Fight for your right to ... live

8:18 am, Tommy’s birthday is August 18, I awaken from a dream crying. In my dream, Jack, my newly departed 16 year old best friend was sitting on my left hand. I could feel the weight of his body. His soft white fur grazing my hand. It was so white, whiter than it had been when he was a puppy. He was staring at me. Right into my eyes like he was transferring energy or sending a message. His fur was moving ever so slightly. Waving in a gentle breeze. He looked calm. Peaceful. Like he wanted to tell me he that loved me one last time. I didn’t say anything but I didn’t have to. I just cried. Tears streamed down my face. When I awoke I said, “I know buddy. I’m safe now, you brought me home. You did your job. Thank you.” This was my first day in Texas.  

Feel to heal

Peace

Serenity

Calm

Listen

A yellow butterfly lands on my right breast as I lay on a lounge chair by the pool. It is so close that I can see the fur above her eyes and her proboscis moving in and out in synchronized unison. In and out, in and out. Her wings open and close gently. Back and forth in a graceful rhythm. I sync my breathing with the natural eb and flow of her spirit. Open, close, in, out, back and forth. We seem to stare at each other. “Yeah,” I say out loud. “That’s the side that needs healing. Can you feel it?” Open, close, in, out, back and forth. “Thank you. Thank you for reminding me to breathe. Thank you for reminding me that it is healing. That I am healing.” And just as quickly as she approached, she departed.

The only noise here is the silence of the surroundings. The insects and the trees know the right time to start and the right time to stop. It’s a dance. A balance. An eb, a flow. A start, a stop, a pause, a go. Gently. Carefully. 

I walk barefoot around the outskirts of my cabin because it feels right. If I walk too hard or too fast, the ground reminds me to slow down. The rocks remind me to go lightly. 

Go lightly.

Open, close, in and out, back and forth.

Release Danielle. Just be. Feel the peace. Softly. Carefully. Quietly. Internally. Feel to heal.

In the middle of the summer, 4 weeks after I left my husband, 1 week after learning he was in a relationship with another woman, a friend sent me a link to apply for a trip to Dripping Springs Texas, all expenses paid, through an organization called First Descents designated for cancer fighters and survivors. What the hell, I’ll apply, no way I’ll be selected but lord alfucking mighty knows that I could use a break. How old are you? 38 What is your diagnosis? Stage 3 breast cancer. Are you currently receiving chemo? Yes. Do you have children if so how many and what are their ages? Yes, Lilah age 9, Tommy age 6. 

Like I said, no way I’m being selected but okidoki. 

And what the fuck do you know? I WAS SELECTED. 5 days, my own cabin, rock climbing, fresh country air and most importantly people that can commiserate with my condition. Moms that are clutched with concern contemplating that their children might grow up without them. Daughters that can’t process the daunting legitimacy that their parents will be forced to bury their child. And people getting a divorce while fighting for the right to live.

Texas changed me. I might be Boston learned and raised but I ascertained how to live in Texas. I looked inward and saw myself. I saw who I became during my fight and I thanked her.

I learned that I need and needed help. The reality of realizing that I actually needed help and that my mantra of “Oh I’llll be fineeeeee. I’m okkkkkk. I don’t neeeed a lightbulb I’ll just sit here in the mother fucking dark and eventually develop my other senses so I can “see” in pitch blackness” no longer held water. NO. FUCK THAT. NO.

I have, with the help of many other warm souls, dogs, my parents and my children been doing it on my own. My time in Texas forced me to realize that help is critical to survival. Yeah great I have gotten through 40 out of my 42 chemotherapy treatments relatively unscathed but that’s physical. Emotional support is just as, if not more crucial. Without emotional back rubbing you might as well buy your plot and reserve the hall for your celebration of life ceremony cuz you dead bitch. 

I have 2 chemo sessions left until freedom. 40 treatments under my belt and 2 left. A year and a half ago I had a life. Today I know what it means to live it. Let’s fucking go.

Pass the salt

Pass the Salt: Move on, forget about it, resolve, act as if you are at a dinner table and the request for your need to be met is as simple as asking someone to “pass the salt” while eating a meal. 

Don’t ask “whatttt nowwwww?” (See previously stated question in prior post) and not expect the universe to answer, “heads up bitch.”

Fueled by tequila, Marlboro cigarettes and regret I awaken with a headache and the dawdling mental digestion of doom. 

At the end of May, after feeling like I didn’t have another choice, I took the kids and went to stay with my parents.

