Life in general

Tax Relief

For a few blessed hours this week, I nearly forgot about my cancer. After seven weeks of thinking/breathing/eating breast cancer, I got a reprieve and, oddly enough, I have Uncle Sam to thank.

Since the day the C-bomb dropped (January 29th), I’ve been upset about the fact that the IRS really expects me to pay taxes on April 15th. I’ve never heard such crazy-talk. Everyone with cancer should automatically get an extension on their taxes because, when you have cancer, doing your taxes–much less on time–is the absolute last thing you can (and should) worry about. But I’m a worrier. Therefore, I’ve been worried about both my stoopid cancer and how in the hell I’m going to do my taxes. And by “do” I mean paying someone else to do them because I’m too worried I’ll screw them up.

I usually do my taxes in late January or early February. I close the door to my office, crank up the space heater, and let the receipts pile up like snowdrifts. I like the routine. I like the predictability. But, most of all, I like the office supplies. I adore office supplies. Last December, my Christmas stocking bulged with a box of my favorite pens, a collection of fashion binder clips, and six different styles of Post-it Notes. Normally, I stash these treasures in my desk and dole them out carefully throughout the year, but at tax time, I indulge my every office-supply fantasy. Everything from flower-shaped Post-it Notes to neon highlighters, even my fancy binder clips come into play. But this year, not even the sight of pretty office supplies could coax me out from under my cancer rock.

So, last week, in a session with my new cancer shrink,  I fretted about my taxes. We agreed that baby steps were needed. So, Friday afternoon I dug my 16-page tax booklet out from under three months worth of crap and called it a day. On Saturday I gazed at the sad, empty pages of the worksheet and I felt myself getting sucked in. The pull of the familiar. The comfort of routine. Yes, the lure of my taxes.

Sunday, as I started penciling in numbers, rubbing out mistakes with my over-sized pink eraser, and guiltily writing off my zillionth pair of yoga pants,  I noticed something weird happening. The more progress I made on my taxes, the more my mood lifted. To be honest, my taxes weren’t the only thing I did last weekend, but I’d like to think they were instrumental in jolting me back to some sense of normalcy because then at least I’ll know they are good for something.

Tomorrow afternoon is my appointment with my tax lady. And, yes, she is someone you’d describe as a lady. In fact, she resembles the Church Lady in poise, hairstyle, and demeanor. Right down to how she purses her lips when I mention my “partner.” I’m pretty sure, after I leave, she kneels down in her wood-paneled office and prays for my heathen soul. But, hey, I live in the middle of Indiana–a girl can’t afford to be choosy. So, maybe I’ll play the breast-cancer card in hopes that she’ll give me a 10 percent discount or offer to file an extension for me for free. Or, maybe, just maybe, I’ll forget to mention it.

Embracing Convalescence

My new favorite word is convalesce; it has a certain Victorian-era ring don’t you think? When I imagine what it means to convalesce my brain immediately conjures up Helena Bonham Carter. In my mind’s eye, she’s artfully  arranged on a fainting couch. The room is filled with overstuffed furniture and complexion-flattering sunlight. Behind her, sheer curtains billow softly in the breeze. Ah, to be Helena…

Okay, I’m not exactly Helena (and whether or not I’d really like to be is a bit of a digression) but I am intrigued by the idea of exploring convalescence, maybe doing some Gonzo-style journalism looking into what it feels like to be a convalescent. Being self-employed adds a scary twist to the “convalescent challenge.” The longer I do nothing, the longer my bank account starves. But money shmoney. With any luck, my trip to the world of convalescence will be brief, so I might as well enjoy it while it lasts. 

Since “blog time” runs a bit behind “real time” (for me at least), I admit I’ve already started my undercover investigation and, so far, I’m more than a little disappointed. I think the problem is that convalescence doesn’t look that different from my everyday life. Thus far, there’s been much napping, ignoring of the phone, and letting email languish in my in-box. Obviously, I’m not trying hard enough.  

