Grow through what you go through

I’m having the Latissimus Dorsi procedure next month. Radiation has thinned my skin resulting in a failed implant. During the procedure my surgeons will take skin, tissue and fat from my back and use it to create a healthy chestical pocket aka a spankin new bewb. 

As I dress, I give my age old speech of female body expectations within society to Jax, the 80 lb boxer sitting on my bed. He listens intently as I extol the societal standards put on the female form and the reasoning behind me putting a jelly like, artificial body part in my bralette. I explain that it serves no merit except for the outside world’s viewing pleasure. As it gets stuck and twisted, falling to the floor and then sticking to my foot I frustratedly ask Jax, “Why am I doing this? What’s the point? Is it just for everyone’s delicate sensibilities? So they can look at me and think oh she’s just like us. She’s in tact. Why do I care what they think? What difference does it make if I have one or two or three bewbs??”

Jax watches me closely. His eyes following mine as he listens intently. “Right Jax? What do I care what they think?” He makes solid, unwavering eye contact and then I hear pffffffshft as Jax passes a loud, juicy and cumbersome fart. Exactly. Exactly Jax. 

So what do I want in the New Year? Peace? Love? Happiness? 2 bewbs? Nipples? I want to keep going. Keep growing. I want to grow through what I’m going through. 

Happiness is an inside job. I want to feel happiness for myself. I want to believe in happiness. To truly let go of that which doesn’t serve me. To stop letting thoughts that don’t offer happiness to rent space in my head. 

While driving I run my hands through my hair. Several strands come out. The normal occurance of some follicles falling makes me freeze. I stare at the strands and loss my breath for 69 seconds. Remembering what was. The trauma of facing unforeseen circumstances. I thought we had moved past that shit. I thought we had healed. 

I lost my hair 2 years ago. It’s back even better than before. But seeing those strands, I was immediately transported right back. And for a split second I was convinced that it was happening all over again. 

New year. Sit in the life that you chose not in the life that just happened by default. Forget the past. Forgive yourself. Step forward. And convince yourself that you deserve it. 

Grow through what you’re going through.

Tweet, tweet mother fucker

Someone recently asked me, “How do you feel about intimacy since remission?” 

I contemplated this question in regard to my physical stature. I responded with rhetoric remarking on my tangible “set back.” I commented that a surgery has been scheduled for 2/24/22 but “how my body looks now doesn’t prohibit my sexual identity.”

And then I dug deeper. How do I feel about intimacy since my remission? Since my diagnosis? Have I been able to feel true intimacy since being diagnosed? Has THIS version of myself allowed for a bona fide connection with another person? I liken my spick and span self as that of a baby bird. All frail, new, uneducated, weak and wobbly but learning fast.

They say cancer changes you. Let me divulgggge. Not only does cancer modify how you view your palpable self, allow you to appreciate your ability to continue functioning within the unceasing gears of life, cultivate your resiliency to shield your children from your disheartenment but it creates a bond within you and yourself. 

Cancer is a solitary experience. The only person who truly understands the strife is you. It’s good and bad. Because although it strengthens the connection between you and yourself, it also builds a wall between you and the rest of the cognitive respective. 

So, yeah, intimacy… what does “intimacy” mean? It’s inconceivable to feel intimate with an outsider when you’re unsure of who you are. 

Every year a tree experiences brand new buds on its branches. In the spring the buds develop, in the summer they grow, in the fall they age and in the winter they die. And then the cycle repeats. Humans have conditioned themselves to believe that we are unlike nature. That things “should” stay the same. That we should remain stagnant within our lives, within our journey. But they be wrong. The only thing that we can rely on consistently is change. 

My life, my surroundings, are mine. Before I was diagnosed with cancer, before my relationship imploded, was my life mine? I mean, I was here the entire time but who was I living for?

