Find comfort in the discomfort

What is “happiness?” Should we strive for it? Do we?

 

Should we gain “more” than we “lose?” What does it mean to “gain?” How do we “lose?” 

 

I’ve come to the realization that I’m going to miss my bewbs. The decision has been made that I’m destined to depart from my origins and I’m feeling melancholy about it. I’m gonna miss them. They’re not stellar in the grand scheme of “BOOBS” but I like them and they’re mine. They might be assholes but they’re my assholes. They’ve fed both of my children for the first year of their lives. They’ve been there for me when I needed them and now they’re yet another thing I’m forced to say goodbye to. Emphasis on forced.

 

We (women) have been conditioned to scrutinize, pick, poke, pry and hate our bodies. We want to change. We NEED to diversify. We’re SUPPOSED to transform. We’re REQUIRED to constantly “improve.” But these are mine. MINE. Screw you for telling me that I need get rid of them. SCREW YOU.

 

We all have spaces. Uncomfortable, unbecoming, unassuming spaces that make us who we are. We continue forward but the spaces are always there. Waiting in the lines of our lives like leeches anticipating the next rain storm. Will I feel like my latest additions are spaces in my psyche or will they feel like “me?”

 

What will my new additions look like? How will they feel? Will I need to introduce them to my other body parts? Will they have names? I’m not great at meeting new people. I’m often slow to warm, cautiously optimistic. Will I trust my new friends or will they have to prove themselves?

 

Find comfort in the discomfort. Embrace the stress. Feel the growth. Accept the change and change will accept you. And hug your furry friends. They will save your soul. 

 

 

 

Live, laugh, love and swear

 

“I touched your head while you were sleeping,” Lilah says.

 

“Oh ya?” I reply. “How was that?”

 

“Good. It felt soft. But nothing came off. Like, the rest of your little hairs didn’t come off or anything.”

 

She looked like she was keeping a huge secret that she was finally able to share. Like a forbidden truth that she questioned whether she should mention. 

 

Tommy says, “Mama I think you’re pretty. Like the prettiest. Even if you’re bald. I don’t even care.” 

 

“Thank you baby,” I mutter through tear filled eyes as I grab him and pull him close.

 

I had my 3^rd round of chemo. 13 rounds to go. 

 

It’s fun to have a countdown. I like them. I also like plans. But this shit you can’t plan. So I’ve learned to embrace loving the unknown.  What’s this round going to be like? What will tomorrow bring? The wonder wall of it all makes each day a moment to live for. The present is a gift. The future isn’t promised. But that’s cool. It’s all good. Live for the now. Sure.

 

Easier said than done. But it feels familiar. When Steve was sick I never thought of what would come next. I just imagined that this wasn’t all we were meant to have. That the road ahead WAS promised even though it wasn’t. I didn’t think of one specific path. Or where we would be 10 years from now. I just knew that we would be. We would exist.  That’s how it feels now. I don’t know where I’ll be in 10 years. I don’t’ know if I’ll be HERE. Actually, I know I won’t be in this space. I’ve already transformed into something else. The old me, the me of just 4 weeks ago is gone. It’s hard to remember who she was. 

 

Embracing this bald, beautiful path of liberation feels good. It feels right.

 

I’m seeing me. Possibly for the first time ever. And so is everyone else. Tommy and Lilah get to see who their Mama is. Without the bells and whistles of societal chains. The breakdown, and I don’t mean collapse. I mean BREAK-DOWN of Mama. Stripped to the core. Full of life, heart, soul, love. This mission is about me. But it’s also about them. What will they learn from this? What will be their takeaway? Live, love, laugh, and swear. A lot. We have two options, run from it, or run at it. Bitch better watch out, I’m fast.

The sounds of silence

 

I’m an only child.

 

I’m pretty weird anyways but being an old child equals extra weirdness. I like my own shit. I like to be left alone a lot and I like the quiet. Steve is my antithesis. He thrives on being social, is (was) a big eater, he’s reactive instead of proactive.

 

When I fell in love with this odd man I didn’t quite understand how he adequately functioned in the world. How did he exist without ANALYZING his every move, PLAN for at least 3 days before engaging in all activities and if were matched against a grizzly bear would win a cheeseburger eating competition no questions asked. WHATTA A CREATURE!

