A year ago I stood at the mirror, glaring at my left breast which was starting to show the strain of breastfeeding my baby. The good boob, the one on the right, remained as firm and perky as it was when I was 18. I couldn’t have guessed that all that perkiness was supplied by 11 centimeters of cancerous tumor.
I now have a scar that runs from under my arm almost all the way to my sternum. I have 5 little pin-sized tattoos that are used to line me up in the beastly machine that irradiates my skin – which is now burned rough and red from collarbone to abdomen, and breastbone to armpit. In the place where my breast used to be is an implant called an expander (Aaron calls it my bionic boob) with the mission of stretching the skin to hopefully make it possible for doctors to manufacture a new breast once I complete treatment.
My left side is scarred as well, with the tell-tale 2-inch horizontal line just below my collarbone where the medi-port was installed for my chemo infusions. Cancer survivors recognize each other by this this little scar that peeks out from any kind of V-neck top. The port shows through my skin, and my husband and I joked that with these implants and my bald head, I should have dressed up as a Borg for Halloween. Beneath the skin and ribs, my heart has been damaged by the chemo drugs as well.
The memory of wishing that my left breast was more like my “good” boob now brings a chill. But the left breast will soon become a scar as well, as I’m having a second mastectomy with my reconstruction this summer. The type of cancer I have has an extremely high rate of recurrence.
My attitude towards these scars is changing. Each scar tells a story, and since I’m still kicking, each scar represents a challenge I overcame. I’m learning to accept them as a kind of private little merit badge. Having a supportive husband helps. And since the perky boob, the “good” boob, turned out to be evil, it’s worth mentioning that just because something is pretty doesn’t mean it’s good.
I was crossing through an intersection in holiday rush hour traffic, in the rain of course (this is Seattle), when the truck to my right swooped in front of me, cutting me off, and then stopping short with his butt hanging in the crosswalk – leaving me stranded and blocking the cross traffic. Yeah, I was that driver.
Luckily, the jerk didn’t cause me to get a ticket for blocking the intersection, so it wasn’t worth giving the incident much more thought. But then something else happened…
A street kid, in a soaked jacket and no hat, was visibly concerned by the event. He flipped off the other driver on my behalf, and then set about the gargantuan task of trying to stop the hordes of pedestrians long enough to let me pull forward, and out of the intersection. All this done with a smile.
As I passed, he bowed deeply, tipping an imaginary hat. I smiled and waved, and wished there was something more I could do, but I was swept back up in the flow of traffic, and he was merrily on his way.
I offered up a wish on his behalf. First I thought of a warm dry coat. But he needed a hat, too. And gloves. When was his last hot meal? Did he have a safe place to rest his head? Were his needs being met?
We’ve had a tough time this year, but we’ve never gone hungry, I’ve been able to get medical care, and we’ve always had a roof over our head. I am so grateful.
My wish for you this holiday season, and on through 2011, is that your needs are met – health, safety, shelter, acceptance, a job…
And to the kid that helped me through that intersection, I hope you get your needs met, too – especially a warm, dry jacket.
From my family to yours, Merry Christmas, happy holidays, and a happy and healthy New Year.
I was in the back seat, pretending to sleep as we pulled into the driveway late after a long day of shopping. At five, and the oldest in a large family, the odds of Daddy carrying me into the house and up the stairs to my room were pretty slim. But that didn’t stop me from trying.
Most of the time, he’d wake me up and send me inside, but every once in a while my little ploy worked. I’d rest my head on his shoulder as we ascended the stairs, and ragdoll as he maneuvered me into my jammies. Then he would tuck me into bed, brush the hair from my face, and plant a kiss on my forehead. I relished those moments, soaking up the attention.
Parenthood has given me a new perspective on this memory. I wonder how transparent my motives were. Did he know I was only pretending to sleep, and carry me in anyway? Did he want to hold me as much as I wanted to be held? As a child, I only thought about how I had to compete with my brothers for attention and affection. It didn’t occur to me that my parents might crave those cuddles, too.
She had warm eyes and the sweetest smile, but it was her wit that took my breath away. You had to pay attention because her comments were quiet, under-the-breath, but they would make you snort-laugh and shoot your champagne out your nose.
To be honest, I didn’t know her very well, we only met a few times, yet here I sit with a hole in my heart. I wanted to know her better. I intended to get to know her, but we ran out of time, and now it will never happen.
Elizabeth belonged to my support group, the Young Survival Coalition, a circle of friends all battling breast cancer much too young. Daughters and grand daughters, sisters, friends, wives, and mothers of young children – a group of women I embrace, knowing full well that it will lead to my heart break again, and again, and again.
This is where it gets real. You might think losing my hair or the amputation of a breast would make it real, but those are such trivial things when death becomes an issue. I know that in the years to come, some of these women I hold so close to my heart will die. I know I might be one of them. There is so much love in this group, and so much understanding. These women comprehend the pain, the fatigue, the body image issues, the adjustment to life with this monster inside, and worst of all, the fear that someone else will end up raising your child. They live with it, too.
This is the first time since my diagnosis that someone I know died of breast cancer. I hope I never get used to it.
Godspeed E-beth, and love to your husband and children.
Your vocabulary is just exploding. It’s not just one or two new words a day, it’s several. Big words, like squirrel and butterfly, which is nearly unintelligible, but I know what you’re saying. You’re picking up on concepts, too. The other day when we saw the peacock at the zoo, you pointed at it and said “blue.” You just told me “thank you” when I gave you some apple slices. Make a note, I know you know how to say thank you. It’s de regueur for you now.
This month has been busy. Last weekend we had a memorial service for my grandmother, your Great-Grandma McKinley. We called her Grandma Candy because your cousins, Max and Ilona, couldn’t pronounce Grandma McKinley when they were little. The name stuck.
The picture above shows Grandma Candy holding you a few days after you were born. She hand knit the green blanket on her lap just for you. She was going blind and her hands were extremely arthritic. That means completing this blanket was a big challenge, but she didn’t let her fading eyesight or the pain in her hands stop her from making a blanket for you. Because she couldn’t see well, sometimes a mistake would slip through, and then great swathes of the blanket would have to be ripped out and re-knit to get it right, or “just so.” Grandma Candy would say “just so” when describing something that had been carefully and thoughtfully arranged. Someday when you are looking at that blanket, you will notice that a few holes and dropped stitches remain. I hope that someday you will understand how precious that blanket is, and that those dropped stitches are precious too. She loved you very much.
Along with the memorial service, we had a big family reunion. This was the first time for you to meet most of our extended family: your aunts and uncles and your cousins and second cousins and even third cousins. There are more degrees of separation in there, but I’m completely baffled by calculating whether someone is a second cousin once removed. I finally just settled on calling everyone cousin and left it at that.
You got along well with your cousins and you were charming with everyone. So many people stopped to comment on how sweet you were. Daddy and I were so proud of you.
Right after the family reunion, it was time for trick or treating. You were a zebra this year, fitting after all the time we spent at the zoo. You were a little scared of the costume at first, but once we got it on you, you roared. That’s your thing lately, you like to roar. So I should rephrase. You were a ferocious zebra this year.
I am baby, hear me roar
You still love to color and draw. It is your favorite way to pass the time. You lie down on the floor with your feet kicked up, and color for hours on end. I bring crayons and paper with us everywhere we go.
You sit on your green chair with the white polka dots, with your little bare feet sticking out and your toes wiggling while you fill up your journal with pictures like this:
I love seeing you so happy. There’s something about wiggling toes that goes hand in hand with happiness, too. You can’t stay in a bad mood and wiggle your toes at the same time. Try it. I dare you.
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