It’s never too late to become what you might have been. ~ George Eliot

Thursday
The boys head off to their wilderness program first thing in the morning. The sun is out, quite happily, promising a warm, dry day, and predictably so, given that it was wintry yesterday, and since a pattern has been established this spring, with spring and winter taking turns (one day off, one day on), today is spring's turn to rise and shine and melt some snow. The boys will spend the day with their clans on a lovely spot (more like a vast array of unbelievably beautiful woodlands, meadows, and enchanted forests on many, many unspoiled acres, rather than an actual, ah, spot) by a roaring river in Dummerston, Vermont. They will track wild animals (much more fun than domesticated ones) in the snow, work on their shelters (all very environmentally friendly, green-chic, no-VOC), make fires (not yet pyros but getting close), and commune with the quiet, their friends, and the wintry spirit that still resides there, in the achingly tall white pines, the rush of river ice, and the thick snow that still blankets the forest floor.

My mother arrives to help me with my day--she helps me change the sheets on the boys' beds, drives me to my hair appointment (after which I feel about 5 pounds lighter, hurrah!), treats me to a delicious lunch--and my first real outing since the surgery--at one of our favorite stops, Gill's own Wagon Wheel, and takes me food shopping at our local food coop, where she pushes the cart around for me and carries my bags out to the car. It feels strange, not being able to do these things for myself. I know it's only temporary, but it is amazingly frustrating. And contained in the frustration is a good lesson for me: to surrender my stoicism and self-sufficiency, which has served me well over the years, and instead open myself up to receive this kind of help. Later, we return home for my second visit from the occupational therapist; she's been awaiting instructions and approval from my plastic surgeon, but has not yet heard back, and when she calls, the secretary (previously mentioned in past post as the woman who seems to spend all her time chatting on the phone with friends and talking to her work-buddy about how she made herself sick the previous weekend after drinking too much, nice) tells her that no, Dr. Pitts does not want me to stretch (this much, we know) and that anything else she wants to do will have to await approval. So, appointment cancelled. The OT is frustrated, to say the least, and so am I. I could really use the OT, given the soreness and immobility on my left side, and this means that this part of my follow-up care and treatment will be delayed. It seems neither she nor Sara, the visiting nurse, has had any luck with the secretary actually returning phone calls or faxes or passing on information from them to Dr. Pitts and vice-versa. It seems that perhaps Dr. Pitts should know about this, don't you think? Oh gee, this is beginning to sound like something I will have to talk to her about. She's such a good surgeon, and such a nice person, and she should have a secretary that better reflects her professionalism and warmth. And really, she should know about this disconnect: Yep, sorry to break it to you, but it's time to get a new secretary.

I see Dr. Pitts next Wednesday. I'll break it to her then. And I'd like to ask her why the expander seems so big, so big that it's digging into my rib cage, so big that it seems as if it is preparing me for a much larger breast than I had before. Is someone not telling me something? Did I sign my life away while in a narcotic haze at the hospital, and tell her I wanted bigger boobs after all? Just what happened after they put that twilight in the IV in pre-op? Hmmmmm...

I dare say I think I'd fall down with bigger boobs. No balance. Boom. I'd be pitching about all day long.

She did mention that I could have a lift on the right side to better match my new fake boobie on the left. A lift? A lift? I was insulted. I may have nursed my boys for six years but I don't need a damn lift. Do I? Ah, see, boob insecurities never die, they just sag a little.

Friday
It's a cold, soggy day. Winter's turn. We wake up to about an inch of wet snow on the ground. Luke opens his curtains and screams. We're all sick of this.

The boys and I make our way through the morning. We're all feeling a little glum, with no sun to warm our table. We wind our way through math, emotional outbursts, grammar, sibling rivalry, spelling, stomach grumbling, word roots, and lunch. When we're not watching March Madness, or Animal Planet (can you say Chimp Eden?), we've been watching a lot of cooking shows lately; Luke, in particular, has taken a real interest in the gourmet techniques he's watched, and it's sparked a willingness to cook, play with seasonings and sauces, roll out the chef lingo, and "plate" his food. Lunch, these days, has taken on new meanings. In fact, it's entered into our curriculum with a new flavor of competition and ambition, a Top Chef for the homeschooling set. And to great effect: lunches have been amazingly delicious and interesting. Much better than the usual leftovers.

Bellies full, we dig into our Inherited Traits project, using filters to explore connections between different traits within family sets. If your ring finger is longer than your pointer finger, does that mean you are more athletic? Do Damons really have thicker, crazier eyebrows? (yes) What does it really mean to be a ghost whisperer?

The nurse comes at 2. I like her so much. I will miss her when I'm healed up and my visits are done. And then, I'll have to go visit her, take her vitals, bring her chocolate. She's made a huge difference in my recovery. I am grateful.

Outside, in the afternoon, it's so soggy it feels like I'm in Scotland, or Wales, or England somewhere, and I've got my Wellies on and I'm taking the dog (a setter cross who happens to listen with much more attentiveness when I speak to her in a Scottish accent) over the moor to fetch tennis balls out of the woods. Daisy McMayhem! Stop yer barkin'! I threaten to write to the Dog Whisperer, with the same just-kidding tone that I use with the boys when I threaten them with Super Nanny. It works. The afternoon rain has washed away the morning's snow, and the ground sinks in and sprays wet with each step. I pocket two balls that I find amidst last fall's rotten, moldy, indistinguishable pears, and then, something red appears in the distance and catches my eye. At first I think that perhaps it is Daisy's Kong (or Bong, as my mother lovingly calls it), but then I see it has a long red handle and I do a little skip. The chuckit!! I've found the chuckit!! Hurrah, hurrah! We lost the chuckit in the fall, right before the first snow buried it and kept it hidden from us all winter long. The chuckit is a great invention; it's basically a really good arm--you tuck the tennis ball in its grip, wind up and heave-ho. The ball can go for miles. And when you've got a crazy Daisy girl like we do, and rotator cuffs like mine (shot to heck), and oh yes, a left side that's a bit compromised, it's a real savior. I spend the next twenty minutes tossing the ball all over the place; Daisy is ecstatic, and so am I: it's effortless, and doesn't put any strain on my sore left side, and finally, finally, I'm throwing like a girl no more. (actually, I don't know why I say that; I've still got a pretty good arm, mastectomy-induced girly sissy throw aside, and I am a girl, a girl under construction, but a girl nonetheless)

I do love how the snow melts and unearths all these treasures from the fall. Dead leaves and rotten pears aside. Tennis balls, golf balls, chuckits, dog toys, kid toys, and as ever, the lush bidding of life just pushing up through the surface--the crocuses, the buds and blossoms and beginnings of green, a return to energy, a plea for the surety of spring's healing warmth.

Tonight, I am feeling particularly grateful for the choices I've made since my diagnosis, and for the help I've had in making them. I know there will be more ahead, but I feel better equipped to deal with them than I ever imagined I would. Tomorrow, more cold raw wet is expected. Blimey. But for now, my blue light calls to me. Time to rest. I am so tired at the end of these days. My spirit waning, I am eager to fall into the depths of sleep, if it will have me. G'night.

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

Sun, Sun, Sun Here it Comes!

If I took you darling
To the caverns of my heart
Would you light the lamp dear?
Would you light the lamp dear?
And see fish without eyes
Bats with their heads
Hanging down towards the ground
Would you still come around
Come around?
~ Laura Veirs, Spelunking

Happy Sunday, sunny afternoon to all. I've decided to focus on the best parts of the day, and leave out the rest (two words: crying jags). The sun figured pretty big in the best parts of the day, and I am, as ever, a devoted sun freak. The bright lovely sun made it possible to take a walk with Dominick on the Mount Hermon campus, a long loop that brought us above the rim of campus for beautiful mountain views and to a perch above the melting snowfields below. Upon our return, I sat on our deck and did nothing but let the glorious sun warm the inner pockets of fear that have had an icy grip on me of late. Life, spurred on by the ache of promise in the spiraling sunshine, spilled its sounds all around me: the red-winged blackbirds chirped noisily in the evergreens, the squirrel made mad dashes down the tree to steal birdseed, each time releasing cones and melting snow from the branches that cascaded down the trunk to hit the ground with a soft stuttering clatter, and Daisy snoozed quietly next to me, every so often releasing a barely audible bark-chirp, or a tongue-suck, before sinking deeper into the soft snow. Later, Luke and I took in the afternoon sun, playing a couple of hands of Rummy, and laughing at Daisy, who happily paraded about with her new pink-lipped frisbee folded in her mouth, looking like Ronald McDonald. It felt like a real treat. The sun warmed our seats and the table that sat between us, and the wind cooperated--usually when we try to play outside, the wind blasts our cards all over the place. But not today--not even a ripple. Thank you sun.