 

When I fell in love with Steve I also fell in love with his family. There are lots of members, they’re loud, love whole heartedly, are fun, crazy, fun, wild, silly and FUN. They are close, open but also all their own people. How did they do it?? I felt like I was studying when I was around them. Taking notes on their behaviors and figuring out what made them tick. I wanted to be more like them. I wanted them to be in my life more. They had heart. I could feel it. 

 

I had an echo cardiograph to make sure my heart was strong enough for chemo. Also I should mention that I’ve taken to pronouncing it as CHemo instead of KEYmo. Makes me feel like I’m vacationing in Italy rather than receiving intravenous poison that is simultaneously saving my life while killing ALL of my cells. 

 

Ok, back to my heart. 

 

I saw it. Like up close and personal. In real life. I witnessed MY ACTUAL HEART beating inside of my body. It was beautiful. Strong. Consistent. Getting shit done. Intense. Layered. I felt grateful to meet her for the first time and sorry that it took me so long. 

 

The procedure took longer than anticipated because I wanted to know more about her. I wanted to learn her idiosyncrasies. See her “work” and tell her how appreciative I was.

 

I didn’t want to say goodbye. 

 

I love photographs. I love being able to look at a photograph and recollect feelings that had exuded during a particular point. I like collecting feelings that manifest during moments. That sounds maniacal. “Ya, no I’m not a “PHOTOGRAPHER” my correct title is actually “FEELINGS COLLECTOR.”

 

I wanted a picture of my heart. To have a photograph of the organ that was sustaining my life. And do you know what the tech said when I asked her if I could take a picture of my own heart? No. The bitch said “No.” 

 

BUT BITCH IT’S MY HEART. MINE. I don’t want a picture of YOUR heart or some RANDOM heart I want a picture of my own heart. It would be like visiting the Statue of Liberty and not taking a picture. Worse. It would be as if the Statue of Liberty lived inside of your body and you finally got a chance to meet her but couldn’t take a picture because some bitch said it was against the rules.

 

So I left. 

 

JUST KIDDING I told that bitch to shut the hell up and I was taking a picture of my heart because she can’t tell me my business. 

 

Seeing my heart in real life, serving real life whole heartedness, added to the progression of the puzzle that I’m attempting to amount to. She was fierce. Silent but so loud. A symbol of power without showing off.

 

I want to find solace in silence. It doesn’t seem like it should be hard to do. Then why is it? Where in lies the struggle to embrace silence?  Because silence is loud as fuck that’s why. Thick. Dense. Hard to dig through. 

 

I want to cut the noise while appreciating the static. You hear that? Ya me neither.

Hair Schmair

 

It’s hard to start a new life. 

 

Being bald is weird. There I said it. And you what? Going bald very rapidly is even weirder. 

 

I got out of the bathtub last night and saw a mirage of small hairs lining the porcelain rectangle tub mocking me from below. I stared at the collage of mixed up angled mini knives for a solid 30 seconds.

 

Did those come off of me? I’m used to cleaning dog hairs. In fact I like it. When a doggy guest leaves after a vacation I’ll often find their hair and be like, “Aww Maxyyyyy. Hi.” But when It’s MY hair staring back at me it feels foreign, wrong, scary. I want to shake my hands hard when I see the little pokes clinging to my palms after running my hand through my scalp. And then in the same gasp I apologize and give them a proper rinse down the sink with a wink, a farewell, a tip o my hat, see ya my friend sorta send off. 

 

I know it’s happening, has happened to people before but fuck me this is hard. BALD? Like no hair at all? Like zero hairs on my head? Now that, is a horse of a different color.

 

Buttttt I have learned a secret that I have not been privy to before now. WIGS MAN. FUCKING WIGS. I might never go back to real hair. Humidity? No prob. Shine? We gatchu. Perfectly waved waves all day? Yep. You wanna be Jessica Rabbit by day and Diana Ross by night let’s fucking go!

 

As a woman I’ve always wondered what THAT exactly means. Did I become a “woman” when I got my first period in the 5^th grade and had no idea what was happening? Did I become a woman when I was too nervous to look at a group of men standing on the corner as I passed by because I didn’t want to cause “unnecessary attention?” Did it happen at my wedding or when I grew my children inside of my body?  Is it my hair? My breasts? My bum? How others perceive me? 

