A sense of familiarity lurks behind these days. A rewind of frames whisks through my mind’s eye then a play button slows the scenes as they unfold. I feel the panic of the rewind but nod as the play unfolds because I’m on the other side of that time.
In the first scene just after a diagnosis of breast cancer, I’m sitting alone across from my surgeon. I’m holding a scribbled list on a piece of ripped and folded piece of paper. The handwriting is jerky, and the last item stands in its own space a half-inch below the other items on the list. She talks. I listen. I question. She answers. I hold a poker face and can’t say the words. I turn the paper to her, so she can read the last line. “Chemo scares me.” She said words to the effect that it should. No surprise that it does. Use common sense. Don’t go to a school Halloween party with snotty-nosed little kids running around. I didn’t. Instead, I wore gloves to the grocery store, didn’t travel to Iowa for a year, and stayed home much of the time. Then two months after chemo ended, I went to the school’s spring Harry Potter-themed field day. I donned a witch’s costume and painted moons and stars on little cheeks. When I finally flew to Iowa, that big hug from Mom was the sweetest. It still holds me tight today. (Read “Frustration.”)
Know there are variables. As I started a new chemo med in the fifth round, Bill and my nurse peered into my face with hawk eyes. The drug was administered via an IV push rather than drip. That means my nurse sat inches from my face slowly injecting the bright red chemo through my port every thirty seconds or so. Some patients have extreme allergic reactions to this med which usually happen in the first or second (of four) bi-weekly infusions. I did not have a reaction. The intensity of their gaze relaxed. As did my anxiety. (Read “Wednesdays.”)
Let God have it. My minister said, “I really feel you will move through this. In the meantime, you can let God have it.” I’m of too practical a blood line to be a lofty pray-er. As a kid, church was Sunday mornings milking cows in the barn with country music playing in the background. My minister was not telling me to gently set this box of woe into God’s hands. Let Him have it. He can take it. I was not struck down by lightning during cuss-studded rants toward Him. The calm present after those rants led to more calm in our future conversations. And because words of prayer do not brim through the top of my head up to the heavens, I wrote a prayer, made a prayer bracelet, then said and felt that prayer every day throughout that year. I reread it this morning and thought how strangely relevant it is in this time. (Read “Power and Prayer.”)
Ban searching the internet. From October 2009 through April of 2010, I didn’t set foot on the internet to Google anything. I only used the computer to write and to access my email account. I made this decision when I was diagnosed after a search for “how to talk about your kids about breast cancer.” To this day, the most viscous illustration haunts me from that search. A drawing of a woman upright on the couch, her head leaning on her shoulder as if she was a sleep. Her face was green. It wasn’t a playful cartoon illustration. It was a serious scene and meant for a child’s eyes. I never read a book about cancer to my then nearly 3-year-old and 5-year-old sons. I simply told them what they might see different about me and let them ask questions. (Read “My Hair Will Fall Out.”)
Ironically, the reason I started writing was to let people who were not living near us know that I was not green and dying. And that’s how I tell people who ask how and when I started to write essays. I wasn’t green and dying. I was taking the reins and spinning my own story around my own experience. We each have our own experience, again, too many variables to make any steadfast predictions for ourselves. Control the variables we can; have faith that other variables—scientists researching therapies or manufacturers making new products—will precipitate change.
Find people you trust and follow their instructions. My chemo doctor told us to go out for a nice dinner after the first chemo infusion. My doctor and nurses told me they would take every measure such that I didn’t get sick. I had a basket of medicines to take those first days of chemo. I might have been tired and run down, but I never puked during chemo. My chemo doctor told me to accept the help that’s helpful and to be careful of help that isn’t. Be mindful of people and information that might cause more harm than good. Listen to sound advice and follow it. Release control when needed, maintain it when you can. Limit time spent with multiple outside sources. Go rake the yard or put a load of laundry on. (Read “My Wicker Life Boat”)
It was during chemo that my appreciation for laundry become boundless. There are no surprises in doing laundry. I know how to handle those shape changers that move from clean clothing to dirty laundry and back again. The sorting is rhythmic. Using the right water temperature is second nature. Following my process of partially drying then hanging shrink-ables is systematic. Folding laundry neatly is edging on OCD—totally in my control. Seeing a laundry room stacked with clean piles is rewarding. It reminds me of making hay on a 95-degree July afternoon then looking back over your shoulder as you leave the field to see bales and bales of hay; they mark well-spent energy. (Read “An Update from the Laundry Maven.”)
Get dressed. Fake it until you make it. Put your best face forward. On writing days when I go to the library, I dress like a writer. At home with my family, I dress like a mom who goes to the grocery store and drives carpools. When I’m cleaning or cooking or working outside, I wear old clothes for the task at hand. If I’m going to work out, I don’t shower first thing in the morning; I put on workout clothes. When I dress for days as though it doesn’t matter who I am or what my roles are, my soul takes on the shabbiness of my mismatched pajamas. Saturdays and Sundays still exist on the calendar, and I let myself linger longer in comfy clothes. Ten years ago, I was bald. Before I started chemo, I went to get new glasses with bold frames that would draw attention to my eyes. The optician liked the ones I picked out, “They match your hair beautifully!” I looked in the mirror at my thick, wavy shoulder length hair and wondered if the glasses would match my bald head. When my hair fell out, I built a recognizable “me” through chemo camouflage: glasses, a wig, earrings, and lipstick. That woman I built up from the foundation of a bald head with no eyebrows was powerful. (See Chemo Camouflage Photo Gallery)
Spend time navel gazing. Be in the present. I went out for groceries yesterday. I had a mask and rubber gloves, took hand sanitizer and cleaning wipes with me. I ran through the procedure manual built ten years ago on keeping unwanted yuck away from me. Chemo cyclically knocked my immune system out of whack. Before going into the store, I put on rubber gloves and a mask. My credit card was in my pocket; I left my purse tucked under the seat out of germs’ way. Inside the store, my breathing got heavier as I imagined those tiny invisible bastards. Soon my mind was brought back to the immediate here and now. The mask smelled. It was an unpleasant smell—fish. Why? In the second aisle it dawned on me: I had fish and chips for lunch just before I went out. I lived the after effects of lunch for a half our as I scuttled about hunting and gathering. Note: Most definitely should brush teeth before masking up to go grocery shopping.
Is now an appropriate time to laugh? Yes. Read “Impersonations.”