As I prepare for my voyage to the suburban sprawl of Route 128 and Newton-Wellesley Hospital later this afternoon, I've been trying to decide
1. what to pack
2. what to worry about
3. what not to worry about.
The packing is easy--Tamoxifen, Vicodin, Cephalexin, Milk of Magnesia, tank tops (my beautiful new bras, unfortunately, have to stay locked up for another four weeks), comfortable pants and loose-fitting tops, tampax (yes, it seems the stars are aligned for my cycle to be in perfect tune with that of the moon and the surgeon's schedule), my current can't-put-down Jodi Picoult book, a few tokens of Juju spirit, love and friendship, and the usual assortment of personal care products that will not help me in any way look less bruised and exhausted after the surgery, but which I will bring with me nonetheless because it's okay to pretend, after all, that you don't look like hell when you really do.
The worries are there, and though I've put them on the back burner, they seem to percolate every now and then, nudging and prodding for attention when I am trying not to give them any. I don't even care to talk about them now. I'm doing my best not to give them the spotlight.
There's plenty to not worry about. I am in good hands. I am healthy. I will heal quickly. I am strong. I will have matching girls soon. I will be fine. After all, my doc is the best, and NWH is clean, comfortable, state of the art, completely prepared to set my old girl free and exchange her for a new girl, with a more winsome personality and perky appearance, without incident or accident or any sort of "dent" at all. The procedure will go swimmingly, and Dr. Pitts will marvel over how perfectly the surgery goes--on schedule, easy out, easy in, new implant in place on the left and gentle lift to the right, and all things symmetrical. Not perfection, but something akin to it. It's all anyone can hope for.
I suppose I'd like not to worry, about waking up from anesthesia (going to sleep is the easy part), hearing the guy next to me snoring, trying to focus my eyes and remember where I am, wondering why I feel like I've been sucking down tequila from shot glasses all night. But I do worry about all that. A little. Sometimes a lot, but usually not so much. Just enough to keep my stomach aflutter, and my breath aware of the need to expand outward and inward, deeper, deeper.
I'd like to ask the
nurses to fill my IV bags with Thai Gin-tinis from Hope & Olive, but I'm sure they'd look at me funny, and I'd be forced to spend the remainder of my pre-op session trying to convince them that I wasn't a lush, after all, just a girl (ok, woman) filled with a yearning for simpler days.Ironically, at Hope & Olive last night, where we enjoyed a delicious father's day dinner, the featured drink was tequila with grapefruit soda. I was tempted, I will admit, but thought my stomach would lurch at the all-too familiar heavy sweetness of the agave, the tongue-numbing, throat-burning sting of the final nip sips, the blessed, blissed out spin of the head towards the end of WWRFC occifer's meetings. Well, if only...(are johnnie gowns actually made of cotton?). I will not worry about it. Thai Gin-tinis on the other hand...
My friend Sonja, a fellow Used Bagge, sent me the above card after my last surgery. I'm sure she knew I would enjoy it, and I did. I stopped drinking when I was about 26, partly because I found out that I am allergic to alcohol (an epiphany that explained the hives that started to show up my freshman year after particularly rabid nights of imbibing, which I justified by telling myself that I was only allergic to beer at first, and then, when the hives reappeared after sharing a bottle of some cheap red wine, maybe beer and wine, and then gin, the beloved tequila, the slippery nipples, the little nips of warming peppermint schnapps that I kept in my long, striped rugby socks when playing fullback on the cold, hard pitch, waiting for someone to tackle, or for the ball to come my way, all crossed off my list, until pathetically, I was down to drinking Kamikazes, and then, nothing, and just the glow of sobriety about me for about six months--of heading out to the parties, enjoying myself sans drinks, and chuckling the next day when I would run into someone who would regale me with stories of how "wasted" I had been the night before. Uh-huh, sure I was.) and partly because it seemed like the right thing to do, given a blazing trail of alcoholism on both sides of the family that, as an inherited trait or predisposition, was starting to make itself known. In the last fifteen years, I've probably had about a half a dozen drinks, mostly gin and tonics, once a summer, or a Thai gin-tini from the lovely bar at Hope & Olive, and I've enjoyed them all, and while I have not suffered through any more hives, I am acutely aware of its power, and, like an untrustworthy old friend trying to get back into my life, I keep it at an arm's length, a comfortable distance.
My friend Clinton said that he imagined that "the cancer-survival experience must be a bit like the getting sober experience - there's a before and an after, and the two are really nothing alike. Nothing has changed, but everything has changed." I think he's right. We all have our befores and afters, those times in our lives when we've had to take a big leap forward, traverse the rapids, walk the spindly ladder bridge across the chasm, admonish our excesses, the deprivations, and neglect, and turn a corner in a search for answers, change, peace.