Speaking of Ronald McDonald...and hamburgers, and eating far too many of them when I was growing up...I've copied an email my friend Nancy sent to me below. It's very interesting, and offers much to think about, especially as I head into the treatment phase of my breast cancer. I figured early on that it's not very useful to try to figure out why, after all these years of trying to eat as well as I can, of trying to keep my body healthy, why I suddenly got breast cancer--but I have thought deeply about the layers of lessons wrapped up in my diagnosis, and know that there are ways I have not taken good care of myself, and not honored my self. The beauty is that there are now, as there are always, opportunities for making changes in my life that will allow me to better take care of myself, fulfill my needs, and open my spirit; balancing the many different areas of my life while nourishing and nurturing my spirit, body, and mind will be a challenge, indeed, but I do believe it is the key to wellness and a full recovery. I'll be exploring all treatment options, and making some tough choices. And I welcome your guidance and wisdom! What follows is just a start. With LOVE.


AFTER YEARS OF TELLING PEOPLE CHEMOTHERAPY IS THE ONLY WAY TO TRY ('TRY'
IS THE KEY WORD) AND ELIMINATE CANCER, JOHN HOPKINS IS FINALLY STARTING TO TELL YOU THERE IS AN ALTERNATIVE WAY .


Cancer Update from John Hopkins


1. Every person has cancer cells in the body. These cancer cells do not show up in the standard tests until they have multiplied to a few billion.
When doctors tell cancer patients that there are no more cancer cells in their bodies after treatment, it just means the tests are unable to detect the cancer cells because they have not reached the detectable size.

2. Cancer cells occur between 6 to more than 10 times in a person's lifetime

3. When the person's immune system is strong the cancer cells will be destroyed and prevented from multiplying and forming tumors

4. When a person has cancer it indicates the person has multiple nutritional deficiencies. These could be due to genetic, environmental, food and lifestyle factors.

5. To overcome the multiple nutritional deficiencies, changing diet and including supplements will strengthen the immune system

6. Chemotherapy involves poisoning the rapidly-growing cancer cells and also destroys rapidly-growing healthy cells in the bone marrow, gastro-intestinal tract etc, and can cause organ damage, like liver, kidneys, heart, lungs etc.

7. Radiation while destroying cancer cells also burns, scars and damages healthy cells, tissues and organs.

8. Initial treatment with chemotherapy and radiation will often reduce tumor size. However prolonged use of chemotherapy and radiation do not result in more tumor destruction.

9 When the body has too much toxic burden from chemotherapy and radiation the immune system is either compromised or destroyed, hence the person can succumb to various kinds of infections and complications.

10. Chemotherapy and radiation can cause cancer cells to mutate and become resistant and difficult to destroy. Surgery can also cause cancer cells to spread to other sites.

11. An effective way to battle cancer is to starve the cancer cells by not feeding it with the foods it needs to multiply.

CANCER CELLS FEED ON:
a. Sugar is a cancer-feeder. By cutting off sugar it cuts off one important food supply to the cancer cells. Sugar substitutes like NutraSweet, Equal,Spoonful, etc are made with Aspartame and it is harmful.
A better natural substitute would be Manuka honey or molasses but only in very small amounts. Table salt has a chemical added to make it white in color. Better alternative is Bragg's aminos or sea salt.

b. Milk causes the body to produce mucus, especially in the gastro-intestinal tract. Cancer feeds on mucus. By cutting off milk and substituting with unsweetened soya milk cancer cells are being starved.

c. Cancer cells thrive in an acid environment. A meat-based diet is acidic and it is best to eat fish, and a little chicken rather than beef or pork.
Meat also contains livestock antibiotics, growth hormones and parasites, which are all harmful, especially to people with cancer.

d. A diet made of 80% fresh vegetables and juice, whole grains,seeds, nuts and a little fruits help put the body into an alkaline environment.
About 20% can be from cooked food including beans. Fresh vegetable juices provide live enzymes that are easily absorbed and reach down to cellular levels within 15 minutes to nourish and enhance growth of healthy cells.
To obtain live enzymes for building healthy cells try and drink fresh vegetable juice (most vegetables including bean sprouts)and eat some raw vegetables 2 or 3 times a day. Enzymes are destroyed at temperatures of
104 degrees F (40 degrees C).

e. Avoid coffee, tea, and chocolate, which have high caffeine.Green tea is a better alternative and has cancer-fighting properties. Water-best to drink purified water, or filtered, to avoid known toxins and heavy metals in tap water. Distilled water is acidic, avoid it.

12. Meat protein is difficult to digest and requires a lot of digestive enzymes. Undigested meat remaining in the intestines become putrified and leads to more toxic buildup.

13. Cancer cell walls have a tough protein covering. By refraining from or eating less meat it frees more enzymes to attack the protein walls of cancer cells and allows the body's killer cells to destroy the cancer cells.

14. Some supplements build up the immune system (IP6, Flor-ssence,Essiac, anti-oxidants, vitamins, minerals, EFAs etc.) to enable the body's own killer cells to destroy cancer cells. Other supplements like vitamin E are known to cause apoptosis, or programmed cell death, the body's normal method of disposing of damaged, unwanted, or unneeded cells.

15. Cancer is a disease of the mind, body, and spirit. A proactive and positive spirit will help the cancer warrior be a survivor. Anger, unforgiveness and bitterness put the body into a stressful and acidic environment. Learn to have a loving and forgiving spirit. Learn to relax and enjoy life.


16. Cancer cells cannot thrive in an oxygenated environment. Exercising daily, and deep breathing help to get more oxygen down to the cellular level. Oxygen therapy is another means employed to destroy cancer cells.

CANCER UPDATE FROM JOHN HOPKINS HOSPITAL , U S - PLEASE READ
1. No plastic containers in micro.
2. No water bottles in freezer.
3. No plastic wrap in microwave.
Johns Hopkins has recently sent this out in its newsletters. This information is being circulated at Walter Reed Army Medical Center as well.
Dioxin chemicals causes cancer, especially breast cancer. Dioxins are highly poisonous to the cells of our bodies.Don't freeze your plastic bottles with water in them as this releases dioxins from the plastic.
Recently, Dr. Edward Fujimoto, Wellness Program Manager at Castle Hospital , was on a TV program to explain this health hazard. He talked about dioxins and how bad they are for us.. He said that we should not be heating our food in the microwave using plastic containers.

This especially applies to foods that contain fat. He said that the combination of fat, high heat, and plastics releases dioxin into the food and ultimately into the cells of the body. Instead, he recommends using glass, such as Corning Ware, Pyrex or ceramic containers for heating food.
You get the same results, only without the dioxin. So such things as TV dinners, instant ramen and soups, etc., should be removed from the container and heated in something else.
Paper isn't bad but you don't know what is in the paper. It's just safer to use tempered glass, Corning Ware, etc. He reminded us that a while ago some of the fast food restaurants moved away from the foam containers to paper. The dioxin problem is one of the reasons.
Also, he pointed out that plastic wrap, such as Saran, is just as dangerous when placed over foods to be cooked in the microwave. As the food is nuked, the high heat causes poisonous toxins to actually melt out of the plastic wrap and drip into the food. Cover food with a paper towel instead.


This is an article that should be sent to anyone important in your life.

The Inaugural Shower

Everyone who's ever taken a shower has an idea. It's the person who gets out of the shower, dries off and does something about it who makes a difference. ~ Nolan Bushnell

It was a long shower. I didn't care much about how much hot water I was using. I didn't rush. I had things to learn, push through, bring back into me.


I unravel myself slowly, taking in deep breaths and sideways glances before allowing myself a full all-out stare in the wide mirror that stands before me. It seems strange, indeed, to unwrap my bandages myself, slowly, the layers falling to the floor like candy ribbons. I feel anticipation, a bit of fear, some sadness. Beneath the gauze and nonstick pads, the drain site under my arm looks clear and dry--nothing coming out, nothing to soak up--the drain had done its job. Something new: I am purple now, the bruises cycling through their colors in bright fashion, leaving splotches of dark purple discolorations here and there, under and above the new breast that sits like a bare nipple-less small hill atop my stretching skin. I see that the incision is pocketed with a touch of edema on the lateral end, most likely where the drain had previously reached and suctioned the excess fluid off and out. My pectoral muscle, still swollen and sore and twitching, lacks the purple bruising that the rest of my chest wears like a face paint gone awry. Perhaps the Arnica gel that I've been putting on it faithfully has reduced the bruising to a faint yellow; I will use the Arnica on the purple patches in my garden and see if I can grow some softer colors.

