I did not deliver a post yesterday; there would have been no point. It would have reeked too much of the sudden anger, shadowy regret, crushing fear, and billowy sadness that had been slowly escaping, rather emphatically, for much of the afternoon. A collision of forces--astrological, barometric, hormonal, and a host of other unknowns--led to my demise by about 5 or 6 in the early evening, when I should have been noticing the finer things that were happening about me: that after all these dark months, it was still a bit light out, a certain harbinger of more good things to come; that the boys had actually done all their work and more, with diligence and creativity and all the other good things teachers desire in their students;and that the cat was lying on her back again, in her fat belly pose--a feline take on downward dog--while the dog licked her face and chewed some burrs out of her fur. Instead, I could only clutch the ache in my chest, cough up nasty greenish yellow sputum, lament over my lost voice, and listen to the fear that was churning and bellowing inside. Such drama!
The morning had started out just fine, especially given the fact that I had been roiling about in bed all night, unsuccessfully trying to snatch sleep out of the ceiling for about four hours, and had cursed and punched my pillow and all but given up, when I finally caught a snatch of sleep from 3-7 am. A bountiful four hours! My throat had been sore for a few days, and when I awoke, it was coated with a smattering of junk, which I promptly spittooned into the sink and examined. Lovely, I know, but these things are important. I had put in a call to my PCP's office the day before to let them know that I was coming down with something that felt vicious, so when they called that morning to follow-up, I was able to tell the nurse that yes, indeed, those little Mucinex guys were grunting about somewhere in my sinuses, and were about to take up residence in my chest. I was grateful that she had called, and asked her to have Dr. Dickey to call in a prescription just in case it grew worse. I didn't want to be stranded over the weekend a week before surgery without meds and have to go to the ER, where, over the years, I had spent far too much time--four times with Luke (baby croup attack, burned hand, wicked scary gash on his eyelid, and a concussion just last spring), and several with just me (pneumonia, rabies shots, and most recently, a few summers ago, to get stitches after slicing my finger with a pair of scissors while making eye patches at our local library for Pirates! day--and I, in full Pirate Queen costume, had to zip to the ER for treatment, where they eyed me as if I were some drunken crazy woman off the streets..."Really, " I had to tell them, "I don't usually dress like this." They didn't believe me). In any case, I wasn't eager to go back.
I got dressed, feeling a little light headed and nauseated from the fatigue that burned in my belly, head, and back. But I was hopeful that I could get some relief from the doctor I had an appointment with later that morning, and so put it to the back of my mind and got ready for a bit of homeschooling before I had to leave. The boys and I arranged ourselves at some of our usual morning spots: the playroom table, where the morning light jetted in, the kitchen table, which was covered with newspapers, SSAT prep books, and unopened mail, and the small table next to the wood stove in the living room, where the boys had been perfecting their fire-making skills every morning for most of the winter. For awhile, I helped Dominick better understand the subtleties of object and subject pronouns (a lesson all adults, particularly songwriters, should be required to take every couple of years; if I hear one more inane song on the radio about love "coming for you and I," I'm going to scream), and then assisted Luke with his algebra (oh! the quadratic formula is coming back to me!). My mother arrived at about 10; she would stay with the boys while I headed to Hadley, about 30 minutes away, for an appointment I had made with a Dr. Kent Hesse, an anthroposophic doctor. I am trying to explore and implement new ways to nourish and fortify my whole self throughout this experience, and was hoping that Dr. Hesse could help me unravel some of the issues at hand: sleeplessness, anxiety, residual numbness and tingling in my left knee 6 weeks after seemingly simple surgery to remove a lipoma (that's another story), and, of course, the breast cancer.
I scribbled the rest of their assignments on the board: practice their Spanish (it's taken much effort not to teach them all the bad words Cito and Enrique taught me at Exeter), work on current writing projects, update their presidential election maps (it's getting close for the Dems, if you haven't noticed; is there any chance of a conjoined ticket? I'd love SNL to play with that one), and read (Dominick is finishing Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, while Luke and I are trying to get through the outlandishly long and poetic The Iliad). "Take a walk," I wrote on the bottom, in a different color, so they'd see it. Breathe in the outdoors. Exercise the dog. Try to soak up whatever amounts of sun you can from this pathetically vitamin D-deprived spot on earth.
