I haven’t written in a while. It seems I haven’t had anything cohesive to say, just bits and bones here and there. I’ve been feeling a little emptied, spent, wrung out, done. I didn't anticipate this funk, this stark bummer of blues and blahs that has been sinking my ship since my last surgery, to stick around for so long. I suppose I've misplaced my good cheer for the time being, and shouldn't worry about it, but this mound of frustration has been building for a while, and it seems that I'll have to take pitchfork to it at some point and pare it down to a manageable size, else the sharks will start circling soon.
I've been working on writing up our end of year homeschool progress report for our local school district, and it's been a difficult task, bringing up a real sense of loss and sadness around this past year. It's not that the boys didn't work hard, because they did, or that we didn't get enough done, because we did, but rather, the painful realization that for much of these past six months, I have not been at my best, and that I have failed, in many ways, my children and myself. And for all the things we didn't get to, for all the distractions we had to deal with, and for all the times that I wasn't able to follow through on a project or plan or lesson because I was wrapped tight in a cloak of fear, away behind closed doors at another doctor's appointment, or simply, too wiped out to find the energy to do the kind of job that I would feel good about, I have shed tears of disappointment and regret for all that this year wasn't.
And yet, it is over and done with, this year of plenty and pain. And it has been a useful exercise to write it up and send it off, a process of coming to terms with and accepting the year for all its missing pieces and broken promises, and letting it go...
I've been trying to re-establish some rituals in my little life, those rhythms of daily living that infuse my time with a surety and an enjoyment, and that offer protection from being gobbled up by everyone else's rituals. Getting outside first thing in the morning, to pick blueberries or raspberries, feel the sun on my face, and listen to the birds start to air out their lungs and wings in water and sky grounds me in the rhythms and comforts of the natural world as it unfolds around me and insists on nothing (though, of course, if I don't keep up with the raspberries, they grow moldy and infect the whole crop, but truly, I don't think the bees or Japanese beetles mind at all). In the afternoon, I check in with the vegetable garden in the afternoon, to weed, pick or simply enjoy the tidy rows of plants that strain with new growth and sun-fueled vigor. My nightly PT exercises, done in the moon beams cast by my blue light just before bedtime, have helped ease the pain in my hips and lower back enormously. At weekly acupuncture treatments, I've become familiar with the initial release at the needle's tip, the sudden flow of emotion and energy through blood and body, and the final, calming waves washing over me as I slip ever-deeply through layers of sediment into the pathways of my soul.
There are plenty of things I'd like to add to my daily and weekly rituals: artist dates, when I can get out and see the world through the lens of inspired creative expression, time set aside each morning to write a few pages to drain this addled brain, and each afternoon to head outdoors for some mind-clearing walks. Otherwise, I’ll continue to blather on about the incessant heat, and how it sucks the marrow from the bone not to be able to swim and cool off my soggy noodle of a self.
As you can see, I’ve been feeling the Tamoxifen. Earlier this week, my internal heat, raging like a wildfire, combined with the external hot and stickiness and made me sweat and swell and wonder whither a cold front with some crisp Arctic air might sweep down from O, Canada and render me lifelike again. And at night, no matter the temperature, or how many fans I have blasting in my bedroom, I awake often, bathed in sweat, throwing off covers, wondering when the spell might break. Five years? Five f-ing years of this? Ok, ok, if I consider the alternative, I can deal with hot flashes. But I am starting to see my future: five years of Tamoxifen-fueled hot flashes ushering me into Perimenopausal-Land, where the hot flashes will only intensify, and continue for who knows how many more years. And yes, for those of you keeping score, I am complaining. Bitch, bitch, moan, moan.
My sleep-deprived brain has grown a bit foggy (which I just wrote as goffy). Last night, as I sizzled up some rice and beans for make-your-own burritos, I stood there, captivated by the way the black beans, plump and dry, skittered across the pan like blood-drunk ticks. See? I blather on. I might not be hallucinating anymore, but something is going on inside this trash-talking head of mine.