Are you going to date Danielle? Should I? Why? What is the point? Almost all individuals who are in a “relationship” speak of some sort of fault. Ohhhhh sureeeee he falls asleep next to me every night while he loudly snores and leaves little nose hairs in the sink after he shaves but he ALSO hates when I buy too many Christmas decorations and refuses to go to the flea market on Sundays.  No fucking thank you. Take your nose hair clippings, leave my snowflake collection alone and boy oh boy are you missing out on some top notch characters at the outdoor festival of fleas.

Recently, whilst turning a corner a smidgeronie too fast, I hit a curb and a telephone pole simultaneously. I wasn’t injured but my vehicle sure was. I was mad. I was sad. Whyyyyyy did I dooooo thatttttt. Damn ittttttt. Pay attention. I wasn’t paying attention. I was rushing. I was running. I was thinking of other things. I was not present. And these were all things that I needed to tell the truth about, to myself. Honesty, within my mind. Admit your mistakes. I made a fucking mistake. Sucks. Sucks big time, hard, hot, monkey nuts. But, c’est bon. Admit, mull, move on.

I called my insurance company, had my car towed to the auto body and trekked my way to the rental facility. They didn’t have a vehicle comparable to my suv and since I require a vehicle large enough to transport my fur friends comfortably, they sent me to another facility. Tired, sad, feeling all around shitastic I arrived at the second rental facility. After some finagling I finally got my fat ass into a comparable car. Adjusted my seat, paired my phone, fixed my mirrors and took off. I looked to see how much gas I had and realized all of the settings were in espaniol. Touché universe, touché and tweet tweet mother fucker.

Shake that jelly

Some days you wake up singing the top chart hit circa 1986, “Take my breath away” and other days you wake up with dog hair stuck on your eye lid because there’s a heat wave and you’re going through menopause so no amount of ice chips can tame the sweat monster you have become.

Yesterday, whilst chasing a dog on the sidewalk, who attempts a sprint to the park every time I open the door, my “chicken cutlet” aka my bewb fell out of my shirt. 

A construction worker with a bulbous belly, no shirt, tall black socks, construction boots and a cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth continued to walk towards the dog calling his name but since he was, well him, and because the dog doesn’t know him it made the dog run further away. 

Finally I stood tall, held my chicken cutlet in my right hand, flailed it in the air, slapped it on the side of my thigh and yelled, “DUDDEEEEEE STOPPPP. HE DOESN’T KNOW YOUUUU.” He stopped, The neighbors laughed. And I got the dog.

I was originally scheduled for surgery to rebuild my right breast on June 24^th . It would mark the end of my journey or at least bring me closer to the finish line. The surgery is extensive, removing skin, tissue and muscle from my back, stretching it forward to create a bewb pillowcase if you will and putting an implant inside. Radiation destroyed my skin and it’s too thin to re-expand so this procedure is a necessary evil. 

The surgery will last 7 hours and for the following 8 weeks I will be required to sleep sitting up in a chair. With the kids being off for the summer, my dog filled schedule and the continued emotional adjustment to my “new” personal life the idea of cutting into my body and changing it once again was beginning to take its toll on my psyche.

Coming to the conclusion that I need to love my body a bit more before changing it again became an ever present impression. I need to prove to THIS body that it is good enough. The surgery marks a period to the end of a painful, traumatic, long, inspirational and successful sentence but I don’t want to fit it into the story in the middle of a chapter. So to speak.

The truth remains, I haven’t proven to my body that she is good enough. I’ve spent months hiding my lack of a breast. I’ve been ashamed by it. Constantly concealing its true form. Feeling uncomfortable in clothes, worried about other’s glances. 

My body deserves to feel loved and accepted before I cut into it again. In the beginning I remember learning that some women opt out of reconstructive surgery. I never understood why. I thought it was because they “didn’t care” enough about their bodies to “improve” it. But maybe they opted out because they love themselves as they are and don’t feel the need to physically change it. Maybe it’s because they want to show their body the respect it deserves and accept it as is. Maybe it’s because their body is a warrior and not reconstructing it reminds them of all they have overcome. 