The drive down was easy, and I was able to find Michael Community Therapeutics right away, housed on the sub-ground floor of a bank or credit union or something of the sort (you can tell it left a big impression on me). As soon as I opened the door and walked down the steps into their space, I took in the surrounding calm, resonated in the cool colors, the uncluttered arrangement of simple, comfortable furniture, the fresh flowers, the Waldorf-inspired toys on the small table, the collection of books on display. The space was light, airy, quiet. Dr. Hesse's wife, Caryn, greeted me, and soon after, Dr. Hesse came out to say hello himself. Armed with the questionnaire I had filled out just the day before, Dr. Hesse brought me into his office, which was lined with neat rows of books, little vials of remedies and tinctures, bright windows, and interesting art.
Dr. Hesse was great--warm, relaxed, thoughtful. A good listener. We skirted and floated around and dive-bombed issues brought up on the questionnaire, about three pages full of queries into my inner life, my excretions, my medical history--everything from thoughts, feelings, habits and extreme taste preferences to--my favorite--exaggerations of temperament (I wondered if I should have provided anecdotal evidence for each). I had been stymied on a previous question that had asked me to describe my "Temperamental Make-up (“fiery, flighty, laid back, melancholic”, etc.)." I finally wrote all of the above, and let it be.
At first glance, anthroposophic medicine seems interesting, at the very least. Developed by Rudolph Steiner, the same guy who directed his energies into the development of Waldorf education, anthroposophical (anthropos=humankind, sophia, wisdom)medicine and its "therapeutic interventions are intended to assist the human being’s will to heal." I like that. (more at their website http://www.paam.net/) I will learn more.
Dr. Hesse asked me a lot of questions, and I answered a lot of questions, and, true to form, sought extra credit by offering up a lot of information that went beyond the parameters of the questions being asked. When he asked for "notable events during my development during the age periods of 1-7 Years, 7-14 Years, and 14-21 Years," I nearly told him about having to run buck naked (oh, actually, I think I had a shirt on) tree to tree, Benny Hill style, from Mission Park on the Williams College campus to my own little lowly dorm through the glade during the wee hours of the morning after my 18th birthday, and how it set the stage for much of my college experience, not to mention my inner life, and love of trees, but I didn't. Instead, I gave him the CLEAN version and left it at that. I did find this exercise interesting, and would like to revisit it someday--after all, there are so many ways to edit and present one's life--for instance, what would you have said?
Two and a half hours later, I was sent home. I am so utterly restrained in talking about myself, it's really quite sad. No wonder I lost my voice. Dr. Hesse gathered together a bundle of tinctures, remedies, and lotions, . which Caryn put in a pretty purple bag for me. Something to lift my spirits, something to help me sleep, and a few things to help rid my chest of its congestion. He outlined instructions for a hot mustard foot bath, and touched on some dietary tips for improving sleep (avoid the fats and proteins at dinner; instead, have them in the am, and have your daily carbos at night, and let your liver/gall bladder work on their own restoration while you sleep instead of digestion). We agreed that I'd be back in touch with him after my surgery to talk about support during chemo treatments, a the mistletoe injections that are used for cancer treatment. He encouraged me to consider coming back this coming week if I could, to have an oil-infused bath, which would help the remedies work their magic with warmth. Caryn gave me a tour of their bathing room, which was gorgeous. I could have jumped right in and there, soaked in the warm steamy oil-infused water for a while, and then been swaddled up in thick, heated towels and blankets on a soft bed in a quiet, peaceful room for...ever, maybe. But I was feeling parched, and lightheaded from missing lunch, and tight in the chest. I needed to get home.
When I returned, the boys were working industriously on filling orders for Sculpey magnets (Luke), and fairies and sprites (Dom), their side craft businesses. My mother had sweetly been folding laundry, tidying and tending all day. She even folded my underwear. Aren't mothers great? Mine is. I am very lucky that she is so available to me. I can't imagine trying to cope without her--and of course, it's been much, much more than laundry and cleaning. She's a great sounding board, loves our animals, plays a mean game of Scrabble, and is even willing to try her hand at playing PS2 games with the boys (except for Air Guitar; I think she gave up on that). Thank you, Mom.