 

There isn’t a “correct” answer. The answer is being. In the moment. Now. Do you feel sexy? Well you should. So get on that.

 

I like looking at loosing my hair as a symbol of my strip down. A chance to start fresh. To learn what being a woman means to ME. It’s actually the chance of a lifetime. I’m shedding. Feeling the gratitude of being given the gift of a new start. 

 

Gimme a whole new set of cells to work with and we’ll go from there. Stripped to the core and ready to rebuild. Let’s find out who this bitch really is.

It’s probably nothing

 

I found a lump, actually three small lumps in my right breast 3 weeks before my 37^th birthday. “I have cystic breasts,”  my mom says as I tell her. “ It’s probably nothing.”

 

10 years ago my dog awoke me as my newly acquired husband of 2 months was passing out in the bathtub. 

 

He was in so much pain that his skin looked disengaged from his frame. He looked dead. I screamed his name, pushed him and he slowly opened his eyes. His skin was was green and clammy without being wet. There was an inch of water in the tub. How long has been in here? I drove him to the ER and life was never the same.

 

Steve spent 6 grueling months in and out of consciousness, received numerous surgeries, was in a 4 week coma, lost 60% of his body weight, all of his hair and I was left to stand by as a 25 year old newly married bride to the only man I had ever loved since I was 15 years old. 

Steve had undiagnosed and accumulated gallstones that had become lodged in his bile duct causing his pancreas to explode. His current day diagnosis is chronic necrotizing pancreatitis. He has 20% of his pancreas in tact and manages each day like it might be his last which can be a blessing and a curse. But I’d rather it this way. I don’t want to be no 36 year old bitty constantly worrying if the next choco taco is going to send my husband into another coma induced attack. Eat that taco baby and enjoy. In fact I’ll raise your choco taco for a screwball and a chipwich. Let’s get this party going.  

 

My point is we are used to medical snafus. We’ve had our fair share. Or at least we assumed.

 

The following day, after discovering my lumps, I was seen at MGH for a mammogram and an ultrasound. As the tech was looking at the screen of the ultrasound machine, he said “Hey, would you like to schedule an appointment to see the surgeon, you know while you’re here.” 

 

His words stopped me, paused me in my track. Shit. I know this “look” I recognize this “tone” just as much as the sanitizing rubbing alcohol brings me back to a reminiscent knee buckling paralysis relating to Steve’s hospitalization. I knew he saw something on that screen. I saw his eyes reflecting back off of the monitor. They looked sad.

 

I took a deep breath, stared at the ceiling and said, “Sure. Why not.” 

 

Once I left the hospital my mind equating to a tornado that had to pay her fucking parking ticket, damn it where did I put that thing?? I got into my car, started it and my phone rang. “Um, hi yes I’m looking for Danielle” a nervous voice spoke back to me on the other end.  

 

It’s funny how once you remove the bullshit from everything and everyone you’re able to truly see human behavior. It’s more simple than people think. It’s like when you look at a menu and a dish description reads, “sweet, reduction wine sauce meandered over a chicken filet with steam fresh broccoli and sweet caramelized mashed potatoes.” Remove all the bullshit and you get “chicken, broccoli and mashed potatoes.” 

 

No one really wannnnnts to be mean. Or rude. Or crude. We all want to say the right thing. But usually our brains get in the way and it comes out as “SCHEDULE A FUCKING APPOINTMENT YOU HAVE CANCER.” 

 

Nah she didn’t say it that way but she did say, “While you just had your scan, let’s go ahead and schedule an appointment so we’re all prepared.” 

 

Aww cute. Ya, let’s do that bitch.

 

So without having my biopsy results, or the final images from my mammogram I scheduled an appointment to see a surgeon.

 

My biopsy took place on 7/2 just in time for a fun filled relaxing care free 7/4. On 7/3 my surgeon called not with results from my tests but to schedule a CT Scan on 7/5 (the day after America’s birthday) at 8:00 am. 

