Cleaning Up

Cancer or not, are you looking for inspiration to healthy-up your life? Here's my recommended reading list, click the book images for more info:


Eat to Live by Joel Fuhrman, M.D.
I read this years ago and never quite forgot it (though for a while there, I forgot the title and couldn't find the book again, much to my dismay). Dr. Fuhrman is plain-spoken, inspiring, and undeniable. His orientation is primarily toward weight loss, and his plan makes it easy. But it's not just about how you look. Dr Fuhrman cites so much compelling evidence that this is the healthiest way to live. Like I said, it's inspiring. It's his book that got me started reading the books that follow. I highly recommend this as a good place to start.



The China Study by T. Colin Campbell.
I learned about this book from the previous author, and couldn't put it down. Not only does this book lay out the findings of major worldwide studies on the connection between diet and disease, but it also details the not always stellar politics of governmental health organizations where the author held advisory positions. If you pick no other book from this list, I recommend this one.



Anticancer, A New Way of Life, New Editionby David Servan-Schreiber.
This book picks up where T. Colin Campbell leaves off. Written by a doctor and cancer survivor, this book goes deep into the most recent evidence for the connection between diet, lifestyle and disease and how our bodies specifically benefit from what we normally identify intuitively as simple, healthy choices.



Crazy Sexy Diet: Eat Your Veggies, Ignite Your Spark, and Live Like You Mean It!by Kris Carr.
Yup, I'm recommending it. This is the book that takes you by the hand and leads you down the scary path of letting go of the bad habits and introducing the good. My copy just arrived a few days ago. I'm happy that I bought it.

Do you know about Kris Carr? Perhaps you've picked up on a little of the complicated feelings I have about the "Crazy Sexy Life" movement she spearheaded beginning with her 2003 documentary, "Crazy Sexy Cancer." The healthy and active life choices she promotes, including a largely raw foods, vegan, sugarless diet, were exactly the choices I was passionately embracing when I received my cancer diagnosis. It's not the lifestyle that bothers me.

Nor is it the philosophy. Life is crazy, in all the positive and the negative connotations of the word. And at its innermost vibrant core, the energy of life is also sexy. Life begets life. For our species anyway, sex is how it's done.

And yes, I think it's good to recognize that people with cancer are still fully human. We don't want to be relegated to pedestals of tragic passive ethereal delicacy. We don't want to be regarded as saints or heroes. We don't want our struggle to be glossed over or glamorized. We just want to live.

So where's the problem? It's not Kris Carr herself. Though she is accused of it by those who don't read beneath the surface of her titles, I do not believe she glamorizes cancer. Although I'm jealous of the fact, it's not that, for her, a "wait and watch" regimen of healthy living bolstered by daily wheat grass shots and regular colonics (aka "high enemas") were a reasonable, oncologist-sanctioned treatment plan. (Just to clarify, my jealousy does not extend to the colonics. I have never had a colonic and the idea of one most definitely freaks me out.)

The thing that gets me is, it worked. Her tumors shrank.

Which means I can't bring myself to walk away from the ideas. Which makes me notice that lately, I kind of want to.

There is so much in the media right now about how to prevent cancer with diet and exercise that it makes having cancer feel like a giant humiliation of bad lifestyle choices. I know it's not so simple. I know it's not my fault. But I hate feeling like the world might see it that way. I understand the temptation. I've been on the other side of this scary fence hoping to stay there, wanting to believe it was under my control. Even today I was lectured about what kind of cleaning products I should be using from a well-meaning loved one theorizing about the sources of breast cancer. Never mind that all I use is vinegar and water. Never mind the sexist implications of this theory. Never mind that the lecturer was a smoker.

We as a society have so little attention for addiction. I feel for folks with lung cancer. Do they receive the compassion they deserve?

But I digress...

It's very easy to get caught up in thinking that every non-impeccable choice I'm making, dietary and otherwise, is paving the way to my own demise. It doesn't help that chemo has rendered my mouth hypersensitive to texture and desensitized to flavor. Therefore, meat, fat, starch, and sweets have become much more appealing. Salad, previously a twice-daily pleasure, has become a challenge.

But here it is, the bottom line: I'm done whining about it. I'm done wallowing in self-pity and frozen treats. Temptations will always be there, cancer or not. I can refuse to blame myself for my disease without denying that my choices impact my health. I'll be gentle with myself of course. But I'm done holding back from my most vibrant life.

Rituals

Every night for going on two years now, J and I have shared one thing we love about each other and one thing we love about ourselves. It's our bedtime ritual and it is often the anchor point of my day.

