I'm in the process of loading my latest video to YouTube, number #150!
But I haven't yet shared with you #149!
So here it is!
More of my videos here.
I haven't spoken up about this yet, here or otherwise. I wanted you to be the first to know: I'm finally writing the book, the Babies or Not memoir which this blog was originally intended to foster, all about working as an abortion counselor while struggling with infertility and the story that brought me to that place in my life and then beyond that place. It's about how "Babies or not?" the question became "Babies or not..." the resolution to live a full, brave, brazen life, regardless of cancer and marital upheaval and how parenting fits (or doesn't fit) into the picture.
I write every day, have been for a month or two now. I'm about seventy pages in and going strong. (I'm aiming for around 250 pages for the finished manuscript), and it feels like the most important, right work I've done. I look forward to sharing more with you about this - but for now - back to work!
The latest vlog: Prosthetic Breast Show & Tell, Cancer Q & A. More of my videos here.
Every six months Dr. Z, the specialist who did my mastectomy, examines my remaining breast and the chest wall on the other side. It's not uncommon for breast cancer to grow back in the scar or just underneath it, but so far, thankfully, this has not happened to me.
Last week was my fifth follow-up with her to date, and I'm struck by how much less I worry. The rocky road of breast cancer has become much less rocky these days — knock wood.
It was Dr. Z who sat with Jim and I for two and a half hours explaining my diagnosis. She was a stranger to me then, a stranger who had the daunting task of impressing upon me that I required some major, life-altering and risky treatment, despite the fact that I felt just fine. Despite the fact that I didn't automatically believe she had all the answers.
I remember the tension in the room in that long first visit, and the suspicion I felt that the tension was not Jim's and mine alone, though she responded candidly, patiently, and respectfully to my ten thousand questions, reassuring me that she would give me all the time I needed.
It struck me then that this job can't be made any easier by the fact that she has to do it regularly. Perhaps there was an emotional burden for her. So I asked about this too, my ten-thousand-and-first question.
Too often, she admitted, a scared woman diagnosed with early-stage breast cancer and a good prognosis will simply walk away. In these cases, Dr. Z can only hope that the patient will go on to find quality care elsewhere. But sometimes she'll return at a later date, having risked it all on some unproven alternative therapy, or having done nothing but curl up inside herself in fear. Now the cancer has grown, sometimes right through her skin. She's stage four. What could have been a bump in the road has become the end of the road. "It's heartbreaking."
Last week, after completing the exam, my doctor confessed that she had worried, in the beginning, that I might join the ranks of these women. "But you trusted me," she said, her voice breaking just a little, her eyes moist. "You were very brave. And I want you to know, it really means a lot to me."
I like this doctor a lot. Jim likes her. My brother David, who came along to one of my appointments in the early days, likes her so much he named his cat after her. Dr. Z thinks this is a cute thing my brother did, that it has everything to do with how much he loves me and not much to do with how impressed he'd been by her.
That's what she does, this doctor of mine. She deflects compliments. But on my blog, I get the last word and I intend to use it. Because if it wasn't for the trust she extended to me, in all her patience and openness and devotion, my rocky road of breast cancer could have been a whole lot rockier.
After two years of procrastination, I finally get fitted for a prosthetic breast. More of my videos here.
I started this blog in hopes that someday I'd wrangle a book out of all my experiences around the question of pregnancy (at the time I was working as an abortion counselor, facing my own infertility.)
Since before I could properly hold a pencil, I knew I wanted to grow up to become a writer and an an artist, that I wanted to make books. I've made swipes at it for years. I have several more-finished-than-not manuscripts and book proposals tucked away. And the few times I've put myself out there, I have had some encouraging small successes.
This is not the first time I've bent myself to the task of being a writer, but this time, I can tell, it's different. I'm not sure I can put my finger on what has shifted. Maybe it's because of the cancer, which doesn't let me forget that life is a precious and fleeting thing. Maybe it's because I have reached critical mass to counteract the inner doubt machine - finally enough people in my life who consistently express interest in what I have to say. (How do you work through the hard parts of expressing yourself when you don't believe anyone will ever be interested in your vision?)
So if I'm not writing on the blog so much as I once did, and not making so many videos either, I hope you'll understand. I'm busy taking it to the next level.
Aside from the blunders depicted in this video, there is the delay posting this video to the blog. I've got another vid going up today, which I will probably delay posting also, but you can go directly to my Youtube Channel and see what's up in the meantime if you like.