And I did notice some of this when I returned home, but mostly, I noticed the advent of fear, tapping at my head, and the howler, which had arrived suddenly and loudly, though I could see no owl, and shouted at me: "GET THEE TO BED!!" I downed a bowl of chicken soup, a few glasses of water, and tried to talk to my mother about the time with Dr. Hesse, but really needed to crash, and not talk for awhile. She ran to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription for me (Amoxicillin, which my PCP had prescribed; I figured I would not take chances with this, but would still use the anthroposophical remedies to assist in the endeavor), while I took to bed.
Once there, an utter exhaustion overtook me. It was similar to how I had felt during past bouts with pneumonia--and I felt the familiar fear of not being able to breathe deeply, of the pain in my chest, of being sick. The thing about breast cancer, at this point in the process, is that it doesn't make me feel ill. There are a lot of things I don't think I would be experiencing if I didn't have cancer--the relentless cavalcade of stresses, the emotional intensities, the ensuing fatigue and all that comes from that, and the bit of soreness in my left breast from the incisional biopsy--but the cancer itself does not hurt. But an upper respiratory infection does, and feels acute and awful and urgent, and piled on with everything else, I went under. Right to the bottom. Not enough air. Sunk.
At one point, it seemed the whole house was in an uproar (my mother had gone home by this time, a smart move that landed her safely out of range), and it seemed inevitable that some kind of cathartic cleansing of moods and demons and darkness would follow. And it did. It was good for me, probably, to cry and croak out my pain. My pain! Such drama! But there it was--and it had to come out. Mostly fear--scared of being sick at this point, scared of not being too sick to have the surgery, scared of having the surgery, scared to have a mastectomy, scared of having breast cancer. Thus emptied, I took my tinctures and remedies, my Amoxicillin and Mucinex, gave myself a hot mustard foot bath and put my wooliest, warmest socks on, and went to bed to bathe in the blue light while Dominick read Harry Potter to me in all his best accents. By 9:30, I was asleep, and though I woke up once to go pee and cough once or twice, I fell right back to sleep, and slept until about 7, the sound of the rain on the windows bringing me back into the light.
Today, I have felt much better. I have been fortified, again, by better sleep, faith in good American medicine (because, really, as much as I'd like to go the sick-o route, or lambaste western, or material, medicine for all its shortcomings, there are some really seriously necessary aspects of it that we cannot do without), and promise in something new and different that feels good for me, the whole me, even the me who had too much Tequila on her 18th birthday and somehow lost her clothes in the process. Oh my.
I called Dr. Fox's office yesterday when I got home from seeing Dr. Kent. I spoke with Ruth, Dr. Fox's incredibly sweet nurse, and let her know that I'd be having my surgery with Dr. Specht at Newton-Wellesley. I told her how wonderful I thought she and Dr. Fox were, tried to explain the reasons I went with Dr. Specht, and how much I appreciated all that they had given to me. in return, Ruth was amazing, telling me I had made the right decision, that they would be sorry not to do the surgery, but they understood, and would always be there for me, if I needed to talk or anything. Anything. Oy. I do like them. And I suspect that some of what came out last night was sadness at having to make that call, worrying I was disappointing them somehow, or making the wrong decision.
Today, I feel better about all my decisions--and I have realized, too, that if I am not well enough to have my surgery on the 17th, then I will have it a week later, and it will be okay. Not a big deal. This, I can handle.
The rain is coming down as if May flowers were getting ready to sprout. Tomorrow, we will change clocks and spring ahead, celebrate Dominick's birthday (again), and take Luke to his first AAU practice with his new team. The sun is supposed to shine again, and usher in a week of warmer temperatures. There's promise in that. On Monday, I meet with the onco plastic surgeon, a Dr. Eleanor Pitts who works at Newton-Wellesley and Faulkner Hospitals. I return on Friday morning for pre-testing at N-W. In between, I'd sure like to try and squeeze in a breakfast of pancakes and fresh syrup at a local sugar house before I go in for surgery. And if my calendar allows, an oil-infusion bath. The week is filling up fast. And maybe, just maybe, some of those tinctures are starting to work their magic. Gawd, I hope so.
Good sleep to all, and LOVE
L.
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