My head was spinning. I have cancer, I’m continuing to undergo treatments until January, my husband and I are at each other’s throats constantly. I needed space. I needed to see if our marriage could be saved. I needed peace. I needed time.

On July 14^th I learned that my husband was dating another woman. And was “in love.” 

No one thinks, first ima get married and then ima get sick oh and then for the grande finale ima get divorced. Ohhhh damn 10 years, 2 babies, 1 business later you will get stage 2B breast cancer and also a divorce. Oh but bitch you’ll be FINE and live to tell the tale to others across the landddd.

DIVORCE.

The mere notion of the word makes you think. Stops you in your tracks and makes you THINK. What does it mean? How does divorce define your self worth? Does it? Should it? What if your husband of 11 years, companion of 22 starts dating a woman in the midst of your continuing effort to fight cancer? What the holy fuck am I on Dynasty!? What’s next?? If I find out Blake Carrington is my dad I’m fucking out.

Anywhooo.

EGO.

Ego man. Ego. L’eggo of my egggggo. How do you define your ego if everything you’ve considered to be “you” is no longer? What if your semblance of reality isn’t real at all? What if you are forced to reckon that you have been replaced? That there another woman with “my man.” Another woman hearing the same stories I have heard. Another woman for him to call his.

I stare back at my reflection of tear streaked cheeks darkened by mascara and think fuck man, I have eyelashes to support mascara. I might embody Angela Bassett ala Waiting to Exhale but I’d rather burn this place to the ground from the outside than let the flames in.

It hurts. It stings. It comes over me in waves and I can’t stop crying. I should be talking to my children about getting ready for school, picking out new back packs and preparing them for the next chapter of their lives, instead I’m having conversations of morality, honor, respect, devotion and dadda’s girlfriend. We, as a family, as a unit, should have been allowed the opportunity to transition into this new chapter of change with our heads held high having just returned from war knowing we are winning the battle instead of juggling an extra obstacle of debauchery. 

I shouldn’t have to teach my children about the morality and sanctity of marriage in the midst of their digestion and recoup from the past year of trauma and fear and processing that their mother has cancer. I should be allowed to focus on the opportunity to allow them a healing time process. A respite for them to process the largest change their world has ever known. 

BUT YOU KNOW WHAT?? FUCK. IT.

I AM focused on my children. I AM focused on my health. I have 6 chemo treatments standing between me and the finish line. I have 1 surgery looming on the landing. I say this with baited breath … I should be done with treatments/surgeries etc by Christmas. Nearly 1.5 years of chemo, 6 weeks of radiation, 3 surgeries, a divorce and a fucking partridge and a pear tree smoking a parliament while scratching a scratchie at Dunks. 

I leave my house ready for my morning feeling disgraced. At the local market people avert their eyes. I feel as if they all know. He chose her over you. He didn’t want this life. 

I’m supposed to have someone, somebody, my person, to share my pain. To empathize. To sympathize. To rub my arm and say I’m here for you, it’ll all be ok, we’re in this together. But the truth is, I do. I have honest, genuine, authentic people (and dogs, dogs man, dogs) in my world that CARE. That are here for me when I need them the most. The tough horse pill to swallow was realizing that the person who I expected to lean on didn’t hold his post. It was a brutal truth to tackle. He just didn’t want to. He. Didn’t. Want. To. 

In our society we create paths, tunnels and crevices that we are all “supposed” to succumb to. You go this way, and I’ll go too and then we will meet in the middle because that is what we’re supposed to fucking do. But that isn’t living. Waking up, taking a deep breath, making choices that effect your overall well being, learning, that is living. I’ve spent a long time subconsciously molding an ideal of a person. An ideal that I wished to see. But the truth is, you can’t change someone. You can’t expect someone to act “accordingly” if they don’t want to. Period. End scene.

It’s real simple to say fuck you buddy. It’s real easy to chastise “her.” But at the end of the day, nah. I’m not them. I don’t want their lives, I don’t want to make the choices they have made. So if logic ensues, let go and let god. Or dog.

My mom says I’m an onion. I feel more like a drunk raccoon rummaging through receptacles until I run out of rum but she’s right. I am an onion. Every day I’m unraveling a layer revealing something that I haven’t realized resides inside myself. Every day I discover a little bit more. Under all the wraps. Peekaboo mother fucker.

At the beginning of my 37^th year I said to the universe, “I want to find out who I truly am.” It’s strange because the more I sit with my life experiences, the more I marinate in the muddy malarky of my macrocosm the more it feels right.