I’ve been doing so much weeding that when I close my eyes, all I see are spirals of crabgrass, and I grab for the splayed center, gripping the entanglement of reddish-tinged green legs and arms, give it a wiggle, and heave ho, ripping out roots that seem to clench and grip the soil with the stubbornness of a two year old. As soon as one disappears, another takes its place. Crabgrass and crows are going to take over the world, mark my words.
We’ve had some achingly beautiful stormy skies this summer, awash with haunting colors and sinister-looking thunder heads that seem to build every afternoon in an anvil clash of rising heat and cooler, condensed air. One such afternoon, I was running out to my car just as a thunderstorm started to blunder the blue sky, when a flash of lightning struck somewhere close behind me, so close that I jumped as the end-sizzle zzzzzzzz ripped through my ears and made me laugh with the irony of being struck by lightning after fighting my recent battles. But that’s life, isn’t it? We live our days never really knowing when our time is up, and in the face of that mysterious interplay of fate and free will, we try to control what we can, fighting those battles to secure more days for ourselves, days replete with, we hope, living in our own full bloom. And however long the bloom may last, if we don’t at least try to cultivate a life of passion, we risk losing everything—all the colors and flavors and sounds that imbue our time here on earth with its unique richness—to an impaling fear and dread that dulls the colors and mutes the music and makes it hard to find any true enjoyment…
It is better to wear out than to rust out. ~ Richard Cumberland
Lightning strikes aside, this sense of urgency, that life is short so I’d better start living it on my own terms, has been on my mind a lot lately. I saw my dermatologist a week ago for a bi-annual skin check, and she did her usual thing: removed three moles for biopsy, told me to come back in another six months, and to keep an eye on things. I’ve had moles removed before—many, in fact—but this time it was all different. Perhaps because family members have had melanomas excised this summer (all small, but scary), or because my experience with breast cancer has forever left me with the knowledge that shit does happen, often when you least expect it, waiting for these pathology reports has weighed heavily on me. I'd rather not have to worry about every little damn test. I'd much prefer being able to go back to my pre-cancer oblivion, when I had no reason to suspect anything less than stellar results, and I didn't give it a second thought. But I can't. I am forever altered by my experience, and for now, those demons of dread skitter just under my skin. Whatever the test--a Pap smear, a mammogram or breast MRI, or mole biopsy--I'll never take a good test result for granted again. No longer will I shrug off a "negative" result (which, of course is always a good, positive thing); now, only an emphatic YES! with a fist pump and two arm salute will do.
I have tried to get to know my moles—the small, perfectly round, dark brown ones that dot my arms and legs, the bee-hive on my right hand, the one that seems nearly black against the pale skin of my belly. Getting to know your moles is a lot like getting to know your breasts. If you don’t get to know them, you won’t be able to notice and decipher any changes that might occur, and this, as we should all know, is critical to early self-detection, early treatment, and securing more days for ourselves…to watch the changing fall foliage, bomb down the ski trail, and savor the next strawberry season.
My father’s father died of melanoma that metastasized to his lungs when he was just 63 years old. He was a lifelong sailor, and probably never once put sunscreen on his skin, or gave a thought to what all those unprotected hours in the sun might have been doing. And yet, there are zillions of people who spend their lives in the sun who never develop skin cancer of any kind, so clearly, there’s something else to it. And as the sun only gets stronger, more and more research comes out about the dangers of not getting enough of the sun’s vitamin D3—something that the sun has provided forever and ever, and that may just hold more importance than we had thought.