 

Ok. Once again, not sure why this is happening but this isn’t my first “medical rodeo” and I know how weird all you hospital people can be so sure, let’s do this. A CAT Scan at 8:00 am on July 5^th it is. Mind if I bring a few Jell-O shots because that’s the shape you should be expecting me to be in. Spiked Jell-O shot, blue, white and red haired, firework smoked mode.

 

July 6^th no call, no results, July 7^th no call, no results. Ok, maybe I’m reading this allllll wrong. They’re probably just a wicked good hospital that’s trying to be extra cautious cause they want me to give them a great review on their medical report card or some shit.

 

July 8^th: Surgeon appointment day. Scheduled for 3 pm. They call at 10. “ Hi, Mrs. Logan. This is Dr. Hughes office. Can you come in at 1pm today.”

 

Weird, but whatever ya sure.

 

They call back 30 minutes later. “Hi, ya I’m sorry you must be tired of hearing from us already.”

 Ensue awkward “ha ha ha on my end, ya actually I am, what now?” 

“Oh the Dr. doesn’t want you to eat or drink anything an hour before your appointment and don’t chew gum or eat any mints.”

 

WHAT THE EVERY LOVING SHIT IS THIS SHIT? 

 

“What? Am I having surgery or something? What is going on? You know what, save it. No gum, no mints, maybe the dr is allergic I don’t know or care whatever I’ll see ya’ll in like an hour. Bye.”

 

And I hung up. Confused, shaking, pondering, you know just an all around good time fun time anxiety attack. 

 

Now mind you, this is all happening to me. TO ME. Usually in my wild life that is the anti normalcy of a “typical life” this is Steve’s life. This isn’t MY LIFE. This isn’t what I deal with. I talk to Dr.’s on behalf of Steve. I deal with odd, garbled Dr. lingo in direct correlation to my husband. Not me. So this is all extremely surreal.

 

I have an 8 year old and a 4 year old that I need to protect from the reality that is Steve’s medical struggles. I can’t let them in on my teetering frailty. Not now anyways. So best to keep it all jarred up inside. Right? Isn’t that always the best course of action. Just keep it all inside until CAFUCKING BLOOM the entire rubbish (I watch peppa pig a lot) lid comes shooting off, hits the dog in the face and renders me curled in the fetal position in the middle of the kitchen floor. Perfect.

 

I arrive at my surgeon’s appointment “knowing” I should expect some shit to go down but not having any knowledge of what this appointment will actually entail.

 

The Dr. walks in, masked up because we live in COVID world and things are lacking less, if you can imagine it, “warmth” in the world. He hands me a book as I sit on the edge of the examining table. It’s titled, “Breast Cancer Treatments” and starts talking about “the next course of action.” 

 

He must have read my eyes because he stopped in his tracks, looked at me with both a kindness and fear. “You do know you have breast cancer, don’t you.”

 

That’s it. That’s how it was laid on me.

 

“Well I do now,” was all I could muster. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry. No one called you with your results?” 

 

“No one called me, and no one told me my results were in after I called several times asking. But to be honest I’m not perturbed by this small talk. I have breast cancer?” At this point I started having an inner monologue outwardly, “I mean I knew it. I knew when the tech recommended an appointment to see you. I knew when I went in for CT scan, I knew when you called me and asked me to come in earlier today. I fucking knew it. But fuck. Are you sure?”

 

The doctor put his hand on my left arm and said, “Yes, dear you do.” 

 

Test results show 3 forms of breast cancer in my right breast. I also have cancer in one of my lymph nodes. 

 

Ok.

 

What now? Gatta tell my parents. Steve. The kids. My clients. My dog. And let the all too familiar charade of scheduled appointments begin. Oncology, wig appointment whatever the fuck that means, port entry surgery, chemo. Lord what is happening?

 

And just like that I’m the patient. Within 3 weeks my, our, world was turned upside down. 

 

What about my hair? “Oh ya that’s going to go?” Oh. Ok ya that’ll just “go” and how will that happen exactly? Will it all fall out at once? Will my eyelashes go too? How long do I have before I’m just full turtle status?

 

If I can say something everyone is wonderful and horrible all at the same time. Everyone has words of wisdom, advice inspirations to offer and they are all so helpful and nothing that you truly want to hear. 