I am here. I am growing. I am feeling my true emotions. I’m focusing on my business and how much I love it. I’m focusing on teaching my children to love themselves. And to embrace the unknown. There is nothing to be afraid of unless you don’t try. 

Life is full of lessons. And shouldn’t it be? Feel to heal. Walk through the fire to realize it’s not about winning, it’s not about losing, it’s not about washing a rug outside at 10 pm in your nightgown and rain boots outwardly crying while 4 dogs surround you seemingly just as sad as you are. 

Live in the truth. Feel the burn. Treat people with heart and soul. Resolve, move on, marinate, cry, scream, laugh and repeat. And pass the salt. 

To flourish you must nourish

I buy myself flowers and place them on my nightstand. I like the varying colors of the pedals. Each flower is the same but unique in it’s own way. The flowers are an outward expression of nature. The outside world brought in. They force me to pause. To reflect upon their loveliness. Embrace and exist without cause. Without judgement.

My parents read my horoscope out loud every morning as a means to start my day. At first I thought it was cute and corny, now it is straight gospel and I’m addicted to its knowledge.

Love: a feeling of warm personal attachment or deep affection, as for a parent, child, lover or friend.

Lately I’ve been reflecting on the concept of “love.” Since my diagnosis and tiresome (to put it lightly) treatments I’ve been focusing on what the idea of love means to me. What is my true dedication to the definition of love and all it entails? How do I ensure that I am allowing for the appropriate amount of love allotted for myself? Is there a chart I should be following? Some index cards I should be referencing? If I wake up every morning and tell myself “I love you” is that enough? What is love? L-O-V-E. To loveee and beeee lovedddd. An invisible and eternal force impenetrable to all things. Love - the eternal flame of excellence sought by all, conquered by few. Why are we as a society collectively taught to place a multitude of emphasis on the sentiment considered to be “love?” Loveeeeee baby loveeeee. I swoon, you swoon, we all swoon for ice swoon. But hold up. Is it fair to put such weight, such gravitas on a perception that has no realistic metric of measurement? Is it fair to not only be expected to love yourself but also to attempt the persuasion of another to offer you the amount of affection you desire? Some days, love takes a back seat to snark. Sometimes love is merely a passenger on the don’t talk to me express train to get the hell out of my way avenue. Cancer has shown me that maybe I haven’t been loving myself enough. Maybe I expect to find love in places when actually it has been right in front of me this whole time. 

2 weeks ago I banged my hand on a door frame doing my best Ferris wheel impression and broke my hand. You heard right. I BROKE MY MOTHER FUCKING HAND. I’ll tell you one thing, I DID NOT need this.  But alas here we are. Apparently chemo makes bones more brittle. Upon seeing my jacked up X-ray my doctor said,” It’s a wonder you haven’t broken more bones by now.”

I had surgery this past week. They placed 2 metal plates and 4 screws placed in my right hand. I’ve never broken a bone in my entire 37 years. But when I do something I do it right.

My dad plays the piano until midnight. I listen as he practices the same chord over and over until he feels he has perfected the sound. I love hearing my parent’s foot steps parading above me as I read in the basement below. It’s a strange and comforting feeling that I didn’t know I had missed. I love being able to see my parents every day. I love making breakfast for my dad and see him look at me out of the corner of my eye with a gaze of wonderment. Like he had never thought about my ability to be a functioning woman before this moment. I love observing my parents interact with my children and be an integral part of their daily routine. I realize that I shielded my parents from the saturation of my struggle. I didn’t want them to witness the pain and strife of cancer. Now that I am able to pause and process instead of survive I feel like I’ve been given a gift. Not only the gift of life but the ability to appreciate my parents while they are still here. And vice versa.

So now what? Whattttt nowwwww? I guess when life hands you lemons, you throw those motherfuckers back because even with a broken hand, no one is allowed to throw anything at you. And hey, I see you and I love you.

 

Uh ok good

30 days of proton radiation. 30 days of mouth sores, a constant sunburn, a swollen esophagus preventing me from swallowing food or liquid of any kind. 30 days of extreme exhaustion and debilitating dehydration. 30 days of my son counting down the days until mama didn’t have to get “red red” anymore. 30 days of relentlessness. 

But I did it. I fucking did it. 