I gingerly climb into the shower, where the water gently gathers steam against my skin and starts to make its usual waterfalls. Inside the curtained shower, I stand alone. I lean back into the stream and let the water course over my head until my hair is completely wet. With gentle circular strokes, I wash my long hair with both hands and fingertips, my left hand hovering at shoulder height while my head dips down to let the right hand do most of the work. It takes a couple of washings and rinsings, and as I comb the conditioner through the tangled mess, I think that it might be time for me to cut my hair again. Now, soap. I start slowly, on the left side, with right hand moving slowly, and I am acutely aware of the resistance in my chest wall muscles, the pull of tightness cautioning me to limit the stretch of limb, the twist of torso. I switch hands, and for the first time since the surgery, I must touch the mastectomy site, all of it, the purple patches, the incision, the drain site, the sprouting saline expander, the swollen pec, the ugliness, the beauty. My pec is fairly numb to touch--not surprising, given the residual neuropathy I still deal with since the minor knee surgery I had 8 weeks ago. But the skin still feels soft, familiar, mine. There is comfort in that. My left arm pit is happy for the soap; it's been a while since it's been able to open pores and fully breathe. What is missing is glaring and obvious: my left breast, my nipple. I am glad that the the water washes away my tears, and the sound of the shower muffles my cries, though they are quiet and do not last long. My right breast looks so alone, solitary, vulnerable. She's lost her twin, her balance. What will she think of the new one growing in the purple garden patch? I do hope they like each other.

I shave my legs, and curse the unsteadiness I feel when standing on one leg. As well, my hands are clumsy, and my head still feels boggy, but the now that I've gotten through the difficult part of having to navigate through the uncharted terrain of my new body, I am enjoying the rush of hot water, the enveloping steam, the quiet of the curtained space. What would Lewis and Clark say about this new territory? A seared stream of brush atop a lonely hilltop surrounded by a scrub of purple forests...quite lovely, but strange and unexpected, too, as if odd beasts lurked about... Or Darwin? I imagine he'd have a reaction similar to his first days on the Galapagos Islands: Nothing could be less inviting than the first appearance. A broken field of black basaltic lava, thrown into the most rugged waves, and crossed by great fissures, is everywhere covered by stunted, sunburnt brushwood, which shows little signs of life.

Actually, Lewis and Clark's expedition and the Voyage of the Beagle aside, there's something about my body that is oddly reminding me of Lord Voldemort's rebirth. Not that I have any intention at turning to the dark side and giving the Dark Lord a run for his money, quite the contrary, but there is something about my sudden transformation--and future reconstruction--that brings up his own for me, though I suspect that it will not be Harry Potter's blood I need but something else entirely that I'll need for my garden to thrive, for my body and soul to complete its metamorphosis. Perhaps it is the draw of the magic, or the elements of love and friendship and loyalty, and the undying strength of familial bonds, or haha, the use of anagrams (his I am Lord Voldemort to my zilrendrag); whatever it is, there it is, knocking on my head, and making me think I'd rather affiliate my current transformation with that belonging to someone else (the Hungry Caterpillar, for instance). I have been known to power through quite a bit of food on Saturdays...

Reluctantly, I turn the water off, grab my towel, and begin to pat myself dry, ever so carefully. Everything looks as if it is healing well, but for the purple and the small sack at the end of the incision, which can serve as my temporary, albeit oddly-shaped and a bit left-of-center, nipple until I get my new one in a few months. I am grateful for my first shower, for the chance to step out of the buffer of the bandages and take a hard look at my scars. I am glad, too, for the removal of the drain and especially for the chance to swap Advil for the Vicodin; I am eager to regain a sense of balance, clarity, mobility that will make future showers a bit more productive. And in a strange way, as I pull a tank top over my head, and try to get used to the new feeling of being bare and unbandaged, I am grateful for this vulnerability, this feeling of protectiveness, that focuses its energy around me like a charm, and allows me to imagine a new me, move forward into the possibilities that lie ahead, and complete the metamorphosis--before the call to change awakens my better senses again and sends me down another spiraling path of self-discovery.

Later: we have just returned from a walk in the woods on this bright, chill day. I am so aware of the shortcomings of my lungs right now, it is very discouraging. The inconsistent depths of snow warrants a slow surety, and I am glad for the excuse to take it easy. We found a wooly bear caterpillar, its brown black coat in stark contrast to the white of the snow he was inching along. I picked him up, and placed him, all balled up, in the softer, warmer dead leaves under a tree. I wonder where he was headed, and whether he'll be able to complete his own transformation, given the harshness of winter's extended stay. Come spring, come green grass spring, I'll be on the lookout for an Isabella Moth...

"It is not the strongest of the species that survives, nor the most intelligent; it is the one that is most adaptable to change."
— Charles Darwin

Friday Evening Happy Hour

It’s Friday afternoon and I have some things to celebrate. Not in particular order, but here we go:

Luke survived his wilderness overnight. I was a bit worried—given that it began snowing last night and continued into the morning and I was feeling cold and wet for him and hoped, hoped that he was warm and dry but knew there was a big possibility that he wasn’t. I am proud of him for putting up with it all—and was awfully glad to have him home again, home again, jiggity jig, to climb into a hot tub, drink some chocolately cocoa, and unwind from what must have been a fairly intense night. He's growing up quickly, but I am still grateful for the times when I can scrub his back in the tub, put some marshmallows in his cocoa, and just be there to listen. And with all this other stuff going on, it was nice to just be a mom—instead of a patient—for a change.

My waning patience for being a patient aside, I am making strides towards being a survivor, and here’s why:

The drain is out. Hurrah! The damned drain is out. Actually, to be fair, it wasn’t such a horrible drain. Not even a nasty drain, because it did its job, and really, when I imagine what post-op must have been like for so many people before the drain was invented, well, it must have been a bit of a nasty mess. I may just get a little nostalgic about my drain; after all, it was tethered to me for nearly a week, suctioning and draining the excess blood from inside the wound and delivering it to through thin plastic tubing to its resting place, a plastic squeezy bulb (hence, the turkey baster comparison) that I emptied, measured and recorded several times a day, reminiscent of keeping track of feedings after giving birth (which, of course, got so ridiculous after a while, given the inability of my babies to get on any kind of a schedule ever, and the sheer number and length of feedings that they required—making any kind of record-keeping impossible and silly). Despite its efficiency and importance to a smooth healing process, the drain really is a rather simple device, something a toddler might like to play with in the tub, for instance, or a makeshift way to demonstrate air pressure in a third grade classroom (or as part of a homeschool project! Damn! Opportunity missed!)—but because it plays such a critical in post-operative healing, it has earned a very distinguished name, the Jackson-Pratt Drain (otherwise known as the JP Drain; see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jackson-Pratt_drain), though I have no idea who Jackson or Pratt were (the lucky inventors? Beloved cats of the inventors?)

Dr. Pitts—the wonderful plastic surgeon—has been keeping an eye on the drain from afar. I’ve had to call her office every morning to let her know what my collection rates have been, and once they were under 30 ml in a 24 hour period, then the drain could come out. The visiting nurse, Sara, has been coming each and every day, to change my bandages, check on the drain, and make sure everything is healing up well. She’s been amazing. Her visits have been very reassuring to me—and this morning I realized that my last collection tally was at 18 ml, which put me under the magic mark, so when Sara came at noontime, I wanted her to verify that it was indeed time for the drain to come out. And she did. A quick call to Dr. Fox’s office in Greenfield, and it was scheduled to come out at 3:30 this afternoon. I am very grateful for Dr. Fox and his nurse Ruth—they welcomed me into their office with so much warmth and kindness, took the time to hear how I was doing, answer my questions, listen to my concerns, and offer their services—putting in a port before chemo treatment, being there for any kind of assistance I might need throughout this process—and took out the drain, with care and precision. It smarted, to be sure, and it’ll continue to drain a bit at the site for a couple of days, but it also feels really good to have it out, as if I’ve just taken a big step forward. Adios, JP Drain. Hasta la vista, baby.

The good news is that now that the drain is out, I can take a shower tomorrow. A shower! Sponge baths just don’t cut it. Tomorrow, I can take all the bandages off without having to worry about getting the drain tube snagged on something, I can feel the steamy heat open my pores and warm me up, I can let the water run down and actually soap up a bit. I still can’t wash my hair by myself, and I’ll be tender and sore (pat dry, pat dry) and you know, being with my new naked self in the shower is going to take some getting used to, and there are things that will feel scary and strange. But it’s progress, and I’ll bask, or bathe, or shower, actually, in that.

Afterwards, I only have to bandage up the old drain site. A simple gauze pad with bacitracin, or a big bandaid. Without the compression wrap around me, I’ll be able to fill my lungs a little more easily, and breathe in and out without feeling the pinch of the wrap and the soreness of my chest. Maybe my sore gimpy throat will finally heal up, and my voice will return back to normal. I don't really like sounding like a whiskey-drinking, cigarette-smoking broad. And without the drain, I can now ditch the Vicodin, which makes me constipated, loopy, and dopey, and switch to Advil, which I hope will be the next step in restoring my digestive system back to its usual balance. Of course, since I’m still on antibiotics, and it is my third consecutive course at that, I may have to wait a bit before things are entirely back in sync.

I also spoke with the pathologist at Mass General today, a super nice guy named Todd Abbott, and he gave me good news: after slicing and dicing and staining and doing all their magic tricks, the lymph nodes showed absolutely no signs of cancer. It’s reassuring to know that in addition to examining the frozen section of the nodes during surgery, they also re-examine that as well as every bit of tissue that is removed, using every test they’ve got. As well, he said that they found a small amount of residual invasive cancer around the original lumpectomy sample—so my decision to have a mastectomy was the right one, and the cancer is out, all out, the margins are clear, all clear, and that is good news, indeed. My doctors will get the report on Monday; lucky me that I got to talk to Dr. Abbott himself today, and did not have to wait to receive this good news. Progress.