I'm sure there are many more mistakes I could list but luckily none come to mind at the moment.
On a more serious note: Jim had hoped to run the Boston Marathon but a knee injury sidelined him this year. All our friends who were there (and there were many) are okay. Thank goodness.
#144, My latest on Youtube:
Two Years of Procrastination
Ends NOW
Of the mountain of mundane "To Do" tasks I've been up to my neck in lately (physical therapy, taxes, laundry, client work, and even one item that's been floating at the bottom of the list for years – see the video link above for more on that) at this point I've cleared away enough to report to my husband that I'm Finally and Triumphantly... cleared out to the waist.
It's a good feeling.
Once you get started on a rampage like the one I'm on these days, the more freed up you get, and in turn, the more inspired you get. To harp on the analogy, I imagine a pile of paper and envelopes, with me pinned in the center of it all. First I was up to my neck, handling thing with my teeth. And now I have two hands free! It's a snow-ball effect, in the very best sense of the term.
I am focused and determined in a way I haven't been in a long long time, maybe ever. And along with that focus comes clarity, a clarity that allows me the occasional moment when I can feel confident that nothing will fall apart if I take a break. Not long enough for a full day's reprieve, but I'm closing in on that.
I actually picked up my guitar last night. And dug out my old music binder.
You may not know this about me, but back in the day, I wrote maybe a hundred songs. I've got all the lyrics preserved on various scraps of paper, but some of the melodies are long forgotten. Some are semi-forgotten, some etched upon my synapses perhaps forever. Last night I dredged up a couple of the oldest ones. These may be the strangest, overly-wordy, most embarrassingly sentimental ditties of all time. But I played them anyway, with gusto, in celebration of the strange, overly-wordy, embarrassingly sentimental kid I used to be.
There's an energy in this week's work that reminds me of spring cleaning. Except the only thing I'm cleaning up is the clutter in my mind, on my To Do list, and on my desk. I've posted a new video diary, a new Salad Diary, and now a new post here. I just wrapped up a website update project for a client, a logo design for another. I'm doing my taxes. I'm paying my bills. I'm working through my inboxes, both paper and email.
My goal is to pull myself up out of the deluge of rote tasks to a point where I can press pause with confidence, knowing there is nothing crucial hanging out in the wind. And then I'm going to take a day for myself. I'll go for a swim. I'll go for a long walk in the woods. Millie will come along for that, romping through patches of wet snow, sniffing clumps of rotting leaves, tugging at my pant leg and nosing at my coat pocket for treats and tennis balls. Eventually she'll run off after a sound or a scent, and I will be free to breathe, to think, to notice that I am alive and not inextricably tied to a keyboard and a screen.
And then I'll take myself out to lunch, some place comfortable, some place with excellent herbal tea, where I'll sit for a long while with a journal and a pen.
And then I'm going to make some big decisions about what comes next.
#142, My latest on Youtube:
The Grand Canyon, Lymphedema, and Marathon Men
Have you ever had a moment in your life when you see your path as if from above, recognizing the patterns repeating, the contours of the landscape you've traveled over and over in recursive circles? Off in the distance, you can make out the little one you once were and how alone in the world you felt way back then, how powerless. You can see the choices you made based on the assumption that you would be on your own, in a certain way, forever. But you feel in your bones how things are different now, how you can put down the recursive circling, the coping mechanisms, the masks, the chalkline limits you once accepted as absolutes. But now you have power. You can ask for help. You can rescue yourself. You can slow down.
For several years now I've had pain in my lower back and hips that I have been trying, alternately, to manage and to ignore. Perhaps in an attempt to avoid hassel and disappointment, I've been reluctant to seek help. But recently I have been taking it on. This recent x-ray of me, presumably standing perfectly straight, shows how misaligned my hips are, which at least partially explains why I'm in pain.
You can slow down.
This is happening to me lately, and it is intense, emotional, and deeply good.
If you haven't had a moment like this, know that it is possible. You must dig in and you must move toward it with purpose. But it is a gentle purposefulness.
Like an anthropologist, you excavate. Like an investigator, one by one, you connect the dots. Like climbing a mountain, you put one foot in front of the other until the vista opens up before you.
You do it in therapy, you do it in conversation, you do it on your bicycle, on the yoga mat, in your journal, on the canvas. You do it by sitting still. You do it by refusing to rush. You do it by resisting abandoning yourself when you are uncomfortable, even if for only a single minute longer than you thought you could before. You do it by breathing. You do it by taking radically good care of yourself.