My skin is peeling so badly that it looks like I’m bleeding. The skin underneath the thick brown elephant-esk epidermis that has emerged via treatment is cracked revealing a red raw pathway. Like a volcano splitting the land exposing the volatile lava flowing below. Certain spots itch, others ache. Best be sure you know the difference because if you inadvertently scratch a sore spot OUCHIE MAMA CALL ME A CAB IT’S TIME TO GO HOMEEEEEEE. So to speak. 

My skin oozes and leaks where you least expect it and is constantly hot to the touch. They said to expect “the area to worsen before it gets better” however if it gets much worse I’ll be able to select a different ethnicity on my census survey and possibly get a full boat scholarship to Xavier’s School for the Gifted. X-men unite. 

Because the radiation took place in close proximity to my throat it caused my esophagus to swell. Each swallow feels as if I’m choking. “But don’t worry,” my radiologist reassured, “you won’t actually choke to death it will just feel like you are every time you swallow. Yup even when you swallow saliva.” Sharp, painful, gripping asphyxiation for a solid 3 seconds. With. Every. Swallow. For. 30. Days. 

When receiving treatment I’m required to lay flat on a stretcher inside a large tunnel with my arms overhead secured in plastic holders and my hands gripping metal rods. I’m naked from the waist up. The radiologist technicians are kind and professional. They flit around like butterflies, yelling out confirmation numbers to each other ensuring that my body is in the correct position. My chin is held in place with a strap so my head stays completely still during treatment. The enormous tunnel creaks and moves up and down ever so slightly. Just enough to feel like I’m preparing for take off or enjoy an amusement park ride without the amusement. 

Green, yellow and red lasers crisscross my body attempting to ensure the exact point of contact. “We got it” the tech says, “Green light, we’ll be back.” For the first few treatments I didn’t know what that meant. “Green light we got it?” Are they drag racing? “We’ll be back?” How long will you be gone for? Should I stay here? I never know what to say in return. I can’t see them or move my body to wave goodbye. “Uh ok good.” Is all I can muster. “Uh ok good.” 

The technicians leave the room as the large microscope type device slowly inches towards my face. With my hands secured above my head and my chin fashioned tightly in place I have no choice but to watch out of my peripheral vision as the machine creeps downward. I feel vulnerable and powerless. 

Vulnerable and powerless. At the whim of this enormous radioactive machine promising to provide me a few more years of living. 

The radiation lasts about 2-3 minutes. After the set up process and radiating I’m tits up and exposed for about 20 minutes. 

During the last week of crisping me bewbs the radiologist enthusiastically proclaimed, “You’re in your boost!”  A secret that I’ve succumbed to during my medical adventure is I usually don’t know what they’re talking about so I repeat what they say in the hopes that it will jar something loose in the comprehension department.

“I’m in my boost” I skeptically say out loud. I’m still not entirely sure why they call the last week of radiation “boost week” except knowing that my radiating days were numbered sure as fuck gave me a boost. 

It’s spring time in Boston. A time of revival, rebirth, regrowth and resurgence after a long, cold winter. The trees are awakening. The birds are singing. I’ve always felt that we are all connected. The sun, the sky, the trees, the sand, dogs, humans. We are one and the same.

My skin is shedding, revealing a renewed layer underneath.  Like spring I feel a resurgence, a rebirth if you have it. The end of radiation truly feels like a milestone. A win that I needed. I have one surgery and 12 chemo treatments to go. “To everything, there is a season, and a time to every purpose.” As always, but especially now I thank dog for another turn in this game. Check and mate. 

Thank dog

So much has happened IN MY MIND in my PSYCHE. And I can’t wait to share it all with you.

My surgical team removed 23 cancerous lymph nodes from my right arm pit. A person has 20-40 lymph nodes in the under arm area. Unfortunately the pathology revealed that the cancer found in my removed lymph is the more “serious form of cancer.” 

If you liken your body to a Brita Water Purifier system as I often do, the lymph nodes are your filters. They clean your body of toxins. So everything travels through them. The good and the bad. Because the “more serious form of cancer” was found in my filter, and even though they removed it during surgery, my oncologist is concerned that “micro cells of cancer” could have potentially been transported throughout other parts of my system. SOOOOOOO they are giving me a few extra doses of chemo. A few as in 14. THE GOOD NEWS, because dude THERE IS ALWAYS GOOD NEWS, I will only be receiving treatments every 3 weeks and the side effects are minimal. THANK FUCKING ALL THE DOGS IN THE WORLD FOR THAT SHIT. Also you should know I no longer say “god.” Dog is now my chosen form of religion because I owe all that I am and all that I have become to the love, respect and support that I have received from the dogs in my life. Humans too but dogs man. Dogs. 

