Your wish is my command

July 11, 2023

It’s the morning of my divorce trial. I open my back door as the sun is beginning to rise. The air is warm with a slight breeze. I close my eyes and smile as I feel the sun on my face. When I open my eyes I notice a small grey and white feather floating downward directly in front of me. I watch it gently meander down. The left side, then the right. Left, right. Gracefully falling to the ground. I say out loud, “Please universe grant me a divorce today. Help me to be free.” As the feather reaches the ground my phone chimes. A brief and angelic dingggg as if to say, “Your wish is my command.’

Trauma leaves it’s mark. X’s and O’s across your spirit. The wounds never leave. Attempting to erase them is like trying to block out the sun. You can wear sunglasses, a hat, it can be cloudy but the sun ain’t going nowhere. Trauma can exist in physical scars or mental blocks that rear their ugly head like when you’re sneakily attempting to eat the last ice cream sandwich at 1 am which you hid in the back of the freezer so your kids don’t eat it and one of those 19037 legged insect creatures scurry by your feet like it’s trying to catch the last inbound train home so you scream and your kids wake up asking where you got that ice cream.

Trauma is leaving clean dishes in the dishwasher for days. Just leaving them there…for days. Never putting them away. Why? Why do I do this? Why is there a feeling of fear associated with putting them away? Why is there an underlying anxiety tied to the task. My brain feels blocked. I avoid. I know they are there yet I walk away from them repeatedly. And when I remember the abandoned task a pit in my stomach is produced. I dig deep into the trauma in search of an answer. I realize it’s the noise of the clanging plates and banging bowls that I am straying away from. I leave clean dishes in the dishwasher because I don’t want to make noise when putting them away. Why? I think about what might happen if I make a noise. I realize that in my previous life I would be reamed for creating noise which might disrupt the rest of a forever resting spouse. It’s not like I was attempting to recreate Mozart’s 5^th concerto with a variable assortment of bowls and plates I was simply completing a naturally noisy task. Upon solving my trauma puzzle I immediately feel lighter. A mystery had been solved. I can finally relinquish the tension I once held and face the clean dishes with gratitude.

Thank you for allowing me to live this life. Thank you for allowing me to be healthy while healing physically, mentally and emotionally. Thank you for allowing me to live instead of survive. And thank you for granting me my divorce. 😊

 

Defeat is the secret ingredient to success

Let’s talk drains. Drains are tubes that are inserted on either (or both) sides of your abdomen during surgery and are used to remove excess fluid from inside your body. At the end of the tubes are football shaped containers used to collect the fluid. They fill throughout the day and must be emptied. It’s crucial to record the output of liquid so to monitor that the fluid is indeed dispersing. Drains usually stay inserted into your abdomen for upwards of 3 weeks. I’ve had 12 tubes total in the 2 years I have been battling the big C.

I used to conceal and smuggle my drains uncomfortably into the waist of my pants when I left the house. An attempt to hide what the rest of the world seemingly didn’t have. But I knew they were there. I felt the twang and tinge of the tubes pulling as I reached for the mangoes. I created misery within myself in order to carry out the societal constructs of the supposed image. Not no more doe. After my last surgery I went home with 4 drains. 2 tubes on either side, stuck inside my rib cage, hanging out from inside of my body with plastic grenades on the ends. When I am forced outside of my home to live my life I securely safety pin the tubes to the inside of my shirt so the tubes don’t pull on the already irritated skin and I let those juice filled bombs hang out the bottom of my shirt. I don’t owe anyone an explanation nor am I responsible to act as a shield from their discomfort. You wanna look? That’s fine. You wanna glance and discuss with your mate in the car? I’m sure it will make for some excellent conversation. You wanna ask me about them as I’m waiting in the check out line at Target? Let’s go!