I accept you body. I love you for all you have endured. And I promise, every time my jelly bewb replacement falls out and lands on the sidewalk I’ll pick it up and wave it around for all to witness.

Keep movin’ on

Cancer has taught me many things. How to fight, how to survive and how to be inspired.

I recently lost a friend. Someone I met while on my cancer retreat in Texas. She was battling stage 4 breast cancer. 

I wrote her this when I received word that she was in hospice.

Amy,

I remember meeting you for the first time while sitting around the campfire. You were talking about your divorce and smiling. SMILING. I arrived in Texas feeling like I was alone in the world. No one could possibly understand what I was going through, my life was a hot mess express and I was a first class passenger. And then, my very first night at the retreat I listened to you talk about your situation. I was in awe. I went back to my cabin and cried thinking fuck, I’m not alone.

You got him Amy. That son of a bitch. You fought for your soul and you won.

I remember thinking how strong you were. How much I hoped to one day be like you. Hearing you speak, I was so envious of you. I wanted to be you. So confident, so resolved, so at peace.

I went home to Boston thinking of you constantly. Using your strength. You were continuing to fight breast cancer while fighting for your sanctity of life. I used you as my benchmark. Amy did it. I can too.

And… I. Will. Never. Forget your smile, your enthusiastic clapping and cheering my name as I repelled off of that fucking mountain scared to death. Your eyes were the first thing I saw when I reached the ground. Your eyes were the what told me that I had done good baby. I had succeeded.

Thank you Amy for being the bright light that I needed. You have given me the strength to live happily ever after. Thank you Amy. I love you. And I’m so grateful to have had you.

Let’s call a spade a spade. I have trust issues. I won’t someday. But today I do. I joke about it. About how I will never let anyone “in” again. But the truth is, I’m scared. No way Jose Jones. Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice nope can’t risk that so stay the fuck away Kemosabe. 

There is also truth in the fact that I don’t want to share my life with a supposed “partner.” A.) I’m still smoking from the last fire B.) I love my life. It’s mine. I’ve worked hard to earn it and I’m just not willinggg to share. C.) I’m skeptical that there is someone worthy enough to share with. Unless he’s a dog. In that case come on down, the water’s fine. 

I don’t feel sad about it but there is a guilt that I “should” have moved on by now. I mean c’monnnnn it’s been a WhOlEE year since I separated from my husband. We’re not divorced yet but ShOuLDn’T I hAvE moved on by now?! He’s engaged to another woman and I’m over here shopping for fake fire hydrants for my fur friends. 

But Christ on a cracker I only have 1 tit for fucks sake. How can I be willing to share my existential self when I haven’t even accepted my current body. Which by the way, will HOPEFULLY be amended on June 24^th. It will be my 7^thsurgery in less than 2 years. 

No one has actually ever seen this body. Besides my kids and possibly a few nosey fur friends who lack the quality of personal space and barge into my bathroom breaks

Which leads me to another lesson. I’m open and honest about my body with my children. My body is a mark of honor, strength, courage and resilience. My kids have helped change my drains, got me bowls to throw up in and have carried groceries when I was too weak. 

The fact that they think I’m the most beautiful mom in the world and this is the body they are accepting as the standard is inspiring. 

I’ve said it before but it bears repeating, they are my inspiration. My inspiration to fight for my life in mind, body and spirit. 

We keep moving on because we have to. But we also keep moving on in the hopes that like Amy, we can inspire lives. Not just people, but lives. 

Shit Stains and Hoopla

Well, here we are. The second Easter since my diagnosis and I’m still riding that bunny all the way to MGH and back. Yeehawww.

