There's a guy who used to play volleyball with my beach group--he was very good, better than pretty much anyone else who plays with us. (I am decidedly average, myself.) Unlike many people who give unwanted or unhelpful advice, he was good at pinpointing how someone could play better. One of his favorite comments was, "You have more time than you think you have."
He said it when a hard serve came over the net and someone (like me) spazzed toward it awkwardly, flailing and then shanking the ball far out of bounds. He said it when a low set sailed toward a post and someone (like me) jabbed at it, panicking, and hit the ball right into the net. He was always right, and it's one of the most helpful pieces of advice I've gotten. The better players have a lovely economy of motion, like Neo in The Matrix--realizing they have enough time to do what they need to do and do it calmly, which makes everything go better.
So why this volleyball reverie on a cancer blog? Because I'm going to assert that it's true for cancer, too: You have more time than you think you have. True as a philosophical statement, true on many levels. You have more time to make decisions in the very beginning--it's not necessary to rush into surgery in 3 days and rush into treatment after that. It's OK to take the time to make the decisions well. You may have more time in life than your diagnosis suggests, who knows; my aunt Sylvia lived for 11 years past her prognosis of 2. My grandma, who died of lung cancer, outlived her prognosis by a couple of years.
Perhaps most important, though, you have more time than you think you do right now. Cancer is easy to obsess over, but think of all the time it claims that way--time it takes away from living life.
It's a good mantra in general, I think. You have more time than you think you do.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Thursday, December 25, 2008
"Chaos" within a breast cancer cell
The New York Times publishes a short piece today about how cancer cells have their DNA rearranged in odd ways, and the graph below illustrates scientists' identification of that rearrangement in a breast cancer cell. I just think it looks cool.
Christmas
Tonight, we watched It's a Wonderful Life, from beginning to end. I haven't watched it that way for a long time. You see all the awkward editing cuts, you spot the few ludicrous moments (she swoons!), you really notice details like "Ernie and Bert," and where the end-credit logo for thirtysomething came from.
And yet that Capra optimism, that sweet message, can't be dimmed by its sincerity and lack of ironic distance. It is a wonderful life, just having it; having the cold winter rain outside and the warm blankets inside; having the family members who make you want to pull your hair out, because they are family members whom you love dearly and want the best for; having trivial frustrations that feel large, like a bump on your tongue, and then walking with your dog by the marina at sunset and watching pink-gold light flood the masts.
During chemo, I would gaze at my own hand sometimes, waving my fingers and thinking about the complex miracle of chemistry and consciousness that made the bones move and the tendons stretch. Of course, I was thinking about how that stops, someday. And that's part of what makes life wonderful, too: that it hasn't stopped yet.
I'm not a religious person, though I was raised celebrating Christmas, and each year the holiday does become a bit removed, for me, from its religious intentions. But this year, when our whole country has decided to unmoor it from commerce, when my household is giving gifts of water buffaloes and debt reduction, when we're quiet and contemplative and watching It's a Wonderful Life on Christmas Eve, the meaning creeps back in.
So let me wish everyone out there--those who know me, those who don't, those who are dealing with active cancer right now, those who are fervently hoping or praying it doesn't come back, those who have lost loved ones, those who are holding on to them--a deeply enriching and peaceful Christmas. I hope you have a day in which you can be fully alive, and rejoice in it.
And yet that Capra optimism, that sweet message, can't be dimmed by its sincerity and lack of ironic distance. It is a wonderful life, just having it; having the cold winter rain outside and the warm blankets inside; having the family members who make you want to pull your hair out, because they are family members whom you love dearly and want the best for; having trivial frustrations that feel large, like a bump on your tongue, and then walking with your dog by the marina at sunset and watching pink-gold light flood the masts.
During chemo, I would gaze at my own hand sometimes, waving my fingers and thinking about the complex miracle of chemistry and consciousness that made the bones move and the tendons stretch. Of course, I was thinking about how that stops, someday. And that's part of what makes life wonderful, too: that it hasn't stopped yet.
I'm not a religious person, though I was raised celebrating Christmas, and each year the holiday does become a bit removed, for me, from its religious intentions. But this year, when our whole country has decided to unmoor it from commerce, when my household is giving gifts of water buffaloes and debt reduction, when we're quiet and contemplative and watching It's a Wonderful Life on Christmas Eve, the meaning creeps back in.