It’s dinnertime, and my mother and I are about to sit down to a delicious dinner cooked by my friend Gina. Chicken, ginger carrots, mashed potatoes. It doesn’t get any better. Gina has graciously and generously offered to organize some community meals on wheels for us, and I appreciate it so much! Thank you, Gina. It’s hard to explain how much it means to me—to all of us—to have people thinking of me and actually taking the time out to cook us a meal, send flowers, write a sweet card, drop by for a visit, or take a second and send some good Juju my way. It’s made all the difference in the fact that I feel strong and positive today, and am making progress towards a full recovery.

Our trees were flooded with blackbirds today, red-winged mostly, hundreds of them, who flew in flocks from trees to feeders to ground to eat the seed we’d just put out and sing their songs of spring. Outside, walking to the car to head to the Aloha-Drain-Stop, their calls were deafening, and so awesome! It rivaled the spring peepers and wood frogs that will fill our wetlands in a few weeks—in volume and pitch and an expansive sonic beauty that filled the whole area with a fervent proclamation that spring is coming, despite the three inches of new wet snow on the ground, that it will be here, and soon, and with it, will bring change and growth and the promise of something better. That’s something that we can all look forward to.

A bird does not sing because he has an answer. He sings because he has a song.

~ Joan Walsh Anglund

Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us, or we find it not. --Emerson

It’s my mother’s birthday today. I think she almost forgot, given where her head has been lately, and I just want to send a more public shout out to her that she has been an amazing help and source of support and strength for me and I am so grateful for her—for each and every one of her 68 years, since they’ve brought her to this time, this place, here with me. Thank you, Mom. Happy Birthday. I love you.

We’ve just come back from my first walk since surgery, and it felt good to be out breathing in fresh air, and seeing some real signs that spring will indeed share her colors and new life with us soon. The road was muddy underfoot, and water was draining everywhere, the beaver pond in our back woods overflowing with melting ice and stream water, filling the vernal pools and rushing through the culverts here and there. Flocks of little songbirds alighted on trees, still bare against soft skies, and filled the air with their choruses. The crocuses are busting through the old leaves and debris that has mulched and littered the garden since fall, and Daisy’s tennis balls and Luke’s golf balls are suddenly appearing in the cruddy mud-lawn, unearthed by the melting snow, their bright yellows and whites seeming stark and surprising against the dull blahs of the March palette. It seems old man winter may pay us a visit tonight, to make everything seem pretty again, with a dusting of snow, just in time for Luke’s overnight as part of his regular Thursday wilderness program in Dummerston, Vermont—I suppose sleeping on snow is more comfortable than mud? I imagine it’ll be quite lovely when they awake, all snuggled together in the shelter they’ve been building all winter, and the breakfast they cook over their camp stove will be even more delicious than anything they’ve ever tasted before. Luke learned the fine art of carving venison (against the grain, always go against the grain) a week ago, and they’ve been promised some for breakfast. Dominick has opted to come back home tonight after a long day romping through the woods, working on his carving, making cool forts with his friends, and expending an amount of energy that I can only dream of…

It’s day two for me at home. After a tumultuous afternoon and evening yesterday, I was happy for some peace in my belly today. There’s a good reason the nurses in the hospital always ask their post-op patients if they’ve peed or passed gas yet, or enjoyed their inaugural bowel movement (would you rather I say poop? caca? bm? #2?). The anesthesia drugs, as well as the pain meds, slow everything down—so that all systems relax and take a breather. And often times, it takes those same systems a while to get back in the full swing of things. Such was the case with me, and yesterday afternoon, after having taken a few Senecot-S meds, I was having the worst cramping of my life—it actually felt like labor pains, contractions that came every five minutes or so, and lasted ten or twenty seconds. Finally, though, it cleared me right out, but I wish I had taken a different route, and after talking to my plastic surgeon, Dr. Pitts, who graciously and kindly took the call herself, I realized I should have called her first (duh, Liz), rather than suffer the consequences of my impulsive intake of senna, an herb known for its troublesome cramping side effects. The trick is to be able to take the Vicodin, which bloats my belly and slows everything down but takes the pain away, away, and still be able to keep things moving. Hence the walk this afternoon. And maybe some Milk of Magnesia later tonight. Oy. This is just not like me. Too much information? Sorry!

The visiting nurse, Sarah, came back again this morning to change the bandages, which was a good thing, because I had bled through several near where the Jackson-Pratt drain inserts under my arm (the one place I have not yet looked) and the bandages had slipped down considerably, loosened by all my howling agony over the ridiculous cramping and rushing to the bathroom (outta my way! outta my way!). This time, I looked fairly square on at the wound, not yet in the mirror, but just from above, where just a few days ago there was the soft roundness of a breast, small, but curved, despite its recent run-in with the surgeon. Now, there is a small rounded stretch of skin, an incision that actually looks far better than I thought it would (and not nearly as long), and some swelling and bruising that hopefully, will improve each and every day. I looked down a second time, and saw that my pectoral muscle on the left side is very swollen and bruised, and is making little twitching motions, as if suffering from a bit of PTSD post-operatively. Since my pec is bugged, the muscles on the other side of my shoulder are bugged as well, and my range of motion is pretty shot right now, but I know that too will improve. The nurse has said she has ordered some PT and OT for me, at home, which will be very helpful. In the meantime, I keep smearing Arnica gel over the swollen area, with hopes that it will help. Sarah will be back tomorrow, at which time she’ll be training someone (my mother? Jim? me?) to change my bandages over the weekend. This will be interesting, maybe a little frightening, because I think I'll have to look a little longer, and maybe I will notice something else I didn't notice today. I think I can do most of it myself, but there’s much precision wrapping and laborious mummifying that has to be done, a bit like getting the Christmas lights around and around the branches of the tree just so, so I suspect I will need help. And then there’s the drain site. Do I really want to look at that? Since it’s open to infection, bacitracin has to be put on the gauze before covering it up. These are the things that typically make me faint dead away. Somehow, though, this is different. This is my new skin, my new shell. Time to get used to it. And I suppose I’ll have to look at the drain site, too, eventually. Maybe not today, maybe tomorrow. It won’t be there forever, so I’m not as intent on making its acquaintance. The new me, the transitioning me, is someone I have to get to know. But it was enough today to look down, not away, while Sarah took the bandages off, to take it in, to scan my left side, and to realize that I look, and feel, very different. More like a lizard, perhaps, than a human. Which is okay, I think. I like lizards, don’t you? I think it’s the absence of the nipple that is so alarming. And the lack of symmetry and balance, and the loss of the rounded softness there, makes me feel—and look—a little deformed, and well, mutilated. But there’s a happy side to it, too. I know this probably saved my life, and I am grateful for these scars. Though I’ve lost this part of me, perhaps, in letting it go, it has given me new life, and made me whole again.

It’s amazing how much better you can feel after you wash your hair. Sorry, can’t go out tonight, I’ve got to stay in and wash my hair! My mother helped me wash my hair this morning in the kitchen sink, and it felt so good to have it clean again, a bit bouncier in its usual springy wavy curl shape. There are more grays than ever poking through, especially on the top, where my darker winter roots provide a better contrast for those grays to be seen, spotted, and yanked. The last time I saw my hair dresser, she asked me if I had been under a lot of stress lately. “You’ve got a lot more grays than before.” Stress? Who, me? I figure I can accept the grays as part of my passage—and if they really start to bug me, I’ll highlight them the hell out of there. Right?

It’s also amazing how much better you can feel after a visit from a dear, old friend. My friend Dana Weeder, from Exeter and Williams, came to visit today, and it was so great to be able to sit and talk and get caught up and not feel like some freak in a hospital gown. And he brought flowers, too, lovely lilies that have filled the house with their beautiful springtime scent. And the best part was that he didn’t seem the least bit uncomfortable with this new, different me, this mastectomied, misshapen, me. Maybe because he’s an architect, he’s used to things being under construction? Thank you, Dana! I do believe that these little pick-me-ups—a visit from the nurse, a re-bandaging, clean hair, a visit from an old friend, a walk in the woods with your mom and your dog—can and will make all the difference in the world, and will be critical to my recovery.

It’s dinnertime, and now, well, I’m missing my boys. I am eager to be strong enough to resume our homeschooling adventures. I miss our math sessions in front of the woodstove, talking about the finer points of Homer’s use of epithets (zilrendrag the mighty lizard-dragon queen slew her demon breast cancer in a heroic battle of wits), practicing Spanish together, discovering new ancestors, researching ancient civilizations and creating our own, collaborating on stories using our Boggle-licious words, making art, just being together. Heck! I even miss yelling at the boys to stop playing basketball upstairs while I’m trying to write on the ‘puter! It’s been a long haul of interruptions and doctor’s visits and emotional releases and stress of all sorts, and it will feel blessed and charmed when we can regain some surety in our footsteps, walking through each day with more spring and direction. We are nearly Skyped, and will look forward to making face to face contact with those of you who are afloat in the Skype-sphere.