On Friday I had my 3 month post chemo oncology check up. I’m not sure if it was my over nerved mental state or because my mother keeps discussing her elation regarding Bennifer’s reconciliation but I threw up as I was waiting for my appointment. Saw my soon to be ex husband and his girlfriend driving with my children, threw up as soon as I got home. Fell asleep from 4pm-9pm, awoke to watch some top grade serial killer documentary goodness, fell asleep from 11pm-6am with a toilet clogging bathroom break at 3am and a dream that I pooped out a 3 foot long turd with a bunny on top. Happy Easter! 

Just a total crash filled crashdom. But that’s ok. Dats FINEEEE. We need to feel weakness in order to recognize our strength. 

I didn’t get “good” or “bad” news. Just “Ok. You’re doing good? Feeling good? Ok great. Keep going” news. Which I’ll take. 

Lately anger has been taking the helm. ANgERR. Roar. I awake mid sleep with seething with anger. Hate isn’t good. But it’s here. Hello and welcome. Is it nice to be ignorant? Ignorance is bliss right? But is ignorant “true?” I can’t shut my brain down. It feels near impossible. Anger fills the void. How do “they” “seem” so happy? So nonchalant. Like a chicken. Mindlessly bopping from spot to spot pecking through the dirt looking for a morsel to sustain their lifestyle and never thinking of the shit stain trail they leave in their wake. 

I walk outside in the early morning. I see the sunrise over the ocean. I stop and stare.

Instinctually I rub my chest.

One tit. Yup. I’m used to it. But is everyone else? And I don’t CaREEE what they think but… also why do I? I look to my right and see my unfriendly neighbor glaring. She smiles a half turned head tilt pursed lip smile. An “aww mmm sympathetic but I don’t really know how you feel typa smile. What? CaN I HeLP YoU? Uh… hi..? Ohhhhhhh yeah….is it my one tit? Are you expressing your sympathy via a nonverbal lip purse and head tilt? I don’t reciprocate the retort. I just exchange eye contact and continue walking towards my destination which is the trampoline I put together for the kids. It’s my turn on that bitch.

As I jump I reflect. One tit. Yeah. How DOES that feel? Let’s discuss.

I put a gel like cup in my camisole. Why? To “belong?” To “fit in” to a society filled with supposed societal obligations of the assumed perfect female form? You want to be told you’re beautiful. That you’re “sexy.” You’re beautiful dahlingggg. You “look” like the women we all envision as the mainstay. The women we all striveeee to beeee. Maybe its Maybelline. Maybe you should shut the hell up my lashes are FINE. 

We give weight to others telling us our labels. But … nah… no … nope. Today I tell myself, you’re beautiful.  You’re gorgeous. And not because of your physical form but for the trials and tributes and tribulations that you have overcome. You worked to save your soul not just your physical state but your soullllll baby. I’ve WERKED. My physical form is beautiful just the way it is. Because of the life it has lived. And fuckitol if that hurts your delicate sociatal standards. 

My friend told me today that she has breast cancer. Stage 3. Maria. I think of the journey she’s about to embark upon. Knowing the pain she will endure. No. God no. The solitude. The isolated thoughts that only you can hear. No god don’t. She’s so good. Why her? But is that why? Is that why you chose her? Is it because she’s so good that you know she can do it. She can endure. This is her opportunity to show the world her strength. 

Lying in bed. Between my babies. A mama sandwich. Each has their foot on me. One on the right. One on the left. I listen to them sleep. Deep inhales, long exhales. Over and over again. I thank god that I can hear them. I thank god that I can feel their warmth. I stop and realize. This is love. This is what I’m fighting for. What were all fighting for. An instinctual love. An inherent connection. Dogs and babies man. Dogs. And babies. Fo life.

Another Easter. I have one new bewb. Another “space” that isn’t “whole” but for the first time in my journey I appreciate it. I love you little hole. You’re mine. Thank you for choosing me.

 

Rollercoaster of puke filled love

Life: An explosively circular cycle of emotionally puke filled insanity. Life: an emotionally filled set of circumstances laden with love and connections. 

