Revision Surgery

Once December came, and they cleared me to move after October's DIEP flap surgery, I started working hard to get myself in shape for the revision surgery to come. 

The surgeon did a great job creating my new belly boobs, but like sanding sheetrock, you can only do so much in one pass, even with the best tools. For optimal results, you have to let things sit a bit, then come back with a final layer of plaster and one final sanding.

While my body was sitting and knitting, I was working hard with a team of therapists (acupuncture, Feldenkrais, massage, lymph massage and fascia release) to loosen up what scar tissue I could. I likened my efforts to tidying up the playroom before the housekeeper arrives - if they don't have to spend their time tidying up the toys I could have cleaned up without them, they can spend more time actually getting the corners clean!

My therapists did a great job - with their help, over the next three months, I completely regained range of motion in my right shoulder, got a lot of scar tissue loosened, and figured out how to minimize the effects of the lymphedema on my chest wall. (The issues were caused during my radiation journey - it did a number on my innards.) When I finally got in to see the surgeon a few weeks ago, he gave me an A+ on my rehab efforts. He thanked me for giving him a good slate to work with, then looked me over and came up with a sketch of a revision plan. 

Tuck this here, take out scar tissue there and there and there, even out this profile. Ready? Ready!

I was less than happy when they called the night before the operation and switched my surgery from morning to afternoon. I tried to take it like an adult, but failed miserably. Surgery scares me. Afternoon surgeries add a level of anxiety because I don't function well when dehydrated. Friday afternoon surgeries add yet another layer - because everyone, including me, is worn slick by then. 

After I hung up the phone, I cleaned the house and worked in the yard and washed the dog and cleaned out the car - everything I could think of to help dissipate the cloud of nervous energy surrounding me. I managed to empty the energy tank enough to climb into bed around 11, where I stared at the ceiling in tears and frustration for a long while. (As long as the surgeon got some sleep, I knew it didn't matter if I did.)

By the time morning came, I'd run out of resistance. I couldn't sleep, so got up and resignedly piddled around the house, whiling away time until it was time to leave. I'd just poured myself the allowed cup of coffee when the hospital called. Could I come in early? They'd had an opening pop up in their schedule. 

Could I? I could! I excitedly dumped the coffee and ran.

I called my ride, Lisa, who dropped everything to come bring me in; we got there 30 minutes after they called. I checked in with high hopes, then we waited. And we waited and we waited. My hopes dwindled, my grumpiness levels climbed. Three hours we waited, until they called me back at the original check-in time. 

I have no idea what got messed up where; they didn't tell me. I've come to the conclusion the whole thing was a plot to keep me from getting my daily caffeine fix. It's the only logical answer.

Fortunately for me, that was the biggest glitch of the day; it was smooth sailing from there on out. (Though it'll be a hard sell to get me to agree to elective Friday surgery ever again. I had many questions the next morning, and the on-call team was impatient with my wish to not wait until Monday for answers. I decided this was Not My Problem.)

The post-op crew got me stable enough to stand, and sent me home around dinnertime. Once I got there, and could collapse because people finally quit talking at me, I fell asleep on the sofa until I woke at bedtime. (Lisa and Joe rightfully didn't trust me to be stable, so they tag-teamed the evening. Lisa spent the night, just to make sure I'd be OK.) Still dizzy when I woke from my nap, I crawled my way up the stairs to bed, where I re-collapsed and was cradled peacefully in the arms of the good drugs until morning. 

I woke up feeling MUCH better. I was a bit concerned by my continued light-headedness, but then it occurred to me I'd gone a good 36 hours without food. You think? Sure enough, a bowl of oatmeal and my too-long-delayed coffee had me feeling better in no time once I stumbled down to the kitchen.

Two days later, I'm on the mend; these are not deep wounds. I'm tapering off the heavy-duty painkillers today; the aches are, thankfully, receding quickly.