 

“Shave your head. Do it now” that was my top hit advice of info. I hated hearing it. You shave your fucking head weirdo. Shave my head? Who the fuck am I, GI Jane? They were right. 

 

After my first round of chemo which the docs call, “the red devil” because when you pee or cry it comes out a blood red color so thanks so much for that guys, my scalp started to burn. My hair thinned but didn’t fall out. But at this point  I started to pity my hair. I felt bad for it. I wasn’t sad for me or for my husband who loves my hair or fearful that my kids would start to notice it changing it was more of personal connection between me and my hair. My hair. My ride or die. My wake up and be there for me every day bitch. We had a heart to heart and I told her that I wouldn’t do it to her. I wouldn’t string her along any further, I’d cut her lose before she had any chance of feeling sorry for herself. 

 

So the next day I buzzed my head. 

The waves of emotions come as a surprise. I’m “strong” I’ve “been through a lot” I’m “used to dealing with more than the norm” but damn is it different when its YOU. I have all of Steve’s doctors phone numbers programmed in my “favorites” on my phone. He’s the sick one. I’m mom. I’m the doer. If I don’t like how things are going I change shit. But this. This is different. How am I supposed to act? Fine throughout the day and then sob inconsolably in the shower at the end of the day? Maybe. Wake up not wanting to get out of bed? Sure. It’s all ok while being so not ok. That’s the only way to put it. NONE OF THIS IS OK. 

 

Most days I want to carry my kids around simultaneously in a tandem baby carrier anyways so this experience makes me want to attempt to push them back inside so they are never apart from me. But that’s normal right? 

 

I don’t believe in being “strong” I’m not sure what that means. I think strength lies in showing my kids that it’s ok to cry. To show them that this is a very upsetting situation which will forever change us. That this does suck bad and let’s talk about how bad it sucks. 

 

My chemo treatments started on July 31^st. They will end in December. I will have a month to recover and will have a bilateral mastectomy with possible radiation to follow. 

 

The road ahead will be bumpy but the lessons learned will be worth it. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. 

 

At the very least I’ll have new bewbs for Easter and that my friend is a silver lining I can get behind. 

Road to Enlightment

The morning after my diagnosis I woke up and looked in the mirror. The first glance at my body which I thought I knew. We’re in this together. For better or worse. But I’m not sure I know you right now. And then I saw it. Written in in the prettiest cursive handwriting. “Yes.” 

 

“Yes” written on my breast with 3 lumps of cancer inside of it. Right then, right there I decided this is my ride. And I will do it with lots of swears and even more positivity.

 

Yes. I. will.

 

Step 1.) get breast cancer

Step 2.) not sure yet 

 

My first thought after hearing that I was a 36 year old mom with an 8 year old daughter, a 4 year old son and a wife to a disabled husband who had recently been diagnosed with Stage 3 breast cancer was shit. Shit fuck shit. 

 

“Hey guys can you come in here a second?” 

We had recently started family meetings around the dinner table which would consist of thoughts that had been bothering us or things that we wished to discuss as an entire family. They usually always turned out wonderfully. Filled with laughter and stories that the kids weren’t aware were a part of our personalities prior to their existence.  It’s funny how that happens. You automatically think, of course my kids know who I WAS before they were born. I mean, am I really all that different than before having children? Yes. The answer is yes.

 

So for this particular family meeting I knew that the news about to be breeched was not going to be fun or up-lifting. It wasn’t silly. It was meant to be serious. And serious can suck.

 

“Hey guys? Come in here for a minute. Family meeting time.” The kid’s faces lit up. “Yay.” They say as they sit down. My heart sinks for a moment as I unleash the news. 

 

“Ya so this isn’t going to be the type of meeting that I love having but it’s necessary. And sometimes necessary kinda sucks right? When I went to the dr today they told me that I have breast cancer. I have a lump in my breast and the doctors need to figure out how they can give me medicine to make sure I stay healthy.”

 

Lilah, my 8 year old looks at me a little worried but also thought provoked. She raises her hand like she’s in the middle of an auditorium, takes a large inhale, closes her eyes and says, “This is going to be a bit off track but I’ve always wanted to know the answer, does your favorite ice cream flavor STAY your favorite or does it change as you get older?”

 

It was then that I knew, shit we got this.