Now don’t get me wrong. Chemo is chemo. It is poison for your body. It erases and kills cells that might just be chillin’ helping their buddies move a couch from the liver to the kidney and then BAM fucking dead on impact. But it also kills the mother fuckers that are eating my blood and littering in my spleen. Side effects include, hot flashes, bitch those things suck but I’m handling them with as much grace as I possible. My kids might ask me why I’m dressed like summer all the time but who cares, I officially do not have sweat on my upper lip for the first time in 3 weeks. Nausea, dizziness, and SHOULD NOT EFFECT HAIR GROWTH. HALLELUJAH. Big win here. Leave my hair alone. It just arrived from a very long time away and is homesick. Baby hairs need some matzo ball soup and mama’s loving.

Hills and valleys baby. Hills and mother fucking valleys. It’s not just a theory used in life. It’s a thought that has carried me through my cancer journey. Sometimes you’re on top of a hill breathing that cool, crisp, clean hill fresh air and feeling fucking spiritual. And sometimes you’re stuck in a valley kicking trash on the sidewalk so you can shuffle through the rain and clouds. But you need both. You need to realize that they are both necessary. Without the valley you would never appreciate the hills. It’s the struggle, the hardships that keep us funky fresh. 

The lesson(s) I’ve been working on as of late …

1.)   REALIZE, INTERNALIZE how far I have come. Look back a bit. Baby we’ve done A LOT OF HEALING.

2.)   Be still. Rest. Recoup. And respect that shit. Rest is key. Give it to yourself as a gift. Thank you self for all you do for me. For fighting for my daily survival. And as a thank you, let’s rest. 

3.)   DO NOT look ahead. Why, so you can give yourself a panic attack in the middle of CVS because you can’t find the fluoride toothpaste that your Dr. mentioned might be a good idea to use during radiation treatments. BITCH YOU ARE A MONTH AWAY FROM RADIATION TREATMENTS CHILL DA FUCK OUT.

4.)   Accept. This is a hard one. This is hard because my body, my feelings, my treatments are forever changing. Human beings aren’t built for change. We like consistency. Now imagine EVERYTHING you have EVER known changing entirely in a blink of an eye. And then every time you start to accept the new reality WHAM it changes again. SHIT’S HARD TO ACCEPT. But here’s the thing… accept it. Just do it. Accept. Let it in. Feel how you feel. Don’t shy away. Face it. You feel sad? Ok. Angry? Fuck ya. Worried? I hear ya. Accept it all. It’s all ok.

5.)   Attitude of gratitude. Are you alive? What does it mean to live? Am I living “my best life?” It’s unfortunate that our brains have been hard wired to focus on negativity. I’m not sure why that is. Maybe we can blame big business for pitting us against each other in order to feed the competition monster of keeping up with the Jones’ but the buck stops here. It’s time to root for your neighbor who gets a new BMW. Root for the girl who puts up constant selfies, ya bitch you look cute we see you go girl! It’s not a competition. It’s not a race. It’s a JOURNEY. It’s YOUR journey. Appreciate it. Appreciate you. And let the rest GO. RELEASE THE CRAKEN and fucking OHM babies.

6.)   I like control. No. I like to feel in control. I’m a mom, a wife to a husband with extra health requirements, a business owner. I NEED TO HAVE THINGS IN ORDER. I always thought in order to be “successful” I needed to have all boxes checked, T’s dotted I’s crossed. That was until I got cancer. Then I realized we ain’t gat control of shit and instead of worrying if my radiation schedule fits adequately into my weekly trips to Target I feel grateful that I live 15 minutes from the best cancer care in America. I feel grateful that my husband and kids will drive me and pretend that we’re going on a “small road trip.” I’m grateful that I can kiss my kids whenever I want. I’m humbled by the love, support and the absolute rooting for my survival vibe that I have received from people, some strangers from all over the world. Rooting for MY LIFE. It’s amazing, humbling and breathtakingly beautiful. 

Life is about the journey. Why be sad? Don’t. Why be mad? Don’t. Let’s do this. With grace, acceptance, LOVE, kindness, compassion, hugs, rooting for each other’s accomplishments. Let’s root for other people to love their lives. And let’s love our own life. It’s yours. No one else’s. Congratulations! You won! I love you. Thank dog

Pick yourself up, dust yourself off and start all over again

Pain: noun “Physical suffering or discomfort caused by illness or injury. An unpleasant sensory and emotional experience associated with actual or potential damage. Pain is not only a physical sensation.” International Association for the Study of Pain

It’s been 72 hours since my last surgery. I can feel my body trying. Having a go (we’ve been watching Mary Poppins a lot lately) at healing from the inside out. 

