Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live ~ Dorothy Thompson

If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant; if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome. ~ Anne Bradstreet

Tuesday

The day unfolded in spirals of billowing hope. The anticipatory, strangling fear that has weighed on me melted away like Monday’s wet snow, and ushered in a rapturous feeling of calm contentment in its place. Something opened up, released, and there it was: a lovely burgeoning buzz. And so much was contained in the moment, of being able to simply take in the moment, and receive what was being offered, that the day required a different pace altogether, a slowing down, so as to not miss a single gift.

It started with a telephone call. Dr. Specht, my breast surgeon, cheerfully spoke on the other end. It’s always good to hear from her; she is upbeat, warm, and informative. She had spoken with the pathologist, she had spoken with the oncologist, and everything looked “great.” These are things one needs to hear. She relayed specifics: the grade of the tumor was a 1, slow growing, an “80-year old’s tumor,” they called it, a good thing, clearly; the size was small, 1.7 cm, plus an additional 2 mm of residual invasive cancer in the margins that the mastectomy took away, cleared, obliterated, so margins are clear, clean, free of cancer, no need for radiation, yahoo!; nodes negative, even after special staining and pathology tricks, an especially great thing; and while Tamoxifen has been discussed as a clear inevitable focus of treatment, chemotherapy was not. “You‘re in the grey area as far as chemotherapy goes.” We talked about oncotype testing--more on that later. Dr. Paula Ryan, who came recommended by several people, is the medical oncologist I‘ll be working with. Though I have not yet met with her, I like her very much already; the fact that she is not absolutely pushing the chemo, and is open to the possibility that it may be more of a choice than I expected, thrills me. The prospect of pumping poison into my body has been a gnawing fear and constant worry on my mind; I felt immediately released. I have choices. I have choices. I have choices. I can do this.

I’ll meet with Dr. Specht and Dr. Paula Ryan, the medical oncologist, next Monday at Mass General. I’ll get the full pathology report, the dirt on my options, on what’s next: my medical map updated. On Wednesday, I’ll see Dr. Pitts, the plastic surgeon. I figure she’ll check me over, make sure everything is healing well, and fill up the expander with a little more saline. I don’t think it will take much longer before my left matches my right. It’s strange: when I lie down, I can feel the outline of the expander pressing into my chest., and can run my finger along its edges. On the inside edge, my ribs, which have always stuck out, seem to be digging into the expander, or vice versa. It is sore, and some fluid has collected there. I felt it acutely this morning at about 5, when the Advil had long ago worn off, and the pain has settled in after a long night in one position. My visiting nurse says to slow down, give myself more time to heal, stop trying to empty the dishwasher and fold laundry and do all the other upper-body intensive domestic stuff a home schooling mom of two has to do. And ice--must remember to sit every now and then and ice the sore, swollen spots. And as much as I’d like to get off the Advil altogether, she wants me to up my intake, back to one in the morning, and one in the evening. So much of this takes much getting used to--the letting go, the trust that someone will pick up the slack, the patience in dealing with resuming activity and feeling out a new normalcy in my routine and energy level. But slowly, surely, I feel more comfortable with the new terrain along my left chest that seems to change day by day, in color, shape, and texture. The purples have softened, the swelling in my pectoral muscle, while still inflamed and tight, has gone down a bit, and the tightness in my chest has lightened.

I’ve had help, some wonderful help. Every couple of days, delicious dinners arrive at our front door, courtesy of friends and neighbors. Thank you Danny, Gina, Kim, and Sarah and Jim. You have lightened my evening load so that I can tap into the healing of the day, blessings all. As well, beautiful flowers fill our house, thoughtfully chosen books and cards arrive daily, and my in-box has been stuffed with cyber hugs and greetings from friends and family all over. And yesterday morning, soon after the phone call from Dr. Specht, my friend Dan gave me a deeply relaxing Reiki session. At one point, I could feel a heaviness move from my shoulder into my arm and finally into my hand, where it rested for a few seconds before dissipating, leaving behind a wonderful lightness in my left side. Later in the afternoon, my friend Meg arrived to work her matrix repatterning magic on me, which brought about welcome respite and release. Surgery is a violent thing--life-saving, of course, and necessary, and wonderful in that way--but my body has felt so carved up, scarred, beaten up, and vulnerable to more attacks since the surgery that to actually get hands-on healing and reassurance to start the rebuilding process was amazing. Thank you Dan and Meg and Nancy and Sara for the reminding me that I am still whole, and for restoring some trust and comfort back to my left side.