I'm not allowed to move enough to sweat for the next two weeks; I need to avoid most exercise for four. We all know I am NOT GOOD at remaining still. Since it looks like I will not be in pain, I can see this becoming a problem. I laid in some books and a jigsaw puzzle to help tide me over. Surely I have some other hobbies I can dust off and dig into.  

Wish me luck!

Yoga Church

My favorite yoga teacher, Jordan, has a gift of teaching class in such a way that I leave refreshed in mind, body and spirit; I've long thought of her classes as yoga church. Earlier this year, she started leading actual yoga church once a month. (She calls it that and everything.) I've been wanting to go, but have been out of town; was finally able to make it to yesterday's meeting. 

We started with a meditation on compassion, which, sadly, I can remember very little of because that's how meditation works when you're me. I do know I loved the message, which mostly bypassed my brain to settle into my heart: Be kind to yourself. Be kind to those you love, even and especially when the relationship is struggling.

By the time she'd finished speaking, I just wanted to stay in my peaceful place there on the floor. And she would have been ok with that. But asana also called, so I joined in the next hour or so of gentle flowing movement, the kind which eases the aches in my joints without my body having to work very hard. It allowed my body to join my mind in the peaceful place. 

We finished church by gathering in a circle to raise our voices in melody. Christine took over leadership; she first taught us a simple melody, then ways to harmonize with the melody. Far from the structured hymns of the formal church services I'm used to, we were free to sing any part we wanted - or none - or any other note that followed the harmony. The sound flowed, organic and free, until it was complete.

One of the songs comes from an ancient Hawaiian tradition seeking forgiveness and reconciliation. The melody escaped my memory, but the words remain. 

Ho'oponopono: 

I'm sorry.
Please forgive me.
Thank you.
I love you.

The chant hung heavy in the air, and also floated free. Weaving a pattern, inside and outside my heart; touching my yearning to heal. To heal my relationship with myself. To heal my relationship with those I love, have loved; my soul sent out a beacon of hope beyond hope - may they hear my prayer, my wish to set things right.

Amen.

Counting Sheep

I've been fighting fatigue for a long time; it's gotten predictably worse since I started taking aromatase inhibitors last year. (They purposely stop my body from using the estrogen it produces, which makes more of a difference than I'd think, given I'm several years past menopause).

So, I was heartened, rather than dismayed, when the results of my recent sleep study test came back showing I have mild sleep apnea. Finally, something, anything, which might be able to be fixed!

Now, I've known I shouldn't sleep on my back for the past decade, since my first sleep test. They wired me up, watched me try to sleep in the lab, then told me not to sleep on my back anymore because I was having trouble breathing there.

And so, for the last decade, when the question came up, I answered that yes, I'm aware I have trouble breathing when sleeping on my back, and no, I no longer sleep there. The recent test, done in the comfort of my own bed, made a liar out of me. Turns out, I do sleep on my back. 31% of the time, the night in question. So much for those delusions of control. Hmph.

Clearly, my sleeping position is on the list of things I cannot control, and I decided to follow up on the sleep specialist's recommendation to get help. In the written summary, she said one of those dental appliances would be a good option, so I called their office to make an appointment so I could find out what I need to do to get one. They're a bit backed up, but gave me their first available opening, in May. 

Of 2027. *sigh*

I'm thinking waiting a year won't be helpful, so I called my dentist's office to see if he makes the appliances. He does, but insurance needs pre-authorization and a prescription before they'll help with the cost. (These appliances are not cheap, so having help with the cost IS my preferred route.)

I turned back to the cardiologist's office to see if they could write the prescription. Nope, but my PCP should be willing to help. So, I called my PCP. Nope, the cardiologist ordered the test, the cardiologist needs to follow up. Neither is willing to budge. 

I'm beginning to think these doctors don't actually care about my health, because they gave me no useful guidance; just kept tossing the hot potato. (Is this supposed to be this hard??? I'm beginning to think I'm doing something wrong!)

Frustrated, I called my insurance company again. They said the dentist can PROBABLY file the paperwork for the pre-auth, depending on what the doctor's notes on the sleep study say. I crossed my fingers, and sent his office (what I think is) all the required documentation this morning. Here's hoping.