Whilst standing in line awaiting my turn and mentally contemplating if I was really that good at hoola hooping as a child or if my parents were just really that bad an older woman standing behind me outwardly asked, “How are those suspended like that?” I didn’t think she was talking about me or my suspending fluid chambers dangling out the bottom of my tank but rather the ceiling suspended dogs hanging above our heads. I looked up and said, “I don’t know. Probably  string. Or magic. I’m going with magic.” She looked up and nodded in agreement then said, “No. Those,” pointing to my half full ovals. “Oh these old things?” I asked begrudgingly not because she was inquiring but because they are horrid pains and recognizing their presence feeds their egos. I lifted up my tank on my right side showing two semi clear tubes inserted into the skin under my rib cage and a safety pin holding them to the fabric of my shirt, “Like this,” I replied. By the wide eyed look she reciprocated as she glanced at the reddened skin surrounding the entry of the tubes I knew she had bitten off more than she could chew. “Holy shit!” She exclaimed. “Sorry. But that looks rough.” I laughed and said, “Yeah it isn’t great that’s for sure.” She told me she had never seen a drain before and actually never knew they existed. I congratulated her for sidestepping this part of the sick journey and got her up to speed on the nature of drains, their purpose, what liquid fills them, how long I am required to keep them, how many I’ve had since being sick and my decision to no longer conceal them in public. She thanked me for the lesson. I thanked her for her bravery to learn. 

I left target smiling. I looked down to see my 7 year old smiling back. I used to smile all the time. I would smile when it was ok. I would smile when it wasn’t ok. Now my smiles are congratulatory. A reward from the universe. 

What is comfort? How comfortable is it? How have we decided that trauma is comfortable? Let’s get out of our comfort zone. Let’s look at old pictures and marvel at how far we’ve come. Let’s ask strangers uncomfortable questions for the sake of curiosity. Let’s wear those drains like the grenade chic accessories that they are. I used to think of my drains as a defeat. But in the end “defeat is the secret ingredient to success.”

Bewb goes to school

So I did it. I had my 5^th surgery. Got my 8^th drain. And am 1 step closer to operation new bewb. On the menu was the Latissimus Dorsi procedure. My surgeon cut muscle, fat and tissue from my back, SLIDDDD the entire goodness underneath my skin to my chest and recreated the chestical pocket, if you will. Because of my thinly radiated skin history he placed an expander where the implant will eventually land. I will inflate the expander gradually with saline over a 6 month period so my skin has a chance to adapt accordingly and at it’s own pace. Like a widdle, biddle, cocooned caterpillar. The final step will be implant placement in September. New bewb goes to school!

Patience is a virtue. Gracefully and attentively waiting without complaining. Patience: calm acceptance that events might happen in an alternative order than one has in their mind. I’ve learned to appreciate it all. ALLLLL. No implant yet? That’s cool. Gives me more time to eat avocados and get those omegas into my system. Did I wake up from surgery? Sure fucking did. Can I call my kids, tell them I made it and that I love them? Yes. Yes I can.

My business originated as a dog walking service. I walked 28 dogs each day. Whilst my abs were a lot more defined, my knees were starting to complain. I have since transitioned to doggy daycare and in home boarding as an alternative to kennel boarding. I continue to walk 2 dogs every day. Their owners are health compromised. While walking one client I see a man nearly every day. I’ve never actually spoken to him besides the common civility. A wave and a nod here and there. I don’t know his name, he doesn’t know mine, I don’t “know” him but I’ve seen him every day for over 2 years so we’re basically best friends at this point. On this particular day I was thinking of my upcoming surgery when my middle aged, chip on his shoulder type from Boston, somewhat approachable faced bestie said, “Hey. How you doing?” Cue my verbal diarrhea. “Oh I’m good,” I extolled. “I’m having surgery next week and it’s a pretty invasive procedure. They’re taking skin and shit from my back and putting it on my chest so I’ll have a boob again.” He just looked at me. No real expression to speak of. No shock at my wordage. No obvious concern. Just listened. Realizing that I just told this seemingly stranger that I did in fact lack a breast I blurted out, “Oh yeah. I should probably tell you that I had breast cancer. Hence the lack of breast I was previously speaking of.” He calmly responded, “Oh. I’m sorry. That sucks.” And then without skipping a beat single-handedly offered the best retort of conversation I have ever received. “Yeah. I think breast implants should squeak,” he said, “Imagine how much the dogs would like you then.”

This beautiful bastard of a stranger took my mind from a worry state of serious contemplation to me picturing my surgeon practice squeaking my breast implants before closing me up. 

I responded, “Thank you! I’m going to request that. It’s probably a tax write off for my business!”

Mannnnn I love Boston. Squeak, squeak!

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.