And wanderlust, that restless, roving sister of mine, has sprinkled her magic dust over me, igniting a desire to shed some clothes and old travel routes for the roads less traveled, where I might discover a new richness to life where before was lacking, and maybe, just maybe, that left breast of mine will re-flower, opening to capture light and love and all that fills our cups. It’d be lovely to see you all in person. So, day by day, bit by bit. Thanks for being there with me.

There is pleasure in the pathless woods. --Byron

Indeed.

Surgery went well ~ Back home to detox & heal

A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.
Lao-Tzu

It’s Wednesday morning, and happily, I’m back at home, feeling relieved that this next step is behind me. The surgery went well—no cancer in the lymph nodes (and they had to remove two, since two seemed to be sharing sentinel node duty), and no other surprises or complications--and it seems as if time will continue to heal my wounds and eventually lift me out of this over-medicated state of feeling not at all like myself. I am sore—mostly in the chest region, under my left arm, and shoulders and back, both of which have never responded well to so much bed rest—but Vicodin is taking the edge off, and making me feel a little woozy, clumsy, and spaced out. I’m wrapped in a tight layer of bandages and compression tape, and am finding it hard to breathe deeply. Turning or twisting or activating any of the core muscles on my left side brings about instant ouch, but it’s gotten better. I’m still feeling wiped out, there’s still a lot of strange medicine coursing through my veins, and I just took off the scopolamine patch (an anti-nausea patch you wear behind your ear), and am feeling some symptoms of withdrawal—a bit of nausea, dizziness, blurry vision, and yes, the floor is pitching, as if I were still trying to find my sea legs on the anesthesia boat, rollicking on the waves of nausea. My throat is irritated all over again from the breathing tube, which has also left me with an ulcerated fat lip, and I’ve been hacking up a bit of phlegm. Lovely, I know, I know. I am sorry I am being so graphic. But that’s what it is. Think of it like a wicked bad hangover, the worst you’ve ever had, from a 10-hour long happy hour in the hospital, endless cocktails of meds, intense over-stimulation, and no time to sleep or eat. So—apologies ahead of time if my thoughts are not as clearly articulated as I would like them to be. I am aware of an area of hollowness under the bandage on the left side, whereas the right side feels like my usual filled out self. My girl is gone, alas, but I’m on my way. On my way, no looking back. Things are better today than they were yesterday, and they'll be better tomorrow. If I didn't believe that, I couldn't get through this day, or look to tomorrow.

On Sunday night, we stayed at the Marriott in Newton, and when we arrived at our rooms and walked out onto the balcony, which looked over the Charles River, a huge white swan swam over to us, and immediately started to trawl for food on the bottom of the river along the edge closest to us. We were reminded of watching pink flamingos on a few of the Galápagos Islands, flamingos that would gather food the same way, leaving visible trails along the bottom. It seemed a good omen.

Despite my best efforts to get a good night’s sleep before the surgery, it proved an impossible task. It’s not that I was horribly anxious, but I was filled with much anticipation—similar to what I used to feel on Christmas Eve, or before a ski race, when I was a kid, and butterflies would find their way into my belly, my breathing would become shallow, and my mind would fill with spinning thoughts. As well, my stomach was feeling the pinch, and at some point in the wee hours of the morning, I realized I had just gotten my period. After months of dealing with irregular cycles, my menses decides to regulate itself this month almost perfectly with the full moon, day 28. What great timing! (nearly as wonderful as getting my period at the start of my honeymoon, having to arrange one of the Antigua islanders to buy me some tampons in the village, and picking them up later that night from "Alex" at the bar, who had wrapped the box in a brown paper bag. "Got anything for me?" ) I added it to my list of things I would need to talk to the nurses about in pre-op. Make sure you position my neck so it's straight, and one other thing, too: Sorry, but you’re going to have to put one of those big fat pads under my butt, too.

My mother drove me to NWH, which was about five minutes away. Jim would come with the boys later, after I had checked in, and had been taken to Nuclear Medicine for my injection of dye directly into the left breast, which would then illuminate the sentinel node(s) for biopsy. I checked in to pre-op, was asked my name and birthdate about ten times by ten different people, met the usual array of anesthesiologist, nurses, and med students, and signed a bunch of documents to ensure that I would not sue anyone in case something went wrong. The anesthesiologist told me I looked nervous (“Wouldn’t you be?” I believe was my response, difficult patient that I am) and asked me if I wanted a little something to help me relax. Drug pushers, all of them. “No,” I told him, “I need to ride this out.” With all the over-medicating that is done in hospitals, and the amount of medicine that has been prescribed for me and offered to me these past weeks by different doctors, I have grown concerned about the potentially dangerous combination of drugs in my system—and the possibility of the Heath Ledger-effect, mixing anti-depressants with sleep aides and pain killers. With that on my mind, I figured that I would try to minimize all the narcotics in my system. Why anyone would actually seek out this feeling of being drugged and clumsy and out of it is beyond me.

I met with Dr. Pitts in pre-op, and she seemed eager and awake—all good things for such an early start. Dr. Specht was running late (and I love this, truly: she had a parent-teacher conference that morning) and it was okay with me—and I do believe I was waiting for her in the Nuclear Medicine room when all that groovy Juju found me. The anxiety that I had felt just walking into the pre-op room—where doctors and nurses buzzed about, patients were being wheeled in left and right, and where my little gurney bed sat, awaiting my body and warm blankets—had dissipated, and as I sat waiting for Dr. Specht, I changed into my johnnies and special no-slip socks and felt a calmness about the morning that would made me believe I had nothing to fear, and that every little thing was going to be all right. So thank you to all who were able to get up early and breathe with me. I honestly felt you with me, and it made a huge difference.

Dr. Specht finished the injection quickly and efficiently before escorting us all back to pre-op, which was surprisingly quiet. I climbed into the gurney and under warm blankets, said hasta la vista, baby to my family, and just minutes before being wheeled into the OR, caught a glimpse of a familiar face: Mark Rounds, a fellow Exie, walking about and looking very surgeon-like (he heads up the hospital’s plastic surgery and eye, ear, nose and throat divisions). I called to him, and after a brief hello, he promised to come up to see me later in the day. I figure—some of that Juju materialized in the form of a familiar face, and again, I was put at ease, cradled in the knowledge that I was going to be well taken care of.

As soon as the sleepy-meds hit me through the IV, I was out. Out. No resistance whatsoever. The waves rolled in and out, the sand was soft and warm under my feet. I was putty. And after not sleeping much the night before, I knew I would not, could not resist (not with a bat or a cat, a tree or a knee), and feeling the avalanche of fatigue wrestle me no more, I surrendered quickly, and that’s the last I remember.

I came-to several hours later (though it felt like seconds) in post-op, surrounded by curtains, a few nurses who kept coming in to see if I slipped back into my trance, and the loud snores of the guy next to me, who had just had a hip replacement done For a split second, I thought perhaps I was home, but soon the buzz of the hospital sharpened, and I knew that I wasn’t hearing the mating calls of crickets or spring peepers, the dog barking, or Jim snoring, but rather the squeak of the gurney wheels, the hushed voices of the nurses and docs, and my neighbor, snoring away in his bliss.

That first hour felt a bit like trying to wake up and wrap your head around the past hours after a truly horrible night of partying, (and please, don't let anyone tell me you have no idea what I'm talking about) and you just want to close your eyes and go back to sleep, but there’s a big chunk of time missing from your memory, and you’re trying desperately to piece together what happened, and your mouth is all glommy, cottony yuck, your tongue is stuck to the roof of your mouth, your body feels deeply bruised, beaten up, and fatigued, your vision is blurry, and the ceiling is moving in and out and all about, making it impossible for your head is search for possible explanations as to just where am I and how did I get here? Just what did I do last night? The classic post-rugby match Sunday morning wake up call. But I’m so much older now. And it hurts much worse. Much.

I tried to shut out the dancing ceiling, closing my eyes to try to snatch some sleep here and there, each time keeping them open them a little longer, and hoping that the ceiling would stop moving about like a pulsating, sweaty crowd-filled, disco floor. Eventually, I was able to suck some cranberry juice through a straw, the snoring bionic guy next to me finally woke up and ceased his rumbles, and I was given some pain meds, which thrust me deeper into a Narcotic Narnia, where Mr. Tumnus came with his friend to wheel me to my room before saying good luck and good bye to me in their native tongue, and Hobbiton nurses offered me tea in the form of IV meds and cookies in the form of drier than desert saltine crackers that I could simply not get down. Which way to the wardrobe?