Most Sunday mornings, he makes buckwheat pancakes for the family, which we festoon with fruit and nut butter, yogurt and maple syrup. We've drifted away from this lately but for a long time we ate while reading and discussing "The Ethicist" column from the New York Times Magazine, each of us presenting a point of view before delving into Randy Cohen's take on the issue at hand. (This weekend I learned that Randy Cohen no longer writes this column.)

Three or four mornings a week I swim laps, often with friends. We usually start with a 500-yard warm-up followed by two or three hundred yards of kick-boarding and chat. And then we challenge each other with ideas for drills to do next.

I walk my dog just about every day, often twice a day when I'm feeling well, almost always with a tennis ball in hand and a pocket full of kibble. I throw the ball, she fetches, and then we strike up a trade. Sometimes we walk with her best doggie friends and my good neighbor, and I get the pleasure of conversation while she spends her time wrestling.

On Tuesday afternoons, some Friday evening, and, now that cancer has added to my daily burdens, sometimes Monday mornings too, I spend an hour listening and caring while a trusted co-counselor works through whatever mental and emotional challenges claim his or her attention. In turn, he or she spends an hour doing the same for me.

For the next eleven weeks, I will go to the hospital every Friday afternoon for chemotherapy. For five weeks after that, I'll go five days a week for radiation.

I check my email nightly before bed. I check it again in the morning. When I occasionally wake up restless, I check it in the middle of the night.

Where am I going with this? I guess I'm just noticing and appreciating rituals. There are some that we choose, some that choose us, some that run their course and move out of our lives. Some that we lean on heavily in our hours of need. Some that become richer for their repetition, some that steal richness from us and that we strive consciously to abandon.

What are the rituals in your life, newly adopted or longstanding, treasured or not?

Vlogging from the Couch

Sometimes you don't have to dig very deep to find the underbelly of the beast. I think somewhere in here I mention that cancer sucks. That about sums it up.

Five Down

My jam session didn't last long, but it felt good to try.

The worst part of the new chemo, so far anyway, is not so much the Taxol but the intravenous Benadryl and Decadron. The former knocked me out for the entire day, and it hurt going in, ached all the way up my arm. The latter has me worried that I won't sleep tonight. Both were given to ward off allergic reactions. None were forthcoming.

But this is nothing compared to what I felt with the last drugs. It's probably way too soon to be making any comparisons, so I will stop right there and turn my attention elsewhere.

In honor of the fact that I managed to pick up the guitar tonight, I'll use this space to inform you that my first and only album (so far?) Original Sins is finally available for download from CD Baby for $9.99. You can listen to snippets of the music and download a few of the tracks individually there too. The whole package coming soon to iTunes too. I'll let you know when that comes through.

"Ethereal voice, soulful grooves, emotionally potent acoustic originalia to change your life to."

ps. The needle went in on the first try today.

The Illusion of Confusion

You know the scenario. A loved one is struggling and comes to you to talk. You catch a glimpse of a vulnerable heart and your own heart surges forth to meet theirs. All you want to do is help. It's stressful.

At least it is when this happens to me. My chest tightens. I want so much to provide a thread of hope, nuggets of wisdom, and black and white crystal clarity. I strive to confidently and capably save the day.

More often than not, however, as I hone in on the issue at hand, the person I am attempting to rescue recedes into themselves, wrapping that vulnerable heart in layers of their usual coping facade, obscuring the kernel of their pain. Even when they tell me my advice is spot on, or the information and resources I am providing are useful, somehow I rarely feel I've given them what they need most of all.

On the flip side, when I am the one asking for support, I am often frustrated by well-meaning attempts to help. I feel compassion for my well meaning would-be helpers. I don't know what I want from them either.

Recently, I have been sharing my worries about not having a port catheter, a surgically implanted device that makes the infusion of chemotherapy an easier task. There are risks to getting a port, including serious infection, and two surgeries to endure: one to put it in, one to take it out. Though my doctor has been adamant that I shouldn't have one unless it's needed, I have wondered if ultimately I will regret not pushing for it. When I admit my worries about painful failed needle sticks almost everyone tells me, "Get the port." And here's where the frustration hits.

I recorded a vlog about it. It's kind of raw. I didn't think I'd post it. But in the process of making this video I unwrapped my own vulnerable heart, found the kernel of my own pain, and came to a conclusion that feels right for me. And in so doing, I was reminded that, given the opportunity to explore our own minds and hearts, we find our own threads of hope, nuggets of wisdom, and black and white crystal clarity. We'll expose and melt the offending fear or shame or grief and our own clear thinking will be restored.

