Hope

The Last Surgery and Minipause

I had an oophorectomy on September 22, the "last surgery" as it has loomed in my psyche for, like, ever. The surgery itself, not the date, and the date I struggled with. When it would be, when it would come, when it would be the right time, when it would feel right. And the problem was, it never felt right. There did come a time when it felt more right than not, but it was never really in the way I wanted or expected. It was difficult in an unexpected way. With my mastectomy, there was no decision; it's just what had to be, and then what was.

I put it off; I needed more information. I felt guilty for making some power play against God, stealing from the world, from Him, and me and our family, any chance of letting a life come to be by the will of God alone.

Was it right, the surgery I mean, morally? The philosophy of it was utterly ridiculous, insurmountable, for weeks. I finally was able to accept that this can be God's will, too. Science. The study of nature, the gift of what God created us to be and think, to heal one another, but this seemed so unnatural. All of it, really.

To have a baby in the midst of cancer has been an escape for me in a way. Knowing that's out of the equation, just me and my own life, and death, and the lives outside of me now. It's "what's next?," unknown and elusive, magnified.

I work in cancer science; I edit cancer science, and my job can feel so far removed from God. This keeps me up at night. The blessing and miracle of science, a "cure," ultimately. There are my girls to think about, always. My mom, my sister, my friends, people I've never met. There is that.

My surgery was nine months ago, and on the upside, my menopause has been a minipause. I have had hot flashes, and they're annoying but not nearly as crazy as they were when I was getting chemo. My skin, however, seems to have aged a bit overnight. I am having thoughts that I never thought could be, rhymes with "go fox" and "tasers." The thing I was most scared of was not wanting to get my freak on with my husband, but I do, want to anyway, so that's cool. And frankly, no one could really give me a good answer about that when I was asking before surgery. The docs need to get it together on that front. Is there really much difference in 40-year-olds and 60-year-olds when it comes to the flava of love? I kind of doubt it. The jury's out on that one, and it's a jury of 60-year-olds. Do tell! Inquiring minds want to know.

#FacetheFoliage by Justina Blakeney. 

I am in love with this woman, Justina Blakeney, her jungalow, and her gorgeous art made of leaves and flowers.

Survivorship vs. Survivorshit

The shortlist of ailments, doctors, meds, and questions, lots without answers.

Survivorship is a weird word, like, if you die from cancer, which people do, lots of people (585,720 in 2014 alone, according to the American Cancer Society), then you're not a survivor, which feels kind of offensive to say about someone who maybe survived for a long time with cancer and died from cancer, and then it has this connotation that they were never a survivor at all. It's to describe those who've beat it, to honor those living with it, and that is commendable, cause let me tell ya, it ain't easy. There are lots of books, lots of "things" that celebrate cancer's aftermath: the amazing shifts in life that occur as a result of not dying from cancer, surviving it. That is so very true, I get that.

I feel blessed, and I also feel bad, guilty complaining about virtually anything after having cancer. Like, I'm alive, so be fucking grateful, end of story. I thank God every day for my body, for His healing, for doctors and nurses and science and medicine, for saving me, for saving my family, for waking up in the morning and realizing, once again over and over, that I am here. 

Most days, I have conversations with God. But, there is another conversation that isn't being had all that much. More so lately, and that's a wonderful thing because it means more people than ever before are surviving with cancer. But, there are consequences to that, and no one, not survivors and not doctors are sure exactly what to do with us. So there are studies, new research trials, scientific meetings, and voices rising up about this very thing, because survivors are saying help us know what to do next and doctors are saying we don't really know what to do next, "just enjoy life," they say. 

It can be hard to enjoy life the way we want to enjoy life when we know all too well that it can be taken away in an instant, and when you're racked with anxiety about recurrence, or numb fingers, weird electrical zapping in your feet at random times, a weak hand grip that makes it impossible to screw off the top of a baby bottle or to open a bottle of medicine or a bag of cheese, stabbing pains below radiated skin that come out of nowhere, a tender-to-the-touch bruise that never goes away, and if God can't take away my fear, then who can? When will it end? Will it ever end? This is the next chapter.

The Sweet and Lowdown

This is tricky. I've been grappling with this. Writing again about this, putting my junk out there. But it's always the same reason that brings me back. I want people to know I'm alive, for one thing, that I'm struggling, for another, and also that it gets better, for everyone. Cancer, no cancer, just life.

You can come out of that dark place, and maybe you didn't know it was so dark until you walked into the light. But these are not your best days, I promise. Mostly though, we ALL can be a resource of some kind. This is what I prayed for: God, give me something real to pull to me up. Give me hope, real hope from real people that you've laid in my path with intention. Where are they? I need them. God, please bring them here, to me, to my heart. And they came, and now I think it's my turn, to give something good from all the good given to me.

So here's the lowdown. In March, I'll be four years cancer free, officially. That was when my post-chemo first surgery went down with good news on the other side. No more cancer in my body. And then, what comes next?

This is where the conversation begins, again. Till then, Hallelujah, Amen, and Chase the Sun with this little ditty.

God Works in Mysterious Ways

On my teabag this morning. Need I say more?

Time After Time

When I wrote last, I was all empowered and stuff about what I was going to do with my time, organizing it, using it wisely. And then I realized that I might be obsessed with it. So, I had an about-face from what I wrote just a few weeks ago; how quickly time changes things.

Most days, I am giddy, my stomach bursting with excitement, that I am a strange miracle among many, and know that life is good. Some days – a few more lately, I have to admit – a quiet, heavy sadness settles over the day. I am afraid. How does my belief system pony-up to this new set of rules, the ones that say everything is uncertain? But, even when I thought things were certain, they never were, never are for anyone. Oh how I miss that facade: There's no uncertainty in that. And then I realize, too: I am alive.

My sister gave me this gorgeous pie plate, from Anthro. The numbers are a mystery. They remind me of time.

It's okay to be figuring things out all over again. After all, I've just been through a shit-storm, and maybe I should be paying less attention to time, not more. Maybe I even should do things I don't feel like doing, because I don't always feel like doing things that are good for me, like getting out of the house, seeing people, engaging, connecting, doing.  The only thing that I really need to know about time is that mine is not running out, and the rest, is up to God.