My skin stretches. It feels tight across my chest matched with a sharp tinge over the incision with every breath I take. The pressure on my ribs ache. I look down and expect to see blues and yellows spreading across my torso. Instead I see the attempt of a bosom masked by surgical tape and gauze. A slight bosom but an attempt nonetheless. 

I didn’t know what “pain” felt like before now. Even though I’ve threatened my children with the notion of adoption rest assured both turds sprang from my loins. I felt pain during birth but that was different. Firstly I received an epidural so that masked most of the misery and secondly once they arrived any semblance of discomfort was forgotten and replaced with a living, breathing, majestic distraction. 

I’ve felt emotional pain not knowing if Steve was going to make it through the night when he was battling necrotizing pancreatitis. But this… THIS type of pain I was not privy to. 

This irritation is large, stabbing, sharp, all encompassing, intrusive. And there are no spanking new, sparkley babies to divert me. 

This pain has changed me. My innocence has been sprung from ignorance. 

I’m shocked into the reality of pondering HOW people living with pain live their lives on a daily basis. The experience of dealing with pain while attempting to “live my life” has been a mother fucking JOURNEY. 

Which leads me to ruminate, what is our role here? How do we define our journey? Do we set our own standards and strive to uphold? Or do we look to the left and attempt to mimic?

Having cancer while being a mom to two young kids has forced me to look inward. Cancer has given me the opportunity to prove to that even if we have blockages in the road the journey must resume. 

Pick yourself up, dust yourself and start all over again. Repeat. 

 

Bring on the pause

  

I’m having surgery on tomorrow to place tissue expanders. This is the step before implants. They essentially sew in deflated balloons and pump them with saline over a 2-4 week span. Although an additional surgery will be required to place the permanent implant I’m looking forward to some temporary pumpage. It has been a mere 2 weeks since my bilateral mastectomy and although doctors typically like to give more respite in between procedures, I require radiation so it’s best to get these bewbs ready for “show time.”. 

Another tit (see what I did there? ;) bit of knowledge that has been recently relayed is due to the fact that they removed 4 cancerous lymph nodes and because one of my cancer “feeds off of estrogen” (isn’t that a strange way to phrase it and don’t you immediately imagine a giant, teethy monster gobbling up ovaries?) I will officially be placed into menopause.

Menopause. Hardy fucking har comedic blog gods. Move over flat stomach, testosterone gut here I come. No more estrogen based hormonal explosions, no more periods and all THAT entails and no more babies. 

That one stings. 

I’m not going to say it “kills” but the idea of not having more children definitely warrants a big time “bummed out.” Also and yet again it’s the reoccurring theme that the decision has been taken from me rather than it being a personal choice. 

So you know what?

Fuck it. FUCK IT. I have 2 beautiful, wonderful, fucking fabulous babies. I HEAR BY DECLARE THAT IT IS MY MOTHER FUCKING CHOICE NOT TO HAVE MORE KIDS. YoU HeAr That MaSS GeNeRAl AnD My ReCeNTLY DepaRTed TuMORS??! I’m steering this ship.

But in honesty, how will this effect me? Will my character change? Do I go into menopause or do I become a menopausal woman? Do I get a pin or some sort of recognition of achievement? How will I know I have officially arrived at said meno-pause? I’ve never been a menopausal woman before so there will be an adjustment period but I’m a quick learner.

I’ve often heard that menopause is the chapter in a woman’s life when “she puts put men on pause and herself in the forefront.” It’s a shame that the common pattern is not to put herself first FROM THE START but alas here we all are.  

If menopause allows women to gain knowledge and freedom that was once forbidden then sign me the fuck up. This entire journey has been a rediscover of myself. Realizing who I truly am. It sounds like menopause is the perfect destination stop on my drive home. 

Lilah asked me to buy her a shirt that says, “Black and Proud.” I said, “Sure baby if you want it I’ll buy it but you’re not black.” She answered with a combination of shock and disappointment, “I’m not?!?” 

So where does that leave me? A 37 year old menopausal mom to a formerly Caucasian, 8 year daughter and a 5 year old son who repeatedly sings the lyrics to “whoop there it is.”

Right fucking here that’s where. Bring on the pause.