When you’re on the rollercoaster of life puke your mind tells you that you’re alone. No one knows what you’re feeling. They can’t associate the ache in your soul. They don’t understand how deep the pain resides. And why should they? Your mind tells you it’s ok to suffer in separateness. That you shouldn’t share your misery and pain. It’s not their problem and it’s too hurtful to explain. But one day life shows up with a deck of cards offering connection and love. Offering the remembrance of relationships that you have built out of love and support. People who bring the love, people who bring the cooperation of familiarity that you have made through out the years. You don’t have to explain your pain. They aren’t here to solve your shit stained puzzle of circumstance. They show up to look you in the eye and squeeze you so tightly that you can feel the transfer of their loving energy. “You look so beautiful Danielle. You look so good,” they say with sincerity. “Thank you,” I reply without truly considering their words. They sit on the surface like a duck wading in the water. I’m not letting them in. I can feel that. “You’re doing so good. I always knew you had it in you,” another person says. Their words are chipping away at my brick wall, cracking the exterior. “To be going through everything, holding your head up high, you are doing great.” The wall starts crumbling, dust falling to the ground, pieces of my barricaded emotions are deteriorating. “I don’t want you to explain anything or discuss the details, we see you, we love you.”

 I exhale. 

Yes. The words fill me with light. I don’t have to be constantly reminiscing or reiterating the script of my existence. I don’t have to explain the forced lesson of acceptance when I learned that my husband is with another. I don’t have to express my continued acknowledgement of my cut, ripped and replaced body. All I have to do is feel the love. Feel the connection of energy filled with utter affection and support. 

Recently after looking at my work torn hands I decided I needed reinforcement so I meandered myself to a manicurist. He was an older Asian man. He held my hands like a father. He looked at me gently and smiled. Oddly enough I let it in. I could feel his concern as he began the process of attempted repair. After a minute he gently ran his finger over the long scar on my right hand. He touched the entirety of it. The full length. So gently and with so much care.

“What happened?” He asked with a heartfelt wonder. “I broke my hand,” I replied matter of factly. “How?!” He asked his left hand cradling mine with his right pressed firmly on top. “I was receiving chemo and I banged it on a door frame. Because my bones were weak it shattered.” He didn’t reply but stared seemingly shocked. “When did this happen?” “In May,” I whispered. “Not this May?!” He said in disbelief. “Yeah,” I replied. It happened this May.” He put his head down somberly and gave my hand one last warm sandwiched touch before continuing the task at hand (no pun intended). 

His touch made me emotional. What the fuck? Why am I tearing up as I sit in a semi Italian based themed nail salon operated by Vietnamese staff? And then I realized… No one has ever touched my scar. 

His loving energy and attentiveness was the first I have felt toward my injured hand. I apologized to my hand for not giving it the healing love it deserved. I haven’t emphasized the significance of my broken hand. It has seemingly fallen through the cracks of the puke filled rollercoaster.

I’m having surgery on Tuesday to repair a screw that is backing out. My surgeon is going to open it up, screw that bad boy back into place, cheeky little fucker, and smooth out the incision. I have a second chance to show my wound some love. I promise to be here for you right hand. Let’s heal properly this time.

Make way

I woke up at 4 am and organized my bathroom. My head is full of heaviness that transfers to my body. Divorce is messy people say. I never knew what that meant. Spaghetti is messy. Glittery art projects are messy. Moving on from a situation that no longer serves you should be easy. Seamless. A done deal without sabotage, deceit or cruelty. It should be done respectfully without the entanglement of a third party. But people suck. 

I recently went on a solo weekend trip to Clearwater Florida. Just me and my lonesome. I’ve always been a solitary person, only child remember? But I’ve come to realize that I’ve been a solidarity person out of insecurity. I’ve always chosen to hide, go unnoticed, fly under the radar so not to cause any disturbances in the life swirling around me. Now I choose to be alone because I enjoy my company. I choose to spend time unattended as a thank you to myself. I wanted three days of sunshine. Three days of waking up whenever I wanted to, go to bed at 8:30, to order room service but only get dessert for 2/3 meals. 