And then there was the weather. No sun, but a soft, gentle, mild day that beckoned us outside. Just before dinner, we headed out for a walk. The evaporating winter chill hovered above the remaining snow in clouds of vaporous fog. We walked the familiar dirt road, soft underfoot, the melt-off rushing by in vernal streams flowing roadside that would soon be flush with frogs. We spied a few newly hatched bugs, and caught sight of skunk cabbage’s red cups of new growth. Robins hopped atop the muddied strawberry fields, yanking worms out of their winter naps. For some reason, the dog didn’t bark at her usual spot, where an old beaver pond opens up for swimming and splashing after rocks thrown from the road. Perhaps she was being respectful of the cat, who followed behind us slowly, paws gingerly padding around the muddy puddles and scattered pebbles, and every now and then, sprinting ahead to catch up.

Back at home, our lower lawn appears scarred by the engineering work of moles, who seemed to have spent the last few weeks digging tunnels through the upper most layer of soil, leaving behind tracks and trails and big splotchy mounds that sometimes form letters. We look for words amongst the scattered H’s and D’s, and wonder what the moles are trying to tell us. We guess, “Don’t send the cat out just yet. We’re having far too much fun.”

Wednesday

Today, the sun, and its pernicious pal, the whipping wind have returned, to bring in a howling, colder air and slow the stretch of spring. Amidst the rubble of the garden, the crocuses open mouths wide with purple tongues drinking in the sunshine . Everywhere, there are messy remnants of winter’s wrath: the lawn is littered with brightly colored chewed off bits of plastic Frisbee from Daisy’s incessant ice-bound boredom, tumbleweeds of sticks, dead leaves, and assorted oddities, like dog fur, wood shavings, string, the contents of a boy’s pocket, and the early spring uglies--dead, squashed down, sick-o looking grass, snow-crushed shrubs, and the unsightly remains of my own late November laziness, when I opted not to clip out all the dead iris greens, and left them, instead, to slowly rot out the winter days. Somewhere, far south of here, "April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers," as Edna St. Vincent Millay wrote, but not here, not in New England. April in New England is a constant reminder that yesterday’s optimism, like yesterday’s quiet warmth, can turn on a dime, that wet spring snow often follows warm melting days, andn vice versa, that you can't count on anything, and that given the circumstances, given my circumstances, my expectations are better left clipped, stunted, and swaddled in the usual cautionary tales and fables of possible destruction. It is true: my mobility has increased, the fear has lifted, I feel stronger, lighter, braver. And yet, this all takes time, this spring cleansing: the detox, the healing, the transformation. The old must go before the new can grow. There is much work to be done: raking the garden beds, clearing the canvas, redesigning the palette; carefully picking up the discarded pieces of old and dead strewn on the lawn, and doing away with; sweeping out winter‘s sediment and somberness to make room for new growth; planning and planting seeds of change and renewal; tending, reconstructing beauty, restoring love, balance, trust. And it will take time. Two steps forward, one step back.

And in the meantime, I’m thinking about coming up with a new name for my chest/breast, since there is no breast actually there, but an in-between work of art (that might be a stretch) in progress, that seems to change each and every day and will only be a temporary, transient part of me, given that the final product won’t be masterminded for a while. My friend Karen and I laughed about this for awhile today, and decided that it might get a bit out of hand. Suffice it to say that my left breast is no more, and was wrested away, my chest messed with, to say the least, lest the cancer got out of hand, but in so many ways, too, it’s been blessed. So…Wrest? Mest? Lest? Blest? Maybe just calling it little Mojo would be easier.

BTW, The 40-year old Virgin didn't go over so well the other night; after the first couple of F bombs were dropped (what was I expecting?), we switched over to The Holiday, a Jack Black, Cameron Diaz, Kate Winslet, Jude Law romantic comedy. Lovely, light, faintly funny escapism. Perfect, really. But it is time to reorder my Netflix queue. Time to dig out the heavy hitters: Mel Brooks, Monty Python, Will Ferrell, Freaks and Geeks. Send all suggestions for truly side-splitting funny flicks my way. And as always, thanks for listening.

It takes a lot of courage to release the familiar and seemingly secure, to embrace the new. But there is no real security in what is no longer meaningful. There is more security in the adventurous and exciting, for in movement there is life, and in change there is power.

~ Alan Cohen