Gradually, bit by bit, throughout that first afternoon, I experienced and shed some of the effects of the anesthesia drugs; watched, for the first time, my drain be emptied, a dark red; felt the rush of anti-nausea meds in my IV (just when I was about to urp); and praised and cursed the trappings and workings of modern American medicine. I used the bathroom for the first time, but with all systems slowed by the drugs, it was a pitiful task, and later that night, my nurse Laurie—who would prove to be an amazing care taker—would have check my output with a bladder scan, and then drain the rest with a catheter (my first, amazing how it worked). Sometime in the expanse of hospital time that afternoon, my head slowly stopped whirling about, I took my first (assisted) steps to the bathroom (ouch!), and I was able to greet my first visitors: my mother, Jim and the boys—it was great to see everyone, my three little birds. Dinner came and went, uneaten, on my tray. The only things I could successfully chew and swallow, given the acute dryness of my desert mouth, were jello and apple sauce. At some point, Dominick and Luke went with Jim to grab themselves dinner and buy some edibles for me from the nearby Whole Foods: goat’s milk yogurt, rite rounds crackers, and chicken vegetable soup. My step-mother, Martha, arrived for a visit, and it was great to have her there for a bit before she and my mother left to get dinner together. Jim and the boys returned with food (hurrah!), and they all helped me get washed up and ready to ah, sleep? Is it possible to actually sleep in a hospital? Gawd, it was like another big party gone wrong.

By this time, I had a roommate, a woman a little older than I, who was discussing her surgery and aches and pains with her partner. Luke overheard her mention that they had “shaved off all her pubic hair,” and at once became convinced that she had had a sex-change operation. Actually, it was only a hysterectomy, not nearly as interesting, I suppose, as a sex-change. I suppose Luke might have had it on his mind, given that one of the last SSAT words he’s practiced and learned was androgyny.

Jim and the boys said good night, and I began to think there might be a way for me to sleep—but my neighbor’s guests arrived, including her three year old nephew in his fire truck, which he proceeded to ride back and forth from hallway, past my bed, and to the end of his aunt’s. Vrooom, vroom. Both my neighbor and her partner were coughing constantly. Up and down to the bathroom. Lights off and on. Nurses arrived every 30 minutes to take vitals, administer more drugs, wake me up, ask me if I had been passing gas ( I felt like a newborn—have you eaten, peed, pooped, slept?). I tried to sleep, but only dozed in between disruptions. When my father and his new wife Mimi arrived, they brought a lovely little bouquet of daffodils and baby breath—from one of their wedding bouquets the week before—and a beautifully colored ceramic lizard from Mexico, their honeymooning spot. It was nice to see them, and have the lizard to cheer me up, and a touch of spring in the room, which had, in its dire darkness and endless stream of white coats, managed to block out all sense of a world outside, and made it difficult to remember that the sun was out there, somewhere, that healing was possible, and that sleep would come. Or not.

My night nurse, Laurie, was stellar—attentive, caring, and funny. She took good care of me that first night. I was so grateful for her for helping me get through that first night—with its softer buzz and shadowy silences, the endless awakenings and disruptions, the manic nature of the midnight brigade of fears, pain, and strangeness. I was glad to see the morning sun start to liven up the room; night over, I could finally begin my heal-about, my plan to recapture my good health. Juanita tried to convince me to order a lot of food for breakfast and lunch, but I doubted that was part of the plan. Hospital food, I've realized, is designed to make it much more difficult for you to do all the things you're supposed to be able to do after surgery before they send you home: pass gas, pee, have the first celebratory bowel movement. But there's hardly any good fiber in the food, and more than that, it's loaded with all the refined sugars and flours and crap that keeps you blocked up. So not only do the meds have to fix problems caused by other meds, they also have to fix problems brought on by all that colon-jamming food. Oy.

Dr. Specht and Dr. Pitts both arrived at about the same time, just as I was coming to, and quickly checked me out. They again confirmed that there was no cancer in the lymph nodes—very good news—and that the surgery went very well. Dr. Pitts left with me with a brief sheet of instructions: no heavy lifting over 5 lbs., no stretching, no showering until 24 hours after the drain is removed, etc. She recommended deep breathing and walking to keep my lungs healthy and fully-expanded and exercised: use the breathing exercise machine twice every hour, keep an eye on the color of the fluid coming through the vein (it’s a beautiful magenta now, yellow mixing with the dark red blood of yesterday), and take it easy. I’ll be checking in with her in about two weeks, as well as the oncologists, who will by then have reviewed my final pathology, and agreed on a treatment plan.

The morning at NWH was zoo-y. I saw my new morning nurse only a few times; she was busy. There was paperwork to fill out, instructions on measuring and emptying the drain to be understood, a big bag of bandages, ace and otherwise, to be sent home with me for the visiting nurse, etc. I enjoyed a few more visitors: Jean and Kate arrived at about the same time, and I was happy to see them, to be able to sit on the bed upright, talk and laugh a bit with some old friends. My mother came over mid-morning, and Jim and the boys showed up after their Monopoly game was done. I was moving a little better, going to the bathroom by my self, and even walking some laps around the floor with all the other IV-toting gimpies and gumpies. At a certain point, the nurse came in with final discharge instructions, I got dressed (with more care, I realized, than I had ever had to use before), and packed up all my cool hospital stuff (the best: disposable cotton stretchy underpants!)

The trip home went fairly quickly, if not for the potholes that sent little spasms of pain through my chest, waking me up every now and then. The dog went bazooks when we arrived, jumping up on the car while we were still moving down the driveway, and yelling at me “Where have you been? Why are you walking so funny? What’s the matter with you? I must lick your face, must lick your face, bone? Did somebody say bone? Where? Give it to me, give it to me. Throw me the ball, the ball, a stick, a Frisbee, something.” If I could just bottle some of that energy…

Back to today. It's afternoon now, and the visiting nurse—a great woman named Sarah—has come and gone, changed my dressing, checked my vitals, and promised she’ll be back again tomorrow. It was very reassuring to have her here and to know that I'll be checked again tomorrow, and won't have to change my own dressing yet. I am so grateful that I did not have to remove the original bandages myself. It was hard enough seeing the wound out of the corner of my eye—sensing the hollowness, the concavity, the sunken nature of my chest on that side—much less getting an eyeful of the whole she-bang. Tomorrow, I’ll steel myself and look a little bit longer. Bit by bit is all I can handle. I know it’s going to be a bit of a visual shock to see the incision, the flatness, the total and complete absence of my left breast, the no-going-back—so I have to get used to the idea slowly. This is me now. Cancer is gone, gone! But I’ve lost a girl, and can’t grow a new one back. I have to put my faith in the expanders, the saline, the silicone implant, Dr. Pitts. The sureness that my body will know how to heal, that my liver will rebound after all these narcotics, that my digestive system will re-establish balance after round three of antibiotics, that my strength will return, my vision will sharpen up, my body will be reclaimed, up and out of the ashes, a phoenix rising. Spring is on the way, too, and I am grateful that I am able to go through my own re-awakening of sorts during the re-awakening of the earth; my own rebirth will echo that of the natural world around me, and soon, I’ll be rejoicing in the symphonies of spring peepers and wood frogs, crickets and coyotes, birds and budding trees. Life abounds, burgeons, blossoms, bringing forth new growth, blessings and native wisdom. For all I am grateful.

I hope that wherever you are, you are delighting in the beginnings of springtime, aflush and aglow with color and warmth, promise and wanderlust. Be well, stay well. And thank you.

LOVE
Liz

Heading in, Counting blessings, Eating chocolate

BREATHE, BELIEVE, RECEIVE: IT'S ALL HAPPENING.
(Thank you Shari and John!)

Yep, that's for sure.

This morning, the boys have discovered their Lake Champlain and Nirvana Easter chocolates, (mouths are smeared with dark brown caramel sweetness), their March Madness brackets have been updated with the latest scores (no one is faring particularly well this year, but at least they have predicted with more success than the truly-pathetic team at Sports Illustrated), and have retreated to the basement, where they are doing battle with the PS2 (yes, even homeschoolers play video games). I love my boys, have I told you that? My mother has just brought me toast and tea. Thank you, Mom! Outside, the birds are reveling in the new feed Jim has brought them, and it still looks COLD, though the sun looks as if it might, at full force later in the day, actually send some of this snow packing--unless, of course, the wind shows up again, whips about like a wild child, and maintains the brisk chill that has rendered our days decidedly un-spring like lately. At this point, a few days after the arrival of the vernal equinox, winter seems like an obnoxious house guest who has long overstayed its welcome. But it always does in this corner of New England, and blessings abound inside and out, and even for winter's last stand, I am grateful.