So let me wish everyone out there--those who know me, those who don't, those who are dealing with active cancer right now, those who are fervently hoping or praying it doesn't come back, those who have lost loved ones, those who are holding on to them--a deeply enriching and peaceful Christmas. I hope you have a day in which you can be fully alive, and rejoice in it.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
What I Eat
I've promised many times to post my post-cancer diet. "Diet" is right and wrong; eating this way helped me lose almost 40 pounds (so far), but it's not about dieting the way our society tends to think of it, and it's not about being thin for vanity's sake. It's about a lifelong way of approaching food and nutrition so that these things are part of making me healthy (being thinner so that I don't have fat as a risk factor; exercising for even more risk reduction). It's about a changed relationship to food.
First and foremost, the idea is to eat as close to nature as possible. We hear all the time about the crazy toxins and contaminants in food. Even if you eat stuff right out of the garden, of course, who knows what jet fuels and refinery emissions have settled on your zucchini. So (as I ponder just below) no, there is no absolute control. However, we can do a whole lot by cutting down on overly processed foods, with their extra chemicals; and we can shift things so that most of the calories come from real nutrition, rather than from fillers or corn syrup.
The second major principle (really a cluster of principles) is about evidence-based practices--that is, using food in ways that solid research has shown to reduce cancer risk, specifically. Low fat (10-20% of calories only), high fiber (30-35g per day), lots of antioxidants (green tea, cinnamon, turmeric, cruciferous vegetables)--all of these have a central role.
It's funny, because at first it was enormously difficult for me to eat this way. Then it became a way of life. Then I kind of backslid, while teaching, out of laziness and a reversion to the "comfort foods" of old habit. Since my class ended, I've been pretty strict again (I tell Noah I'm "hitting the reset button") and it has been ridiculously easy. So it can be tough to start this kind of habit, but it's really not tough to maintain. (My comrade-in-cancer, though, who just finished chemo, utterly refused the nutritional oncology approach. As a trained chef, she has too much value for butter. I can certainly understand priorities. Who knows how long we have, and perhaps for some people a butter-less life is not as worth living!)
In any case, at long last, here's the basic outline. I'm skipping a lot of detail because the specifics of the diet are copyrighted by Rachel Beller, my nutritionist, but this will still tell you a lot.
Breakfast:
3/4 c bran cereal (Nature's Path Smart Bran is my favorite; Fiber One has the most fiber)
3/4 c almond milk
OR
1 c greek yogurt (fat free) w/1/2 t cinnamon
1 mini bran muffin
Snack:
something like fruit (1/2 banana, some blueberries, etc.)
Lunch:
vegetables (e.g., salad) and lean protein (e.g., fish)
For example: large (3-4c lettuce + other veggies) salad with salmon, using plain balsamic vinegar as a dressing; or perhaps using a locally-made dressing called Galeo's miso caesar, which tastes amazing and is super low-fat. (Commercial nonfat dressings are a no-no because of chemicals.)
Snack:
tomato soup (no cream) or gazpacho, raw veggies, etc.
Dinner:
vegetables, lean protein, salad, soup
For example: 2-3 lbs grilled veggies (asparagus, broccoli, chard), grilled halibut, side salad and miso soup
Snack:
yogurt, popcorn, or something else
It's pretty plain when written out like this, but it really leaves a lot of flexibility in terms of preparations, seasonings; I can have Indian or Mexican or Italian or Chinese food this way, as long as I watch out for the fats and privilege veggies and fish above bread or cheese.
Anyway, at long last there is the basic diet, and I hope it is somewhat helpful for someone out there!
First and foremost, the idea is to eat as close to nature as possible. We hear all the time about the crazy toxins and contaminants in food. Even if you eat stuff right out of the garden, of course, who knows what jet fuels and refinery emissions have settled on your zucchini. So (as I ponder just below) no, there is no absolute control. However, we can do a whole lot by cutting down on overly processed foods, with their extra chemicals; and we can shift things so that most of the calories come from real nutrition, rather than from fillers or corn syrup.
The second major principle (really a cluster of principles) is about evidence-based practices--that is, using food in ways that solid research has shown to reduce cancer risk, specifically. Low fat (10-20% of calories only), high fiber (30-35g per day), lots of antioxidants (green tea, cinnamon, turmeric, cruciferous vegetables)--all of these have a central role.
