Deja Vu

What a familiar place I've been in over the last week. One day after rejoicing in my one year milestone, I was lying on the doctor's office table having another biopsy. A small lump appeared a couple of months ago. Yes, even after your breast tissue has been removed, you can still get breast cancer. I sat next to a woman during my 3rd chemo treatment who spoke openly about being there for her second go around just months after completing her first. Her story rang in head for the past week as I waited for the results. I timidly watched my videotaped testimony in church Sunday wondering if I was going to let all those people down when they found out I was having a recurrence. I was scared that after sharing with them how God had healed me they would lose faith in Him if they knew I wasn't really healed. That was the worst thought. I prayed for those people. So I waited. And wondered. How will my husband handle this news again? He stoically made it through one bout, how would another weigh on him emotionally? And I waited. How will I explain this to my son, who anytime he hears me talk about cancer will follow up with, "But Mom, you don't have that anymore, right?" Always looking for that reassurance. And I waited. How will my mom and dad carry the guilt and pain that they shoulder and that I am not ready to fake-comfort? My mind has raced through my prayers and anxiety. I have filled my days consuming myself with work and friends and family to fight off the worry and have tossed and turned for five nights.

Finally, tonight I can sleep . . . Benign!

Happy Anniversary

My cancer goody bag is one year old. A friend just said to me, "Well, that is not a happy anniversary." I disagree.

The First Time Is Always Scary, Mom

Standing in the bathroom, primping for work, fiddling with my wig, I realized I did not want to wear it, but was very apprehensive to walk out the door without my security blanket. I have recently been around family and a few friends headgear-free and even made a trip to Target and the mall where no one knew me or cared. But to walk through the doors of work seemed somewhat daunting. I'm still sensitive about this head, even to the point where I wanted to cry sitting at the salon watching my sister and nieces get the cutest haircuts this weekend. I wondered what everybody in that salon thought of MY hair. I know that sounds really self absorbed. But I wondered if people look at me and think, "Aw that poor woman has cancer". Maybe it is because I have gotten away with looking fairly healthy over these past eight months and had successfully shocked most students when news of my wig broke a couple of months ago. Most people forget I am wearing one because it really is an awesome wig. But the best part is that I think it makes most people forget I had cancer. I blend in. Unfortunately this hairstyle puts that scarlet letter back on my chest. Outwardly, it does not look like much. So maybe people look at me and think I'm sick. They return my glances with a sad face or darting eye. With the wig, people don't do that. But, I truly am proud of my new hair. It's symbolic. Inwardly, I am Rapunzel.

So, I was putting on the wig in front of the mirror, taking it off, putting it back on, all while my son stood there watching me. I asked his advice. "What do you think, buddy, can Mom go to work today without her wig? It will be my first time." He said, "The first time is always scary, Mom, but then it's ok. Remember when I went head first on a sled for the first time? I was scared, but I did it and now I'm good. And if anyone laughs at you, just report them to me." I knew he was right. I knew I just had to do it. But even as I got in the car and started driving I felt so naked, so exposed. I took Ethan's advice and went head first into work. It was ok. Nobody laughed. Nobody to report.

Breast Regrets?

Disclaimer: If you don't want to hear about my nipples, stop reading.

My bilateral mastectomy with immediate reconstruction is now about six weeks behind me and I'm not sure I made the right decision. The pain from surgery wasn't as bad as I expected, the fluid draining from my body into mini turkey basters wasn't as bad as I expected and the time out of commission wasn't as bad as I expected, but I don't think I was prepared for the emotional detachment from these new space invaders. I am wondering if these lumpy, stiff blobs of silicone will ever really feel like a part of my body. Should I have chosen to forgo the implants? Some days that answer is "yes". Currently when I look at them, completely lined with scars of this disease and nipple-free, I question my desire to even consider nipples in the future. I don't know if it is because I do not care about them enough to give them nipples, which apparently can be fashioned three different ways depending on what I prefer, or if I just need to move on. I was never a fan of nipples in the first place. They can be a source of irritation and embarrassment at the wrong time. And never did I really find them to be a source of pleasure. I would have rather had someone put his finger in my bellybutton, which irritates me just as much, than to have had my nipples touched! Anyway, I am leaning towards leaving them the way they are. The scars and the lack of nipples reflect the journey. I'd rather be reminded of the journey than reminded of my breasts.