And so, a new resolution: In the future, when someone approaches me for support and I feel that familiar tightening in my chest, I plan to take a few deep breaths, relax my neck and shoulders, and remind myself not to buy into the illusion of confusion. I will make it my primary objective simply to listen, to trust and validate the mind of my struggling loved one. Because ultimately, we are all uniquely qualified to solve our own problems.

But it helps to have cheerleaders.

And I will cheer with all my heart.

Dulce Far Niente

It's an Italian expression. It means "the sweetness of doing nothing." Elizabeth Gilbert writes about it in her wonderful memoir, Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman's Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia If you haven't read it yet, you're woefully behind the times. At least see the movie. They talk about it there too.

I am trying to learn this.

Thus, not much of a blog post today.

Have you done nothing lately, simply for the pleasure of it? I'm not talking about the kind of nothing that happens in a burned out stupor at the tail end of overwork. And I'm not talking about the serious, purposeful kind of nothing that happens in a meditation practive. I mean the sweet kind of nothing, bolstered by atmosphere, comfort, and an inner smile.

I think true health requires at least a little of it every few days. Or at least for an hour or two on Sunday morning.

When I am done with cancer treatment, I plan on indulging in a great big slice of dulce far niente. Ideally, there will be a hammock and a warm breeze, a ripe peach, and something equally juicy to read. There will be copious napping, and the ultimate cliche: long walks on the beach.

You Are Beautiful

In the six months preceding my breast cancer diagnosis, I figured out a few things about how I was caring for my body, made some changes, and lost about twenty pounds. Shortly after diagnosis, I remember a moment of comic relief in the midst of tears about my impending doom, when I told Jim, "Great, now everyone will think I lost weight because of cancer."

It wasn't until after I knew I had cancer that I had my first mammogram. I've always dreaded mammograms, partly because I have a perhaps overblown fear of radiation, but partly also because I feared seeing the silhouette of my squished boobs, figuring the image would burn itself on my retinas and color my already far less than perfect self-esteem.

In actuality it wasn't so bad. The technician handled me gently and I thought my breasts looked rather nice in those images. Cancer aside, of course.

As I anticipated my dreaded mastectomy, I caught myself staring at a lot of naked breasts (sorry locker room pals, hope I didn't make anyone uncomfortable.) It struck me that there was not a one that wasn't beautiful, regardless of age, size, shape, color, or symmetry, or lack thereof.

And then I found out that most women with breast cancer gain weight during chemo. Fat, pale, bloated, one-breasted, and bald, and then, just when the hair on my head is beginning to come back, goodbye eyebrows and eyelashes. That's what I had to look forward to.

If you know me, you may have noticed that I don't wear makeup, color my hair, paint my nails, or even shave my legs and armpits unless it's a very special occasion and I'm inexplicably in the mood to do so. Same goes for haircuts. It's not that I don't care how I look, it's just that I don't care to excess. And I certainly don't let what other people think about how I look dictate how I spend my time.

At least that's what I'd like to think.

I'm told by the media, just like all of us women are, that my appearance is my primary value. As much as I tell myself otherwise, the message seeps in around the edges, has been doing so all my life.

When J and I were a new couple and he told me how lucky he felt to be with me, launching into a list of compliments (smart, funny, talented...) I listened with bated breath, hoping with all my heart that the list would not end without some positive word about my looks. It surprised me to notice that I cared most of all that he thought I was pretty.

But why should this surprise me? Let's face it, we live in a world that gives very few women the time of day for being smart, funny, talented, unless they are, first and foremost, nice to look at.

When I recorded this second dance, I hesitated to share it. I drop some layers of clothing in this video, and my baldness and one-breastedness and a tad bit of extra-fleshedness are undeniable. I feared some of you who thought me beautiful would now change your mind. I thought maybe some would be upset to see the reality of my body post-mastectomy.

But then I recalled all those beautiful breasts in the locker room. Which reminded me that there is beauty in simply being alive. And that to be truly healthy and okay with ourselves, we need images of beauty that fall outside the bounds of fashion magazine standards.

I dream of a world where none of us feel the least smidgen of shame about our bodies. Where anyone can get up and dance whenever we darn well please, just to celebrate the beauty of being alive.

So here goes, bonus round: Dance With Me one more time.

The tune is "Rock on Hanuman by MC Yogi. Download it here.