It's funny, because at first it was enormously difficult for me to eat this way. Then it became a way of life. Then I kind of backslid, while teaching, out of laziness and a reversion to the "comfort foods" of old habit. Since my class ended, I've been pretty strict again (I tell Noah I'm "hitting the reset button") and it has been ridiculously easy. So it can be tough to start this kind of habit, but it's really not tough to maintain. (My comrade-in-cancer, though, who just finished chemo, utterly refused the nutritional oncology approach. As a trained chef, she has too much value for butter. I can certainly understand priorities. Who knows how long we have, and perhaps for some people a butter-less life is not as worth living!)
In any case, at long last, here's the basic outline. I'm skipping a lot of detail because the specifics of the diet are copyrighted by Rachel Beller, my nutritionist, but this will still tell you a lot.
Breakfast:
3/4 c bran cereal (Nature's Path Smart Bran is my favorite; Fiber One has the most fiber)
3/4 c almond milk
OR
1 c greek yogurt (fat free) w/1/2 t cinnamon
1 mini bran muffin
Snack:
something like fruit (1/2 banana, some blueberries, etc.)
Lunch:
vegetables (e.g., salad) and lean protein (e.g., fish)
For example: large (3-4c lettuce + other veggies) salad with salmon, using plain balsamic vinegar as a dressing; or perhaps using a locally-made dressing called Galeo's miso caesar, which tastes amazing and is super low-fat. (Commercial nonfat dressings are a no-no because of chemicals.)
Snack:
tomato soup (no cream) or gazpacho, raw veggies, etc.
Dinner:
vegetables, lean protein, salad, soup
For example: 2-3 lbs grilled veggies (asparagus, broccoli, chard), grilled halibut, side salad and miso soup
Snack:
yogurt, popcorn, or something else
It's pretty plain when written out like this, but it really leaves a lot of flexibility in terms of preparations, seasonings; I can have Indian or Mexican or Italian or Chinese food this way, as long as I watch out for the fats and privilege veggies and fish above bread or cheese.
Anyway, at long last there is the basic diet, and I hope it is somewhat helpful for someone out there!
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Control
Watching a close family member deal with the early days of cancer treatment is reminding me of cancer's biggest lesson: You Are Not In Control.
Those first few days and weeks were mind-numbing (or head-spinning; or both). You don't have enough information to make decisions, but you have to make decisions immediately. You are tasked with quarterbacking your own medical care though you do not have the lifetime of learning and experience that your doctors have. You must choose between providers without knowing what defines quality, or how it's measured. There is absolutely no way to find a shortcut solution to the months of pain and fear and difficulty that await you; and once treatment starts and you're pumped full of poisons and you're thrown vehemently off balance by nausea or bone pain or sadness or dying cells, there is exactly nothing that you can do that restores that balance until time and healing take their own natural courses.
I have always been a person who saw exactly what I wanted in any situation, and could figure out pretty quickly how to attain it. I am not passive. I confront, I pursue, I accomplish.
But cancer doesn't care about any of this. It laughs at initiative, scoffs at competence. The most painful loss in cancer is the loss of belief in control. Unlike a body part, removed surgically and cleanly under anesthesia, control is ripped away painfully--bloody and ragged and unwilling.
Recovering from cancer restores some of the illusion of control, but I gotta tell you, it is now impossible to revert to the full belief. There are situations happening in my life--I so wish I could share them, but for so many different reasons, and to protect so many different people, I simply can't. But I face these difficult situations and all I can see is that every alternative is fraught and imperfect, and there is exactly nothing that I can do to sidestep all pain and trouble. Perhaps I'd have learned this lesson without cancer. But I learned it with cancer, and life just keeps reviewing the lesson.
Those first few days and weeks were mind-numbing (or head-spinning; or both). You don't have enough information to make decisions, but you have to make decisions immediately. You are tasked with quarterbacking your own medical care though you do not have the lifetime of learning and experience that your doctors have. You must choose between providers without knowing what defines quality, or how it's measured. There is absolutely no way to find a shortcut solution to the months of pain and fear and difficulty that await you; and once treatment starts and you're pumped full of poisons and you're thrown vehemently off balance by nausea or bone pain or sadness or dying cells, there is exactly nothing that you can do that restores that balance until time and healing take their own natural courses.