In the meantime, I've been turning myself into a pillow sandwich at night, which, since there's a wall in the way, lessens the chance I will roll onto my back while deeply asleep. It's a bit hot and claustrophobic but I've been waking up fewer times during the night, so I think I'm onto something. 

One step at a time.

Happy Easter!

Alleluia! 

As happens more and more lately, especially around holidays, I am struck by the many versions of myself living within.

There is the child, thrilled by the chance to eat lots of candy and look for eggs and wear a pretty spring dress. The church songs on Easter were happy ones - they tried to kill Jesus, but it didn't work, and he came back to show us "The Way To The Father".

There is the teenager and college student, going to church mostly out of habit, buying my own chocolate rabbit and jelly beans. I found the ritual of mass comforting, echoes of a time when I trusted the world to take care of me.

There is the young mother, working to pass the story of death and resurrection to her children, right there along with the eggs and the chocolate and the Easter Bunny; the happy mass and the pretty clothing.

There is choir-member me, immersed in the beauty of the Triduum - the three long services commemorating the Passion of Christ. The music lingers in my soul. On Holy Thursday, Jesus implores God to let this cup pass from him; asking his people to stay with him to pray. On Good Friday, stark and barren, death and darkness loom - Jesus is broken on the cross. On Holy Saturday, we sing songs telling us death is not the end. Jesus has risen, triumphant!

I heard echoes of these three days a lot last year, as I traveled again down cancer's scary road.

There is post-camper van me. The version of me who believes the arc of the story, but not the literal words. There are days when I miss the certainty of my childhood faith. I wish I could lean on it as I once did, trusting in The Way.

And.

The current version of me knows only that there is much I don't know, and a few things I do.

I know last year would have been SO much harder without my people. I know that sometimes, for some people; this time, for me; death and darkness back away and we are given more todays to live. I know that sometimes, for some people, death comes and they go ...  away. Their leaving leaves holes in the fabric of my life.

I know when spring comes, and the flowers come back to grace my garden, the leaves to feed the trees, my heart believes in resurrection and redemption; in the chance to grow anew.

Alleluia!

No Kings!

I wasn't sure what had me leaving the house last Saturday just after noon to join the No Kings Rally down near the Plaza. I had plenty of excuses not to go. Since I hadn't made plans to meet anyone there, no one would miss me if I didn't show up, and I was already tired from my earlier exercise class. Besides, I was already late - the rally was half over.

But the voice in my head wouldn't quiet down, so I got my keister out of my chair, put on some sunscreen, and walked out the door and down to the rally.

The weather was perfect; the crowd filled a good portion of the park and lined the nearby sidewalks. There was almost a carnival atmosphere; the people watching was fascinating. People had put a LOT of thought and work into their signs. Some words were just angry, but most displayed the sort of barbed humor I like. 

I made my way about halfway through the park to the edge of the crowd, then sat down to give my feet a rest and took a look around. While the crowd leaned heavily to the side of older, white-skinned folk, like myself, there were also a lot of younger adults. A few teens, very few children. I saw no counter-protesters, which didn't really surprise me - though Missouri leans red, I live in the middle of a blue bubble.

There was a tent with a speaker off to my left. I couldn't quite make out what they were saying - but the chants from those in the crowd better positioned to hear than I assured me I agreed with the gist of what was being said. I saw no need to give up my vantage point to hear the actual words. 

In front of the platform was a line of putative handmaids, dressed in their trademark red dresses with white bonnets. Even though I knew they were free to remove their costumes, I found the sight chilling. The story spooked me back when I first read it, and still does today. 

Even separate from the crowd as I was, I was glad I came. Everyone there had many choices of ways to spend their time, and chose this one. It was good for me to be there; to see I have so much company when I say, 'there is a better way.' 

I joined the crowd when the time came to march around the Plaza, but slipped out and turned aside when I came to the street which would take me home. I was tiring quickly, my stamina is still not back where I'd like it to be.