In an effort to get my game face on, I took my dog for a long walk in the woods this afternoon. Walking in the woods seems like an appropriate Helena-like activity.  Of course, I often hike with my dog when I’m not convalescing–remember, I am a lesbian–so I had to take great pains to make this particular outing stand out in a meaningful (aka more sickly) way.

To that end, I walked more slowly, more thoughtfully, more like I thought a convalescent might. I even stopped for a few minutes to sit on a rotting log and soak in the view of a distant lake. I was pleasantly surprised to find that hiking like a convalescent was easier than I thought. Namely because my chest hurt like hell and the sutures securing the plastic tubing to my body (uncomfortable on so many levels) kept pinching and pulling my skin in ways that make me gasp and clutch at my sides. So, yes, I’d say today’s journey into convalescent-hood was a rip-roaring success. Tomorrow, I’m golden because I’m seeing my surgeon, a convalescent-worthy errand if ever there was one.

In the meantime, I’ve gotta talk with Mary about the possibility of a fainting couch…

Goodbye Girls

 

Dear Girls, 

I feel like I hardly know you. Sure we’ve been together a long time, but, like a lot of long-term couples, our relationship has evolved, deepened and matured. 

In those early days of teenage angst, when we were first introduced, I hope you didn’t pick up on my disappointment. No, it wasn’t anything you did, per se; it was just, well, honestly, you were a little smaller than I’d anticipated. While the other seventh-grade girls celebrated their new breasts with elaborate fittings at the local department store, my Mother marched me unceremoniously into JC Penny’s and handed me a bra in a box. My friends came back to school in a happy whirl of lace and underwire. I was still assembling the box’s contents—a tumble of rubber bands and cotton triangles. When I finally got the contraption on, I was horrified to see that you both barely filled out the cups, causing material to bunch at each tip like two, tiny deflated balloons. 

Okay, maybe that was a rough patch, but you and I soon settled into an easy camaraderie. Of course, no one saw much of you during the ‘80s, including myself. I was too busy dressing in elephantine sweaters to look like Jennifer Beals. But, under all those yards of material, I knew you were there. So did the boyfriends and, later, the girlfriends. Yep, you’ve seen it all. You stood by while I figured out my sexual orientation, then waited patiently as I thumbed my nose at my childbearing years, even though it meant you’d never get to nurse a baby.

Ironically, I only started fully appreciating you when I hit my mid-30s. Something shifted and I re-discovered these cool things I have called breasts. I splurged on form-fitting shirts and sweaters. And, with Mary’s encouragement, even bought a semi-sexy, halter-style yoga top last summer. When I wore that top for the first time, I noticed your graceful curves and understated femininity. For the first time in my life, I took joy in you.

Discovering a long-neglected part of your body at this age is akin to driving a late-model car and suddenly remembering it has a sunroof. One small spark of newness is all it takes to infuse every ride with a little more oomph. That’s how I’ve felt this past year with you, my breasts–a little more oomph. I’m sad to be losing you, but I’m happy that I enjoyed the ride, even if it was a short one.

Love,

Catherine

Radiation Roulette

Another day, another morning spent in a waiting room flipping through an old issue of People. I assure myself this visit will be a breeze—no clueless surgeon telling me I may already be Stage 4, no needles jabbing into a “suspiciously swollen” lymph node, no jaunty pink ribbons of sisterhood. I’m here for a simple pre-surgical chest x-ray. But nothing is as simple as it seems these days. And, as I hear the technician’s monotone instructions–take a deep breath, hold it, let it go–I can’t help but wonder if this is where it all began.

I was 13 years old when our family doctor ran his finger down my spine and announced to my mother that I had scoliosis. I knew the word all too well. Like my peers, I gobbled up every book by Judy Blume, including Deenie the ode to the adolescent angst of scoliosis. The tears began to roll the minute I hit the parking lot.

