle.  My arms stop waving a good minute after I do.  My knees have smile lines.  Even my EARLOBES have aged.

Where did my young self go?

Yesterday, I was a vibrant working professional.  The day before, mother of a toddler.  I cannot be the mother of a 30-year old and a 17-year old.  Seems like just last week I was sipping cocktails with the Chicas, not Metamucil with the Hubs.  I was dancing with abandon, not walking with care. 

I do not WANT to walk with care.  There is VERY LITTLE I want to do with care.

There is a WHOLE FREAKING LOT I want -- NEED -- to do without a care.

I feel like my true self has been reduced to a small flicker, deep inside.  I feel hollow and cold.  I want to feel purposeful and alive.  Warm.  I want warm.  Heck, I want FIRE.

I need to find some intrepid souls that want to adventure with me.  Uncharted territory.  Beyond age and expectations.  Just donning a red hat and wearing purple will not be enough.  This needs to be a soul-changing journey.  This is not a vain striving for lost youth -- is is a life-saving reclamation of the girl in my soul.  She needs life (and a cookie, and a drink, and some great shoes, and friends, and sun, and ADVENTURE).

I know the starting point, and I can envision the ending point.  I just am struggling with the middle and the steps to get going. Today's goal/assignment:  I am going to buy some "Mom, that is REALLY not you" nail polish at lunch today, and I am going to sport it on my fingers and toes.  A color that makes me happy, something that will make me feel like "me" as I watch my hands and feet go about their tasks.  A little something to give me a secret smile.  Baby steps, but that is all I know to do right now. 

I am working up the courage to deal with the hair.  I have been traumatized from coloring it since being told (helpfully?) that the hair color I was considering was "Menopause Red -- that last desperate gasp of youth for women".   THAT day, I opted for "aging mom brown", instead of the color I wanted.  My reflection made me feel faded and sad for weeks.  I want to look in the mirror and see "me", and the "me" I have in my head does not have inches of grey and faded brown.  The "me" I see in my head is vibrant and fun, and I want my head visually to match.  I really WANT a bold, over-the-top, sassy, in-your-face red.

Someone may have to hold my hand for that, though.