While part of me still thinks marches like these are not good for much except creating a bunch of noise, another part of me begs to differ. There was a LOT of restless energy in the air - I can only hope someone will find a way to harness and direct it for good. 

I do hope.

Celebrate Anyways

My birthday was last week. I was in California as the day approached, and Kate asked me how I'd like to celebrate. One would think this is an easy question, but it stopped me short. I started crying. I realized how deeply I am grieving the many days these last two years I lost to cancer treatments - mine and Kate's.

I didn't have it in me to want to celebrate the passing of that particular set of days.

And.

As I pondered my reaction to her simple question, I realized that, even though I couldn't quite find it in me to celebrate this birthday, I DID want to BE celebrated. 

I wanted my people to tell me they are glad I am still here. I wanted to hear they saw my struggles last year and cried with me. I wanted to hear my continued presence in this life matters to them. (I did know this already, but needed to hear it again.)

Somehow, my people heard my wish.

I was still in the midst of figuring out all the above when my phone dinged. Diane and Gary wondered, "Would I like to join them for a happy hour celebration the day of my birthday, once I got home?" Yes. Yes, I would.

Before I left California, my family there celebrated me with candles and my favorite ice cream and some pie (instead of cake. because, Pi Day!) As they sang the familiar birthday song, tears came to my eyes, triggered by the love I saw reflected in theirs.

I flew home Sunday, and my body was still figuring out time zones when the doorbell rang on Monday. It was Karlie. "Here, I brought you flowers! I don't have free time today, and wanted to help you celebrate."

Happy hour later that evening was filled with warm kindness and delicious food. I came home to find Joe and his family had stopped by with cake while I was out and left it in my fridge. (They came back the next day to help me eat it...)

All day, my phone pinged with messages from people wishing me a Happy Birthday.

A package of chocolates arrived from Jane, one of my oldest friends, with a note telling me that even though I'm not 64 any more, she still needs me and is happy to feed me next time she sees me.

And so I start another year of life with my grief gently eased a bit.

Knowing tomorrows are not guaranteed. 

Knowing I am loved today.

Wedding!

Kate and Edwin met shortly after they started working together some eight, nine years ago. There was a definite spark, and after a while, they decided to see if the spark could be ignited into a flame.

It could. Oh, yes, it could ignite. But there were irreconcilable differences, and so after a time they broke up.

then the spark. then the differences. repeat.

I called them the reluctant couple.

Several years ago now, they decided it was time to put up or shut up, so gave it a more serious try. They went to counseling to see if their differences could possibly be worked through, and did the work to meet on common ground. 

He moved in three-ish years ago - has provided amazing support as she's grappled with cancer a second time. They've been getting along well. 

One of their points of agreement was that they saw no need to formalize their relationship with a wedding. They showed their commitment to one another in other ways.

Then, in early February, Kate lost her job. She needs to have decent health insurance, and this tipped the balance - they decided to get married (!!!) so she could join his plan. The catch was that the wedding needed to happen soon, before she officially went off payroll.

They wanted to get married at the Santa Barbara courthouse - because it's pretty - and three weeks ago, Kate found an open slot where someone had canceled for last week. Planning went into high gear. 

They had a bit over two weeks to pull it together, and pull it together they did. They found rings. Kate tried on about a thousand dresses; managed to find the right one. Edwin went to one store and found a coordinating shirt. (That's how things work in this world.) They gathered a few family members to celebrate with them, and made reservations for dinner after the ceremony. (Numbers were limited both by courthouse rules and the short notice.)

The ceremony was short and sweet and beautiful. They looked SO happy as they said their vows. 

I cried. Of course, I cried. 

Love Is.

Spring!

The weather has been a bit schizophrenic around here these past few weeks; temps have ranged from the upper teens to the upper sixties - once, all in one day. I was still in winter mode, but then walked outside a couple of days ago, looked up - and then smiled, inside and out.

My favorite couple of weeks of the year are here! It came!