If I can keep my head up, perhaps I'll discover the remnants of a life lived without regrets, excesses, mistakes, and all. As Clinton reminded me (via this Lloyd-George quote), "You can't cross a chasm in two small jumps." And this, strangely, from the "Father of the hydrogen bomb, "When you come to the end of all the light you know, and it's time to step into the darkness of the unknown, faith is knowing that one of two things shall happen: Either you will be given something solid to stand on or you will be taught to fly."
I'm still finding my courage...one of these days...
Astrologically speaking, the time is ripe, of course, with the energy of Wednesday's Full Moon, Thursday morning's shift by Mercury into direct motion, and Friday's Summer Solistice, when the center of the solar system (the Sun) and the outer regions of our celestial home (Pluto) form their annual polarity, all convening to create a fiery, emotional time laden with opportunities, for leaving behind all that is no longer working, and adopting new patterns of growth and change.
“Right now you're the chrysalis breaking free of your old cocoon. You're feeling the winds of change blowing, but on the surface it may not look like much is happening. This is a delicate stage in your process of transformation. The chrysalis must sit and allow its wings to dry just the right amount of time so strength and success on its beautiful butterfly journey will be assured.”
It's interesting to me that my surgery--when this uncomfortable expander, that has clearly over-stayed its welcome, will be replaced by a new girl--is landing on a day when these extreme energy-fields in the cosmos are encouraging me to lose the old and move forward into the new, with open heart and mind. I am eager for this to be over and done with. I am eager to receive the energy of the after. My left side has been talking to me a lot in the past few days, the strange numbness in my shoulder and under-arm area intensifying the awkwardness of the expander's edge, that seems to dig ever deeper into ribs, over-stretching my skin, escalating into a feeling of just wanting to get it out. Time to go. Sayonara. Ciao, baby.
Just the other day, I received an email from a woman who had heard about my blog from a friend of hers who knew my mother; she herself had just been diagnosed with breast cancer in April, and has been reading the Flip Side for about a month. It means a lot to me that anyone reads the blog, these often-hastily scribbled brain drains and ruminations of the heart, and it means more when people respond to something I've written, because it lets me know that I am not, after all, alone, that someone out there is listening. So, when I heard from this kind woman, I realized that if I've been able to alleviate the fears of even one person going through this, then I've done something right. Her words came at a time when I was starting to lose my breath, feeling as if I was going under again, wondering where to find some light, a land line, a hand to hold. And her words offered me just that, uplifting me, and giving me courage, and I am grateful. "I wanted to tell you two things, " she wrote. "One, your words have helped me have the courage to accept all that is happening to me. Two, I want to wish you all the best for your surgery on Tuesday. You are not alone and my thoughts will be with you." Thank you, Maribeth. You have no idea just how much that means to me.
It's time for me to go pack my toothbrush, change out of my strawberry-picking shorts, and say good bye to the boys. I'll be in touch as soon as I can. My mother is arriving any minute to drive me to Newton, where we'll spend the night at the Marriott just a few miles from the hospital, wake up early, and head over to pre-op, to change into the lovely hospital garb, the johnnies, no-slip socks and voluminous blue hair net, volley the endless questions about name, birth date, and which side they'll be working their magic on, summon my inner warrior once again to face the demons of doubt and fear head on, and finally, relax into the pulse of good Juju flowing my way (thanks in advance for any you can muster!) and the drip, drip, drip of the sedative starting to flow through my veins. After surgery, which should take a couple of hours, and recovery, which should take a few more, I should be free to go, as long as everything is working as it should be (hence, the Milk of Magnesia), and return home, a long, bumpy two hour drive along route 2 that I could typically drive using just my knees--but that tomorrow, I will leave to my mother and her trusty Honda civic hybrid. I hope to be home by nightfall, to kiss the boys good night before slipping into a Vicodin-induced slumber. All good.
Everyone keeps telling me to laugh, laugh! to speed up the healing process and feel better sooner. In that spirit, I'd like to share a few links to some hilarity and creativity that we've been enjoying today: I will Survive! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fN1dPtEph2U
Hit me, hit me, with a little chick pea: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nIybz6axr1Q&feature=bzb302
New animation by Blu…Harold and the Purple Crayon for the older set: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uuGaqLT-gO4
And finally, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qo1d6ttbAq8&feature=related
I leave you with words that Maribeth sent my way. They came to her via her djembe drum teacher: "Ara Mi Le" - My whole self is well, there is nothing wrong with ME.
With love,
Liz
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