Most days, I feel caught in a holding tank, between needing more vitamin D from the sun and having to watch my sun exposure. Last fall, after spending a week away at one of our favorite get away spots on Campobello Island in New Brunswick, returning home feeling depleted and scurrilously sleep-deprived, I visited my doctor for a battery of blood tests, and discovered that I was severely vitamin-D deficient. That it should happen at the end of summer was bizarre. Most northerners are plenty vitamin D deficient by January or February, when their summer stores fade and they’re not able to recharge through the withering winter sun. But September? I started taking vitamin D supplements, and paid more attention to getting outside in the middle of the day for some unprotected sun-worshipping, which translated meant 15 minutes outside, with arms, hands, and face fully exposed to the waning northern sun. By February, my breast cancer diagnosis had forever rocked my world, and I started to look for answers. The only red flag for me was my vitamin D deficiency, which has been linked to higher breast cancer rates and higher rates of mortality. So, I strive for the elusive balance: get enough sunshine to store up on plenty of vitamin D for the winter but not enough to increase my risk for melanoma. It seems an impossible task. There are some good resources out there. The Vitamin D Council has an excellent web site that explains how our bodies synthesize vitamin D from the sun, and all the ways that our good health depends on getting enough of the sunshine vitamin. It also discusses in great depth how adequate vitamin D levels are linked to the preventation of many major illnesses, including cancer: http://www.vitamindcouncil.org/cancerBreast.shtml
There are, of course, other things I can do, others things we can all do. Drink lots of green tea and pomegranate juice, eat lots of tomatoes, and indulge in a little bit of vitamin DC (dark chocolate) every day to protect our skin from sun damage. Aside from including naturally-occurring sunscreens in our diet, we can get outside for at least 20 minutes a day, using mineral based sunscreens when possible and avoiding the mutagens, disguised as the dermatologist-recommended chemicals in most sunscreens. Enjoy the summer sun at the start and end of the day, and a siesta inside after lunch. Live life and stop worrying about it so much. Crikey!
For me, it’s been all about getting out of my head, where I spend most of my time. It’s been about trusting myself, and taking chances; trusting the universe, and putting myself out there; shedding the anxiety, the perfectly reasonable excuses no to, and taking those leaps, regardless of what’s holding me back or telling me not to. And it's about leaving behind the paralyzing fear and riding the back of the elephant right out of the room. I'd like to return to my earliest pursuits--singing and dancing, hunting for salamanders, and imagining stories to quell my fears and stoke my fire.
If we listened to our intellect, we'd never have a love affair. We'd never have a friendship. We'd never go into business, because we'd be too cynical. Well, that's nonsense. You've got to jump off cliffs all the time and build your wings on the way down. ~ Ray Bradbury
I try not to wait, and yet, it's always there and won't leave me alone. But in the meantime, I am sizing up the cliffs, pondering growing some new wings, and contemplating a different life. There are things to look forward to: a new nipple in August, family gatherings, finally being able to swim again, ride my bike, play tennis, dance my ass off, and give this girl a proper coming out party. Endurance has been fueled by being able to find the little delights in each and every day: the kilt-clad beefy competitor at last month’s Highland Games, who made me smile with his red sneakers and tight green Rondo jersey; the way the blueberries bronze in the sun in clustered hues of different reds and blues; watching our resident stoner, the cat, lustily eat the catnip on the porch, wind her way inside to satisfy her munchies, and then sleep off her binge; watching a blaze and bang of fireworks with extended family on the Marblehead rocks; communing with women friends about all the collective female wisdom and experience that binds us together; finding bits of community here and there, feeling the comfort of familiarity, the rush of connectedness, and the power of the ever-expanding circle; the splash of sun and the dance of shadows across the canvas of sky and trees; the roar of the late afternoon thunderstorm; the lushness of light and color inside and out. If this funk is to fade, I'll need to somehow find the energy to keep tending my many gardens, and the courage to excise the things that quite simply need to go. Grab those tendrils, give them a little shake, and heave-ho.
“One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began, though the voices around you kept shouting their bad advice….But little by little, as you left their voices behind…There was a new voice, which you slowly recognized as your own, that kept you company as you strode deeper and deeper into the world, determined to do the only thing you could do -- determined to save the only life you could save..” ~ Mary Oliver
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