Later today, we'll brave the potholes and slow, Sunday traffic along Route 2 for the snowless suburban-scape of Newton, where we'll spend the night at the Marriott (thank you, Mike!) before checking in at the Newton-Wellesley Hospital first thing in the morning. I've spent the last few days trying to prepare--trying to stay grounded in the little rituals that make up my days, but feeling, every so often, my tight grip loosen on the emotions and pressures that have built up, only to be released again, in tears that swell my throat and spill unabashedly in an endless cycle of cleansing and metamorphic rebirth. Exhale. On a more practical level, I'm fairly well packed--soft, comfortable clothes, toothbrush, iPod, drawings from the boys, assorted charms, and my breathing exercise apparatus that will help my body expel the anesthesia drugs more quickly (and reminds me of my Iron Lungs days)--but I don't really know what to bring, aside from my warrior's steely gaze, nerve, and cut-throat bravery. After all, these are things I'll need the most, and since I won't be there for very long, and for the most part, will be zonked out on pain meds, the material in my overnight bag might not hold much allure. But who knows--maybe I'll surprise myself and muster the energy to suck some tube, launch a new company, file a complaint, write a bit, blurb, or morning page, or listen to some new tunes on the pod (thank you, Bbets). It's all possible.

There are many shining lights at the end of this tunnel, but one that is shining particularly bright is my 25th Exeter Reunion on the weekend of April 25. I have told all my docs that I must be there. That they must arrange things so that I can be there. That I will not miss it. I have a real passion, a great love and fondness for my Exeter friends & classmates, that I cannot imagine missing out on an opportunity to see them, to be with them; to talk, laugh, dance, hug; to thank them in person for being there for me throughout all of this; and to simply bathe and revel and bask in their glow (because these are some of the finest people on the planet, and they do, indeed, light up from the inside out). So, no matter where I am in the process of filling up my saline expanders, no matter how lopsided or sore I am, I'm going to be there. It's in the plan, man.

I have been humbled by the amount of Juju that has already reached me, and am grateful to you all for hanging in there with me--for checking in via email and telephone, for stopping by and dispensing much-needed hugs, for sending a wonderful assortment of gifts and charms and cards. Your words--and karuna--have touched me. Thank you. I've been wearing my milagros (thank you dearest Natalie for all my treasures), my ankh (Joy!), lighting my guardian angel candles, listening to the soothing meditation cds, reading the books, turning the charms and crystals over and over in my hands, feeling the weight of their colors and lightness of their magic. I've created a little altar of sorts by my bed, a grouping of cards and precious gifts that provide a beautiful focus for my eye, a portal to the friendships that I hold dear, and a reassuring connection to that world of mysterious workings--hope, grace, trust, faith--and the power and intuition that it brings. When so many of my good friends and family live so far away, this has been the best way I've known how to gather them all together around me in a comforting circle, soothing my anxiety, curing my sleeplessness, and replenishing my strength and determination. Thanks to all of you, I feel ready for what tomorrow brings. It feels like a good place to be.

Speaking of circling up...I must acknowledge the extraordinary group of women known fondly as the Used Bagges, the ex-ruggers from Williams, who have gifted me with the undeniable power of connection, the unbelievable joy of camaraderie, and the undying warmth of friendship. Thank you all, you lovely bagges! Along with my beach-walking in the sun, I'll have the finer days of spring banquet-ing in my head as I am wheeled in tomorrow morning. I'll feel the warmth from the fire, the rising morning sun, the circle of sleepy-eyed ruggers; I'll hear Earth, Wind and Fire on the jam box; and I'll smell the roasting pig, the stale kegs, the landfill's rousing charms. Good tonic, indeed!

I have always been amazed by the healing force of family, and by the strength of the bonds that hold high school and college friends together forever, regardless of years passed, lost contact, or divisions in the road. I have been truly awed, and bowled over and uplifted by the love I've received from my dear family and friends new and old, from people I haven't seen in twenty-five years, but who have remained in my heart, from close and distant cousins, who have kep me going strong with regular cyber-visits and even a lovely surprise visit yesterday (thank you Eddie and Claudia!), from old friends from my more youthful days, who have reminded me just how much laughter and fun really and truly matters. How is that my old friend Kristin knew that my favorite chocolate in the world was Green & Black's Maya Gold? I will add it to my daily stash of antioxidant supplements--thank you, Kristin! And thank you, ALL.


I wanted to shout out a big HAPPY BIRTHDAY to my friend Paige (Smith) Orloff, who is celebrating tomorrow, the 24th. I figure the fact that my surgery day falls on Paige's birthday is good karma, indeed. Thanks for sharing your day, Paige--and hope you celebrate in style. I'll be drinking my cocktail of general anesthesia gas, anti-nausea meds and painkillers and will toast you!!


Onward ho, to tomorrw. After a LOVELY NIGHT'S SLEEP, I check in at 7 am, head to nuclear medicine for my dye-contrast IV, and they will have NO TROUBLE FINDING A JUICY VEIN. I will then head to pre-op, where I will reacquaint myself with the AWESOME, SUPER SKILLED, EXPERIENCED team (Dr. Michelle Specht, breast surgeon, Dr. Ellie Pitts, plastic surgeon, anesthesiologist, and assorted interns and residents--this is a teaching hospital, after all--and thanks to friends and Drs. Rebecca Liu and Sridhar Ramaswamy for helping me assemble this team); where my left breast will be initialled by the breast surgeon; where I'll think on beach combing, spring-banqueting, and lounging on in the Swazey sun with dear friends; where I'll feel CALM and LOVED and CONFIDENT that every little thing's gonna be alright (thank you, Bob) due to all that good Juju coursing through my veins; and where I'll take my first sips into lala land. In the OR, they'll biopsy the sentinel node, which will BE CANCER-FREE, and with LOVING CARE AND PRECISION, remove my left breast, preserving the skin for breast reconstruction. Dr. Pitts will then carefully insert the expander under muscle and skin, CAREFULLY putting me back together (again, I think Sally in the wonderful Tim Burton's Nightmare before Christmas flick) so I resemble as much of myself as possible. The surgery will begin at 8:20, run about 3 hours, and require about 2-3 hours of recovery. NO COMPLICATIONS, NO SURPRISES. They will get all the cancer out. CLEAR MARGINS ALL AROUND. After this time, I will head to my room, which I am hoping to have all by myself. I won't need the heavy-duty pain meds, because I'll be FEELING PRETTY DARN TOOTIN' GOOD and the pain won't be so bad. A few folks will come to visit, and I'll actually recognize them, and SMILE and tell a joke or two about my girls. The docs will tell me EVERYTHING WENT PERFECTLY and after a GOOD NIGHT'S SLEEP (hahaha) in the hospital, they'll check me out the next day, tell me I'm LOOKING GREAT, and send me home for some r & r. I'll post something on my blog as soon as I can--ALL IS GOOD I hope to write, ALL WENT WELL, FEELING FINE. And I'll HEAL UP WELL. I'll BEAT THIS. Things will get BETTER. And I'll be THERE FOR YOU, too. (Just a little visualization)

Herewith, in case you missed it, a copy of the email my friend Becca Martenson composed, a commission of sorts, of focused, collective Juju. Thanks again, kith and kin, for throwing me a line and not letting go. You guys are the BOMB. And I love you XOXO Liz

Dear friends,
As you all know, our dear friend Liz is beginning her journey of recovery from breast cancer. On Monday, March 24 at 8:20 am she will undergo mastectomy surgery with sentinel node biopsy to remove the cancerous cells and all tissue from her left breast. As well, she'll be beginning the first phase of breast reconstruction. Many of us will be supporting Liz and her family during this time by helping with childcare, preparing meals and being a listening friend when one is needed. But there is more we can do together as a community of people who love Liz Gardner.

One thing I have done for friends in the past, all women who were undergoing surgery for breast cancer, was to organize a specific time when a community of friends and family could send their love and prayers to the individual. Incredible research has been done on the power of intention and what is indicated is that the most effective time to support a person undergoing surgery is the 1/2 hour before the procedure begins. The women I have done this for all felt a wave of calmness settle over them during this most stressful and frightening pre-operative time. Together we can help bring this calm to Liz when she most needs it.

On March 24th at 7:50 am I invite you to join me in sending your prayers, blessings and loving energy to Liz in the 1/2 hour that precedes her surgery. I asked Liz to provide us with a comforting image that we can all meditate on when we spend this time thinking of her. Here is what she wrote:

I've thought about an image that has helped me fall asleep these past few nights: I'm walking on a beach, close to the where the waves roll in. It's a beautiful afternoon—warm, slightly breezy, gentle. The sun is a constant but not a bother. I'm walking barefoot and I can feel the sand beneath my toes, and it feels warm, not hot, and every now and then the waves come in and cover my feet. I am looking for shells—and I'm finding all my favorites: beautifully colored and patterned scallops, conches with the shiny insides, tulips, jingle shells, whelks. The picking is good.
This, of course, is from past experiences on Boca Grande, where my grandparents lived in Florida, where the beaches were pristine, free of people, quiet, lovely. There is a hushed quality about them that I remember. I had such great times there—and found the total immersion into the moment of just walking the beach to be enormously relaxing—unlike anything else I've tried

This is such a lovely, full-sensory image we can send to Liz as we also meditate on a successful surgery and quick recovery.

Thank you for joining me in sending this gift of love,
Becca Martenson

PS- It might be helpful to mark your calendars to remind yourself.