So Long, Old Friends

I think I got lucky with my breasts. I really like them. Even though I always wished they were as big as my sister's, they have served me quite well. In high school, I was flat-chested. I was recently looking at a photo of myself wearing my senior prom dress. It was turquoise with fluffy sleeves and a fitted bodice that did not really fit my bodice. Let's call it "gappy". This was all fine with me because they did not get in the way of running up and down the field hockey field or around the track, two things I was way more concerned with than boobs during those years. I was too skinny anyway and big boobs would have been weird. However, along with college came the dreaded freshman 15! And, luckily for me, most of that weight went straight to my flat chest . . . and my hips. I definitely filled out my slutty "clubbin' clothes" much better. Right, girls? Anyway, they were cute . . . until post pregnancy and I didn't even torture them with breastfeeding. I knew long before I ever had a child that breastfeeding was not something I could ever do . . . way too sensitive . . . and as much as that was frowned upon by society, and seemingly gasped at in the circle of breastfeeding warriors of 2004, I did not succumb to the pressure and my son is pretty healthy and somewhat normal. Now, ironically,those sensitive parts will no longer be a part of me, but replaced by tattoos instead. Again, ironically, something I always wanted, but not exactly the location I had in mind. Anyway, in the past six years my breasts have changed location, but still fill out a sweater or bathing suit fairly well, as long as the suit has some tough underwire. And although I uttered the idea of getting them lifted at some point, that will no longer be needed as I say 'so long' to these friends this evening. Breasts are like snowflakes, right? I mean, no two (or four) look the same, but they are all beautiful . . . beautiful parts on God's creations. I would much prefer the 40-year-old, drooping ones that God gave me now, but that was not part of his plan. So, I will go along with that plan tomorrow and tonight just remember He is in control.

Chemo Has Left The Body

I can tell it's gone because all the things I took for granted are slowly coming back. And now I am really paying attention to them. 1. Let's take my taste buds, for instance. Food has never tasted so good as it has over the past couple of weeks. Coffee, I missed you. Chocolate, I adore you. Although I have to tighten the reins on my eating habits for my health's sake, I have thoroughly enjoyed pigging out lately. However, my jeans may not agree. 2. "Unwanted hair". Of course, all the hair I didn't miss in the first place is coming back fast and oddly patterned, but I am not complaining. I shaved my legs today for the first time in a few months and it was nice. Only, Bob's razor needs a new blade. He surely will not appreciate sharing with me again. There's just something about his razor . . . I like it better. Don't judge me. 3. "Wanted hair". Slowly but surely the fuzz is darkening and looking more like hair. Bob says it is getting long. I guess compared to his bald spot it is getting "long", but I can be patient. It's my eyelashes and eyebrows causing me strife. I never lost them completely, just have vacant spots here and there. So I spend a lot of time obsessing over the growth while examining them in a magnifying mirror hourly. Eyebrows are filling in, but eyelash holes are slow to respond. 4. Energy and pain. Energy level has increased and the burning pain in my legs . . . vanished. I even ran two miles last Sunday and felt good! Joy. I feel joy from the inside out. With surgery coming up, I still feel like I am over the hump. The worst is behind me. And that is where I'd like it to stay.

Competitive But Realistic

I'm extremely competitive. A game of Guesstures turns me into a nail-biting, answer-shouting, seat-bouncing freak. Lost field hockey games in high school would leave be seething under my mouth guard and cranky for hours after. And a bad run on the track, forget it . . . devastated. While training for races throughout my adult life, although my mouth is saying, "It's not about my time, it's about having fun", my competitive spirit is screaming, "It's totally about my time!" I was broken-hearted during my training for my first (and last) marathon seven years ago, when just a few weeks before the big event, I injured my knee, causing pain that should have prevented me from going forward with that run. But there was no way I was going to come that far and not go all the way. That day it was truly NOT about my time. It was about finishing. And I did. But cried almost the whole way home from Burlington, VT in pain. Stupid, you say? Yup. It kept me from running for a long time. Last June, I decided I was ready to get back out there. A half marathon this time. Doable. Even though I struggled some days while training with my two girlfriends, when the run came, it was the best I felt in a long time. The runner's high was in full effect. And crossing the finish line with a respectable time and no injuries at 39 left me feeling pretty proud of myself. Running is important to me. A lot of people don't understand it. But I love it. There is a feeling that comes with running that is tough to explain, but anyone else who is a runner knows exactly what I mean and you are shaking your head right now.

So, this cancer thing has put a bit of a damper on any running regimen. My leg muscle have collapsed to the intense build up of chemo . . . deteriorated from the shapely, strong pillars they used to be to these jello-like logs that burn from just walking up stairs. Last week I decided to get out there and try to run a mile and get in shape before the Race For The Cure 5k this weekend. I felt great mentally, so I went for it. The minute I began, I knew I would not last. The feeling was like nothing I had ever experienced. My legs literally didn't work like that anymore. In fact, not only did they feel like they were 400 pounds each, but they couldn't even "move" like the legs of a runner. I likened myself to a woman 9 months pregnant and possibly 10 cm dilated, trying to run. It was impossible. SO after about 200 yards, I stopped. I realized running a 5k was not going to be possible. I cried. I want my body back. I want so badly to run this race with my amazing supporters, some are people who have never run before and have trained for this event. I want to run with them, to show them how proud I am of them for working so hard and reaching their goal. I want to run with my old running mates and my new running mates and my friends and family and all the people who have showed me so much love and warmth and pure, beautiful goodness through these long six months. But I can't. Tough for this competitive girl to admit, but I am just not strong enough yet. I guess I have been using that strength in other ways lately, so I can wait until next year to "run" this race when I am a one year survivor. And I will be running for fun . . . and for time :)