I had several experiences during my self discovery mission. I love being able to take notice of certain occurrences and chuckle at their serendipitous impact. 

Upon arrival, my Uber driver questioned what I was doing there alone. Then came the typical questions of spousal arrangement, children and from where I was traveling.

I told my driver a small fraction of information regarding my “situation.” At times it feels as if I’m not telling the truth when I retell my “story.” It feELs like I’m embellishing. Making up some dramatic narrative that I’m working out for my latest scandalous fiction novel that I plan on peddling to local CVS’s. But alas no.

Upon reaching the hotel my driver got out of the car, took my suitcase out of the trunk and looked at me like a father would at his daughter. He had compassion in his eyes and concern in his frame as he stretched out his arms and said, “Would it be OK if I gave you a hug?”

I giggled and said, “Sure.” He hugged me tight while saying, “You’ll be OK. You’ll pull through this.”

Without over thinking the fact that my Uber driver was offering compassionate concern adhered with physical contact I thanked him, grabbed my bag and continued onto my destination.

It’s ironic because although odd and one would think out of place, it didn’t seem strange. I’ve received more compassion, sympathy and empathy from strangers than those that were once thought of as a guarantee staple in my life. Although yes, dogs only forever and always, I guess not allll humans suck.

The next self realization pebble of wisdom came as I was departing. As if it was a period at the end of my self discovered sentence.

My physical appearance is that of a non symmetrical form. A bit lopsided for the time being. But because I don’t feel like it’s my permanent form, because I’ve learned how to disconnect my psyche from my physical state defining who I am, I often opt out of wearing the bewble (technical term) prosthesis. 

While traveling through security at the airport my luggage was searched and my newly purchased lotion was confiscated. DAMN ITTTTTT that was some good shit. Noting my disappointment a deliciously hulking, 6’4 beast of a man offered to personally (wink wink) walk me downstairs to the baggage claim so I could check my bag and keep my purchase.

While walking next to my newly acquainted personal airport transport I felt small yet bold. Like I should ask him to be placed in his pocket just in case. You know, for security purposes.

I decide to make the talk small, “How tall are you?” He chuckled, “I’m 6’4.” 

“Holy fuck,” I responded wholeheartedly taken a back by his answer. “That’s big. Do you like, pick stuff up and put them down just cuz you can?” Ensue more giggles and a blush, “I don’t often do that but maybe I should,” he replied.

And then came the comment heard round the world. The bombshell of atomic gut punches. “Yeah, but you’re stronger than I am,” he said with a warm smile, a slight head tilt and a glance at the sunken spot that “should” be filled. 

Enter a mixture of emotions. I didn’t know where to go with this. I wish I could have seen my face. It was probably a mix of shock, surprise, humiliation, borderline puke, peppered in with a splash of forced acceptance. Initially I thought he was referencing my newly toned shoulders as I haveeeee been doing push ups these last few days. But I quickly realized what he was referring to.

First instinct, run. Cover up. I’ve been seen, caught. YOU SOCIAL DERELICT YOU. Second instinct, laugh. Laugh? Why? Is it funny? I mean sometimes, but no, not really. Third instinct, gratitude. “Thank you,” I said locking eyes with his. They were sincere and glistening a bit.

In the end I accomplished what I had been putting out into the “world.” I put on my black tank top that day without the placement of a plastic prosthesis because this is about me. It’s about how I perceive my body. Why should I care if other people take notice of my body’s physical form. In fact, take notice. TAKE IT ALL IN FOLKS like a big glass of ice cold fucking lemonade on a hot summer day. 

This is my body. We have a relationship of love, pain, upheaval, solitude and acceptance. We went through this. We are going through this. Warrior walking. Make way.