A Thank You Post

So I invited some friends and family members to read what I have written here. Everyone said nice things and encouraged me to continue. Not that I really expected anyone would have the ta tas to tell me, "hey Ame, maybe you should consider another hobby. How about piano lessons? Knitting? Meditation?" So thanks for the encouragement.

A friend sent me this photo announcing a new coffee flavor at a Minneapolis cafe. I wonder what the 9-day notice is for? Some yucky images come to mind. And who would want cancer coffee anyway.  But I like the sound of "Amy's Blend." Thank you, Clever, Friend, for sending the photo.

You may have noticed that now I have the blessing of my friends and family to keep writing these silly posts, I have nothing to say. As for so many "artistes" my inspiration comes at 2:30 in the morning. I write long, amusing paragraphs in my head during many hours of lying awake in the dark. As the sun begins to rise, the creativity and I drift away. So maybe I'll just report the news.

Last night I watched as much as I could stand of the academy awards. Abandoned the effort at about 9:30. Embarrassing and dull at the same time. I wish I were Natalie Portman or Anne Hathaway. I bet they don't have breast cancer. I have a crush on the Colin Firth. I doubt he would fall for a bosomless, middle-aged Yankee hag.

On the health front, I'm feeling OK. Taking longer walks, shuffling a bit on the cross country ski machine, stretching. My chief complaint is a tightness around my chest that feels like multiple wraps of duct tape squeezing the life out of me.

By the end of this week I should know more about what I am facing for treatment, but I will be enjoying many months of chemo at the very least. Can't wait.

I told my 18-year-old son yesterday that his mother no longer has boobs. Can you imagine that conversation?

Mommy: Hi darling. How's school? How's things with the girl friend? Can't wait to see you next week. By the way, the maternal mammaries are history.

18-year-old son: What's that mean?
Mommy: I had a double mastectomy.
18-year-old son: What's that mean?
Mommy: The surgeons removed the breast tissue. (I thought that was better phrasing than, "They chopped them off.")
18-year-old son: Did it hurt?
Mommy: Not too much. Lots of women with breast cancer do it. It's no big deal. (She says, bravely.)
18-year-old son: How do you feel? (He says, nauseatedly)
Mommy: Flat as a board. (That was probably not the answer he was looking for.) I'll be okay (more bravery). If I want, I can go back to the surgeons to have them build new ones. (Lightheartedly)  So now what time will you be home on Friday? (Off topicly)

That's another thing I don't like about cancer. It's kind of gruesome. Especially for the kids.

Private Parts

This whole blog writing thing has me thinking about privacy. So far I have only shared these posts with one person. I have the urge to share it more broadly, but before I do that I want to sort out why. Before I had my surgery, I read this one blog by a young woman about her experience with prophylactic, bi-lateral mastectomies which, although not entirely relevant to my situation, was helpful. I am pretty sure that nothing I write here will be helpful to anyone but myself.

So why do I have the urge to share this with friends and family? I suspect that it has something to do with pride. I confess to feeling a little proud that I can get out of bed in the morning, sit at my computer and type complete sentences. (My standards for ranking accomplishments have been greatly altered since my diagnosis.)  I am also proud of my letter-writing skills. This feeling is largely due to the great amusement my mother derives from the paltry number (in relation to the quantity and quality of the gifts to which they relate) of thank you notes I have written to her over the years. I am well aware that a mother's appreciation of your thank you notes is not a very sturdy justification for wide-spread sharing of your written work, but there is my confession.

The book, Too Many Men  by Lily Brett is about a woman who writes letters for a living. Her clients would hire her to write their "Dear John" letters, condolence letters, letters threatening legal action... I would like a job like that. So I will think of this blog as a giant letter to you, someone I love and to whom I feel grateful.

Self-absorbed Musing #2

So, I wasn't too interested in writing a straight journal kind of blog. You know the kind..."Today I went to the doctor. She told me I have a month to live. I was devastated. But then I learned to appreciate every day more fully." But I make no promises about this.

Today is Friday. I decided to schlep into the city for the second time this week to have a medical professional check out the swelling around my incisions. I was afraid of waking up Saturday or Sunday morning, when all the nurses and doctors are trying to forget about their needy customers, feeling, or worse, looking like I had a basketball jammed under each arm. (Although, come to think of it, that look might be an improvement over the 12-year old boy chest that I am currently sporting.)  The nurse reassured me.  Three hours of favor time from my sister to drive me in and out of the city, five minutes of reassurance.  Feeling a little guilty, but also feeling suddenly strong enough to dribble a basketball.