If you look casually, the trees are still bare, resources pulled within to withstand the winter weather. But a closer look shows Someone has taken a smudge stick to the tips of the branches, blurring their crisp edges. The leaves are *just* beginning to unfurl. In the sunlight, I can see a faint halo of green on some of the trees. 

It's Spring! (The calendar will catch up soon. It always does.)

On the heels of the arrival of Spring comes my birthday, and I'm a bit sad about it this year.

Last year, just before I turned 64, I had the Beatles on repeat. I was ready to embrace the moment, ready to send myself Valentines and bring me boxes of chocolate and bottles of wine. As it turns out, I did my best, but cancer kept knocking me down, and I didn't get to have nearly as much fun with it as I'd hoped I would. And now, time has again done the thing time does, and the moment has passed.

*sigh*

When I'm sixty-five just doesn't have the same rhythm.

*sigh*

And.

Here I am. Well enough to pout about missing out on so much fun last year. Well enough to get out and notice the changing of the season. 

Well enough to stand up one more time, brush off my backside, and begin to take some steps without cancer treatments looming on the horizon. (OK, there's one more surgery, but it's a little one and shouldn't set me back much at all.)

Maybe (maybe?) this will be the year for chocolates and wine. Maybe I will have time to celebrate in gratitude for the days past - both those which brought good memories and those which brought me learning experiences. And (no guarantees, of course) maybe I'll get more todays to live. I can hope.

Happy Spring!

And

Last week, the news scared me. We are at war in the Middle East? Didn't we learn anything last time we tried this?

And

Last week we had a taste of spring. The highs were in the upper 50s and lower 60s, the sun peeping through the clouds to say, 'Daylight is returning! Spring will come!'

Recently, I've struggled to get out of bed. I find it depressing when I sleep tolerably well, and wake up with my joints aching, surrounded by a miasma of fatigue - a side effect of the medication I need to take for as long as I can tolerate it. Argh!

And

Recently, I've been religious about sticking with my exercise schedule, which is heavily weighted towards yoga classes. While I start most classes tired and achy, somewhere in the middle of the session magic almost always happens, and by the time it's over, movement has relieved most of the aches, the fatigue has ebbed a bit.

It seems it is my season to work to hold competing truths.

And.
Both are true.

I've spent a good portion of my life using the word 'but' instead of 'and.
It's spring, but the news is scary. I'm achy, but yoga helps.
'But' negates one part or the other of my truth. 
'And' says to me, 'Yup. Suckiness and loveliness are co-existing in your days.'

I'm working to do things differently this round. By working to hold these competing truths, I avoid veering into either deep pessimism or false cheer. Cancer is complex. Life is complex. 

Turns out black and white are mostly only good for line drawings. Depth requires shades of gray.

And it is in the depth of life where I am finding beauty. The beauty of grit and resilience and healing.

The reminder that today is precious. Today is the only day I have.

I am here!

Trading Places

There was a time in my life when I was a grass-is-greener kinda gal. I'd look at my life, then look around at what I could see of other people's lives, and wish I could trade places. Their problems looked smaller than mine, their gifts greater than the portion I was given.

As I've gotten older, and my world has gotten larger, I've changed my mind.

Somewhere along the line, I started to listen to people's stories. I found that having the money and the job and the house and the car suddenly didn't matter when their child fell ill, when her husband was badly injured in an accident, when the surgery went wrong and she woke up to find she would never walk again, when their son committed suicide, when the lump came back as cancerous.

Money helps, don't get me wrong, but it can't buy health or joy or friends or love. It can't buy peace of mind or bring purpose to life. It doesn't stop trouble from knocking at the door.

It amazes past-me to know this, but I've not yet met a single person with whom I'd trade lives once I listened to their stories.

It turns out the gifts and problems I've been given have been the right ones for me. I am one of the luckiest people in the world, because I've been given enough. Each time I've stumbled into a heap of trouble, I've found I have also been given just enough gifts to find my balance (eventually) and make it through to the other side. (so far.)

The grass right underneath my feet is as green as it gets. 

Who'd'a thunk it?