Persephone's passage

Say you were split, you were split in fragments
and none of the pieces would talk to you
wouldn't you want to be who you had been
well, baby I want that, too

--Aimee Mann (from Humpty Dumpty)

Sometimes things collide—cars, shopping carts, worlds, energies, planetary alignments, moon cycles, people, expectations, past lives, triggers—and the result can be fantastic, alarming, or catastrophic—or all three. Typically, collisions create chaos--a splintering, splitting, cracking, crushing, messy, clean up in aisle 7 type of thing. This morning, I experienced a collision of sorts—of anticipation, anxiety, tricky family dynamics, shifting hormones, and assorted unasked for stimuli--and felt the chaos bubble up and out in an unraveling that, I suppose, began at the start of this process. The surgery, just days away, is weighing heavily, and though glad for the extra week to conquer this virus and infection, regain some strength and lung capacity (old Iron Lungs is feeling it!), and prepare for the coming weeks, the waiting—and anticipation—has been torturous. Too much time to think, and those over-thunk thoughts become worries that fly and pester about at times of repose and reflection, and as much as I try to swat the buggers away, they persist, a pestilence that infects heart and mind, and tries to chase away my better sense. Luckily for me, the impending full moon, goddess that she is, offers opportunities for reconnection to our neglected interiors and native beginnings, and spring is on the horizon. As well, the Vernal Equinox heralds the cycles of suffering, death, and resurrections, and the growth, rebirth, renewal and awakenings of spring. And accompanied by my own place in the moon and female energy cycle, my better sense, unless closely tended, is seriously at risk. Have I lost you yet?

Suffice it to say that the vernal equinox is here, the full moon is coming, my period is coming, and the surgery is coming. And I’m feeling a bit emotional. Got it?

I’m learning a lot about myself these past weeks—that I can be temperamental, given to changing moods when the moon speaks to me, the rain falls, or the winds blow; that I am highly sensitive and intuitive, impressionable and mediumistic; that I am vulnerable to the psychic information I receive from my surroundings, often have trouble screening and filtering out these spiritual and environmental cues and voices (oh! now she’s hearing voices!!), and feel overwhelmed easily, particularly at certain times in my cycle (like, now); that during these times, all the past unresolved trauma from childhood (yes, after all that therapy, there seem to still be unresolved issues) and beyond come roaring back with a ferocity that unseats my soul; and finally, that I feel things deeply, need to vent freely, and can be emotionally expressive (what a lovely euphemism—expressive is when the Italian blood kicks in, my hands go all over the place, my voice rises, my hair probably stands on end, and the look on the kids’ faces is priceless). Collisions often lead to fragmentation, splitting apart, division. This cancer has brought many collisions to the surface, but I also believe that ultimately my safe passage through this cancer will empower me to reshape myself—both literally and figuratively, and inside and out—and the life I live, pulling the pieces back together in different ways, a rebirthing, a re-sculpting, a re-incarnation of sorts. That’s what life is, right? Something to be lived, first and foremost, and something to rework, over and over again.

The world, after all, is not all that we see in tangible reality. The world is full of mysteries, sub-surface alternative realities, parallel universes, uncertainties, and unexplainable phenomena. This mythic Underworld—full of dreams, the darker side of life, the unconscious, our demons, the spirit world, the collective consciousness of humanity—has risen to my surface, forcing me to draw inward, reflect on my place and progress in this world, face the depths of my fear, sadness, anger, mourning, and seek the light through the darkness. Drawing me up and out has been humor, music, my children, friends and family, and the lightness and rightness of the natural world. Just yesterday our dog Daisy caught sight of a small jet-black mink running over the white snow in the field next to our house; she sped off after it, and lost it near our stream. By the time we arrived, the mink had left nothing but delicate footprints in the snow, and a nasty musky odor that floated about the stream. The dog shoved her nose into the prints and one by one, followed them back to the meadow, retracing her steps. The mink, it seems, swam its way out of trouble. But how beautiful to see it—and even smell it—and be lured outside to check back in, however momentarily, to the world unfolding around us.

The full moon arrives tomorrow, and as always for me it is a reminder of a woman’s role as calendar-keeper, as progenitor of keeping track of the moon cycles, which long ago, before artificial light flooded our homes and upset our circadian and lunar rhythms, predicted her own. The moon is a powerful entity—and women, despite modern trends to disconnect entirely from these primal tethers, have always been at its loving mercy—the amount of moonlight we receive triggering our hormones and directly influencing the alignment of our menstrual cycles with that of the moon. This harmony with the moon and the resulting menstruation—bleeding without being wounded, in a particular rhythm, and containing the absolute magic of creation—can be powerful stuff—and has often been feared vilified, and misunderstood (resulting in the persecution—simply because their menstrual blood remained in their veins—of thousands of post-menopausal women in the 17th century for supposed witchcraft). Over the years, its disparagement—and the taboos that have been created to protect society and women from this power—have led to our detachment and disengagement with our very basic natural, feminine essence.

Several years ago, I thought of creating a special calendar for women to be used to better track not just their cycles, but their moods as well, checking in with their cyclical archetypal personas to better predict and plan for activities, and emotional and physical needs. (I’m still working on it) After all, thousands of years ago, it was women who created the first calendars, out of necessity. Since their own natural body rhythms corresponded to observations of the moon, it was their way of keeping track, making sense, and keeping order. There are many examples throughout ancient history: Chinese women established a lunar calendar 3000 years ago. The great Maya calendar was based on menstrual cycles. Romans called the calculation of time “menstruation,” of “knowledge of the menses.” In Gaelic, “menstruation” means calendar. The Pagans, bless their hearts, infused their thirteen month + 1 day calendar with ancient symbols of matriarchy: night, moon, the number 13. And there is some thought that early menstrual rites were perhaps one of the first expressions of human culture.

Here’s your astronomy lesson: when the full moon arises tomorrow, the sun and moon will be 180 degrees apart. And we all know that the full moon is the time of "highest emotion, energy and sensitivity." I mean, can't you feel it? This week’s Vernal Equinox signals the time when the Sun is moving northwards along the ecliptic, crossing the celestial equator, and day and night are of nearly equal length at all latitudes. On a more symbolic level, the spring equinox "celebrates conception, the sprouting seed, rejuvenation, and feeling the balance necessary to begin anew," signaling a new year, and ushering in change and growth at all levels. It’s no wonder, then, that its arrival, coinciding with so many other energies, have helped peel back the layers of emotions and old, worn-out protective charms to encourage new growth to push forth. As I’ve said before, there are always silver linings, opportunities for good things to come out of “bad,” and that there is, just as Albus Dumbledore says, light and dark in everything, and in each and every one of us. This breast cancer represents, in many ways, a collision of the energies of which I speak—and the opportunities that lie within each. Symbolically representing the feminine, the female, and motherhood in so many ways, this breast cancer is illuminating the dark patches of my life, bringing clarity, direction, and a sense of purpose to my footsteps, beseeching me to place boundaries around myself, to honor myself, and allow the space and time for change and growth—in fact, to seek it out, to pursue it. It is asking that I increase my awareness of and connection to my self, to my natural and spirit worlds, while loosening the hold of the material. All good things.

And so, after wailing in my closet for about three minutes to jettison out the black psychic smoke that had filled my lungs and taken away my voice, I returned to my day, eager to continue the psychic cleansing, with puttering (all women know how grounding doing some tidying up can be) and writing, baring soul, dark spots and all, in order to illuminate and better understand these rough patches, and let go, let go, let go—

My mother told me a funny story today. On the occasion of my their 50th wedding anniversary, my grandmother approached my grandfather, who by this time was fairly nearly crippled from an old ski accident, and was probably putting away his leg braces or special socks when she came to him, opened her robe and said “Can you believe this is the woman you married fifty years ago?” My grandmother had breast cancer twice, the first time in her early 50’s, when she had a mastectomy—without reconstruction—on her left breast. Big scar, no lizard tattoo. Add to that a myriad of other scars: appendix removed, gall bladder removed, and multiple abdominal surgeries because of her crohn’s disease. Her medical history was unbelievable—because by watching her, and seeing her undeniably gargantuan spirit in action, one would have been awed by what she had gone through. Both my grandparents went through more than their share of medical and family trauma—and doggedly not only lived their lives, but lived their lives well. Just when things were at their darkest, they shone their brightest. They had moxie! I am eternally grateful to them for seeding us with their strength and courage, passing on their spirit and generosity, and infusing all they did with humor and grace. My grandparents celebrated the full moon each month with a gathering of friends on their boat, or someone's boat, and they'd pack a picnic dinner, drink lots of wine, laugh with friends, and howl at the moon. I do think they were on to something.

I leave you tonight with a Lakota blessing: “Follow your Grandmother Moon. Her illuminating cycles will transform your spirit.”

If we all head outside to bathe in true blue full-moonlight tomorrow night, we'll all be looking at the same moon face, drinking in the same moonshine, and feeling the same Grandmother Moon transformative energy. See you there--and don't forget to howl. I'll be listening.