Yesterday, (this mixed up chronology is a deliberate stylistic device to get away from  the straight, diary-like blog style), I went to a wellness center devoted to treating breast cancer patients. It was a lovely place, filled with caring, intelligent staff and upbeat clients. It offers exercise classes and therapies of all kinds including acupuncture, art, music, yoga, reiki and more. I'm trying to decide how I feel about the place. I went for a massage. My guess is that there aren't too many masseuses in the world who know how to provide profoundly therapeutic treatment on a person covered in fresh scars, swollen armpits and who cannot lie on her stomach. I was appreciative. But that's a lot of breast cancer under one roof. I wonder if it is good therapy to spend so much time with breast cancer patients. Contrary to casual observation, not all people have breast cancer. One needs to maintain some perspective on this.

Self-absorbed Musing #1

There have been several occasions since my diagnosis about a month ago when I was really enjoying the whole cancer-victim scene. Friends, friends of friends, family members, friends of family members, medical professionals, work colleagues, family members of work colleagues... were popping up everywhere to wish me well, send me gifts, offer assistance. That is a good feeling. Although it comes with a little drop of anxiety - why? I must be dying. They all know that I am dying and they are protecting me from the hard truth. But for the most part, it's been quite pleasant. No work, no chores, everyone waiting on me, asking me how I feel, and asking nothing of me. I sit around all day reading, writing, eating. A very restful vacation.

I do have to go to lots of doctors appointments. I hate going to the doctor. I get blood pressure readings like 180 over 100 when I go to the doctors. They think I am sick. I guess I am sick. But I don't really feel sick. Well, I'm kind of sore from having had about 5 pounds of bosom removed from  my body. But I don't feel like lying in bed. Not sure what I feel like doing. The problem with going to the doctor is that they remind you that you are dealing with a life-threatening disease. At the doctor's office I think about pain, loss and dying. When I am at home, reading, cuddling with the dog or the husband, I don't do that as much. If I didn't have to go to the doctor, cancer wouldn't be so bad.

About this Blog

I've always liked the word, "bosom". There's something about it. Cozy, comfy, round, homey, central, friendly. I use the word a lot. Ask my kids. I used to walk into their rooms in the morning with an affectionate kiss and endearments such as "morning, my little chicken bosom!" Tuck them in at night, "sleep well little pickle bosoms!"

On the other hand, I do not like the word "blog". It comes from the word "weblog." I suppose it is a logical reduction, but it sounds like a dry heave to me. I shouldn't probably dwell on dry heaving right now.

Bosoms. I've spent so many hours of my life thinking about them, comparing them to other ones, scrutinizing how they look in different bras, under different shirts. Feeling proud of them when I was a teenager, a little ashamed of them when I was in college, in awe of them when I was nursing my babies, and afraid of them much of the time. They were on the large size for a short, narrow person. But as individual entities not too impressive.

The best thing about my boobs were that they were all mine. No one could borrow them, forget to return them, try them on, steal them. A select few were allowed to touch them, but only under very tightly controlled circumstances. I had complete control over them. Until recently.

Of late, they have been acting up. Creating drama among radiologists, surgeons, oncologists and family members. Throwing out little rebellious flares of warning that greater havoc was coming. Little mischievous outbursts that required closer examination, microscopic analysis and behavioral modification.

So I tightened up the controls. The first thing was to reduce their size by losing weight. If I had to pacify unruly body parts, better that they be diminished.  I also reduced fat intake, alcohol intake, caffeine intake; upped the intake of omega-3 fatty acids, vitamins, yoga sessions, beta-carotene... The bosoms were not to be cowed...They burst into cancerous flames! Okay, that may be a bit melodramatic. I was diagnosed with early stage breast cancer.  That was the straw that really broke the camel's (?), cow's (?) back.

So...you probably guessed it by now...based on my use of the past tense...I chopped them off. Well, I didn't do it...though I felt like doing it. I hired someone to do it. (I tend not to be a do-it-your-selfer kind of person. I hire people to clean my house, mow my lawn, pull my weeds, paint my house, chop off my boobs. I'm pretty lazy. Maybe that's why this happened to me.)

So, back to the point. I started this blog to write about life without bosoms. Some of my readers (which at this point and maybe at all future points, number approximately 0 - or ,1 if you count me...the jury's still out on how much time I may devote to reading this stuff) may know that there are thousands of blogs out there written by cancer patients. Maybe it is therapeutic, so I'm giving it a try.

Please do not hesitate to send me your comments and to let me know that I ought to find another form of therapy.