How many x rays are too many? No one knows, but the orthopedists who mapped my wayward spine seemed to think nothing of ordering them in abundance. Strangely enough, even then, I feared the radiation might damage my ovaries and breasts. How on earth, at age 13, I suspected that radiation was bad news for my budding reproductive system, I’ll never know. (Blume? Was it you?) On the day my anxiety boiled over I mustered the courage to ask the x-ray technician for something to hold in front of my ovaries. I can still picture the quizzical tilt of her head, the you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me expression on her face. Without looking at me, she handed over a small plate of some kind. I took my best 13-year-old guess and held it beneath my navel. Deep breath. Hold it. Let it go.

Of course, one can’t re-examine every choice. (Maybe I should have held the plate in front of my breasts?) But that doesn’t keep my brain from wandering off to pan the stream of my past for carcinogens. What’s maddening about breast cancer is that I’ll never know what tipped me over the edge. The place I go looking for answers isn’t rational, but I like to visit it anyway. I peruse the statistics, run my fingertips over the risk factors. I find bizarre comfort in the unavoidable ones, such as early menses, but my gut lurches when I seize upon something questionable, something avoidable, like one too many x rays.

As someone who writes about women’s health for a living, I knew my history of radiation exposure put me at a higher risk of breast cancer but I didn’t know by how much. Was I naïve to think I could mitigate that risk by eating a vegetarian diet, staying fit, buying organic? I told myself a few x-rays wouldn’t raise my risk substantially. After all, it was just a little scoliosis; it wasn’t like I was in Hiroshima when the bomb dropped.

Then, on a flight to DC two weeks ago, I opened Dr. Susan Love’s Breast Book. While browsing the chapter on breast cancer risk factors, my eyes snagged on two sentences: “…there are other studies confirming the existence of radiation-induced breast cancer. One showed an increase in the disease among women with scoliosis who had a lot of x rays to monitor their backs during puberty…these studies show that the danger is from exposure to moderate doses of radiation.” Shit.

I’ve spent the past twenty-five years trying to make peace with what happened to my back. Trying to understand how an otherwise healthy young girl with a mild curve ended up in an operating room where surgeons carved a 13-inch incision, deflated a lung, took out a rib, removed a couple vertebrae, and rebuilt her lumbar spine out of metal rods and screws. One week in the ICU. Two weeks in the hospital. Three months flat in bed in a full body brace. Six months in a half-brace. Twenty-five years of thinking—was it worth it? Maybe I finally have my answer.

And that’s how I found myself at 9:15 this morning face to face with yet another x-ray machine. Breasts innocently awaiting another blast of radiation.

This time I didn’t bother to ask about protection; obviously, it’s beside the point.

By this time next week, they will be gone.

Deep breath. Hold it. Let it go.

 

 

 

‘Cause One is the Loneliest Number

Because breast implants freak me out on every level and because I’m too thin (wow, did I really just write “too thin?” see, cancer is good for your self-esteem) for a TRAM flap–that’s when a plastic surgeon cuts a thick slab’o fat from your caboose (or elsewhere) and slaps it onto your chest –I found myself left with two stellar options: uniboob vs. no boobs.

Let’s talk about the singleton. I know plenty of women do and more power to ’em, but I just can’t image going solo. For starters, the asymmetry would drive me bonkers. A dozen years of non-stop yoga has left me freakishly in-tune with my body. What does that mean? Trust me, it’s not as fun as it sounds. Basically, my brain is constantly calibrating my body’s position, checking to see if things are centered, and gauging whether or not I’m using both sides evenly. (Yes, vacuuming is a bitch.) But before you judge me freakier than I really am, you should know that such hyper-awareness was borne of necessity. It’s my way of micro-managing the aches and pains of scoliosis.

Because my back curves in umpteen different directions, every day is a fruitless search for center. Until last month, my messed-up back was my “thing.” ‘Cause everyone needs to have one sucks-to-be-you health thing, right? Except me. Now I have two. Shit. Well, the point is that my obsession with symmetry means you won’t see me rocking the uniboob.

Oh, and before you talk to me about a prosthesis, keep in mind that handstands are vital to my sense of well being. Think about it. Fake boob. Tiny yoga top. Upside down. It ain’t pretty.