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.

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.

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.

Happy, and Writing

Long ago, a few weeks over a year, I said that I couldn't write because I was too happy. Well. That is just silly, I've come to realize. I'm drunk with optimism, and writing poetry like never before. The happy poet who I atheized back then is alive and well, and living inside of me. Thank you, God.

My dad, in a funk a few months ago, whining about the crops or the broken down tractor, asked, "What was good about you getting cancer?" "So many things," I said. "I feel closer to God than I ever could have imagined, I feel grateful, blessed, happier, kinder." Since then, I've also confessed to my sister that, some days, I'm gripped by fear. But then it's gone, and I am electric, feverish about the future.

I have surgery Dec. 2. The good one. One year, and my cancerversary that I couldn't really ignore like I'd originally planned came and went without pomp and circumstance, thank God, again. I'm blessed, blessed, blessed to no end that I can go without a big to-do about being alive. Nothing is sweeter, and I can hardly say what that means, just that I know how it feels to believe I would die – and then I didn't, and so I feel like sort of witness to a miracle, which changes you, good and bad. But much more good than bad, and nothing is ever the same as it was before, and so it's a milestone that was never intended, but a milestone nonetheless. A life changer, a game changer. Dec. 2 is another milestone. The last hurrah in this bittersweet party that celebrates the things you never really wanted to or should have to, but that's so alight and beautiful in spite of what started it all. It's all so simple: celebration, hope, faith, life, life, life, and this little one that's so full and fresh with it.

NJ after her very first Ring Pop, a blue one, as you can see – compliments of her Papa.

Is Worry Worth Writing About?

"The only thing we have to fear is fear itself."  Franklin Delano Roosevelt

I haven't been writing as much lately and have been trying to figure out what the deal is. I mean, this is normal for writers, I suppose. Writer's block, and all that jazz. Or, for anyone who does anything creative. Sometimes the juices just aren't a-flowin'. But, I think it's more that I've caught the worry bug, and I just don't like to put negative vibes out there, anywhere, for anyone. Today I realized though that if I don't put them out there, then they're just in here, in me, and that's the worst place of all.

Yesterday, there was a horrifying photograph in the Washington Post of a little girl who was burned in a Pakistani suicide bombing. I thought of NJ, of course, as any parent would think of their child. Anything that devalues the preciousness of life is disturbing to me now more than ever – sickening, paralyzing nearly. Yesterday when the train got to my stop, some drowning, heavy sadness physically overtook my body. I felt nauseous, and started crying as I was walking through the parking lot. Couldn't even wait until I got to my car. I hoped no one saw me.

The image of the little girl was awful, but it set free some oppressive heap in me that's been there for weeks – fear of anything bad happening to NJ, or my family, or, basically – me. What if I'm working too much, and not spending enough time with my family and that makes me sick, again? What if I'm not eating enough good stuff, and that makes me sick again? What if I need to exercise more (um, I mean, exercise at all, and yes, I do!), or give more, create more, love more, pray more? What if I'm waiting too long to get my ovaries out of my body, and that makes me sick? What if I can't have another baby and NJ never gets to have a brother or sister? What if I'm breathing wrong (not even joking)? What if it comes back? What if, what if, what if? This worry itself will make make me sick.

My friend, Ash, told me I should see a therapist after my surgery. It would be a lot to deal with, maybe more than I could prepare for, mentally. Maybe she was right. But can a therapist heal me better than God can? Talking is talking, and I'm being much too quiet. I know God is listening, and well, He's free.

A little Xanax never hurt anybody, either.