I have always been a person who saw exactly what I wanted in any situation, and could figure out pretty quickly how to attain it. I am not passive. I confront, I pursue, I accomplish.
But cancer doesn't care about any of this. It laughs at initiative, scoffs at competence. The most painful loss in cancer is the loss of belief in control. Unlike a body part, removed surgically and cleanly under anesthesia, control is ripped away painfully--bloody and ragged and unwilling.
Recovering from cancer restores some of the illusion of control, but I gotta tell you, it is now impossible to revert to the full belief. There are situations happening in my life--I so wish I could share them, but for so many different reasons, and to protect so many different people, I simply can't. But I face these difficult situations and all I can see is that every alternative is fraught and imperfect, and there is exactly nothing that I can do to sidestep all pain and trouble. Perhaps I'd have learned this lesson without cancer. But I learned it with cancer, and life just keeps reviewing the lesson.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
The Case of the Disappearing Cancer
I've been sent articles several times already about this Norwegian study that concluded that some breast (and other) cancers may spontaneously disappear, without treatment. I don't really have much comment of my own, because before I could really think deeply about the study, I read this fantastic response by a "skeptical OB-GYN," who writes a terrific, point-by-point analysis. Some highlights:
The study only looks at incidence of cancer. It does not look at outcome and life expectancy. If it turns out that the women in the study group have a much lower incidence of death from breast cancer, because they are treated early and aggressively, it will justify the apparent over diagnosis of breast cancer.And,
there is no way to tell the difference on mammography, or by any other technique, between the cancers that will disappear and the ones that will go on and kill the woman.To me, these two quotes really say everything we need to know at this point. However, as winter comes and my summer tan fades, and I note in the mirror greater evidence of the premature aging effects of chemo; as I read on the web that a close family member's kind of lung cancer is often treated with Taxol, and I think back on the bone pain and the horrible allergic reactions; as I think about the months of my life "lost" to sitting miserably on the couch; as I think of the awfulness that is cancer treatment, I certainly hope that researchers follow up on this study and find a way to make the important distinctions. Let's get rid of chemo for anyone for whom we can!
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
"Good" cancers
I've been gone for a long time. Mostly that is because of work--I've had a highly absorbing course to plan and then start teaching. I'm still in the midst of it, and it leaves little time for anything else. A little less, it's because I reached a point of feeling exhausted by the constant recognition of being a cancer survivor. It'll probably never be possible to see cancer as something that happened in the past, like that one embarrassing drunken night in college with my guy friend, which the two of us immediately pretended never happened; or the period of my life when I was unable to have an effective argument because I'd lose track of the logical flow of speech. Those things will never happen again. Cancer might.
Anyway, on that topic (somewhat), here's a blog piece that appeared in the NY Times today, by a guy with prostate cancer who rails against the notion of "good" cancer.
And let me just send a shout-out to a loved one who also has prostate cancer, but on top of that is in the hospital recovering from surgery for lung cancer, which most people would decidedly not call a "good" cancer. He is enormously healthy and I think he is as likely as anyone to beat cancer down again. (He had it once before, over 4 years ago, and was treated successfully with surgery--this is a new primary cancer, not a recurrence.) But again, cancer sucks. It just sucks. It keeps hitting all these damn people I care about, and even if they (we) survive, it still takes things away. Months... Years... Lungs... Breasts... And any illusion that any part of life is the smallest bit fair.
I want to end on that angry note, but I can't. I'm also enormously excited and have to acknowledge the election of Barack Obama. This is a man whose mother and grandmother both died of cancer. He knows the cost. In his infomercial, he said that his mother's death taught him that you have to seize opportunities when they happen, and suggested that that's one reason why he chose to run for President so early. He has a lot of critical priorities and I don't know where cancer falls on his list, but I can't help but feel hope, that this President really understands what a scourge cancer is, and how unfair and brutal it is, and how we absolutely must defeat it. Now that's a war I can get behind.
Anyway, on that topic (somewhat), here's a blog piece that appeared in the NY Times today, by a guy with prostate cancer who rails against the notion of "good" cancer.
And let me just send a shout-out to a loved one who also has prostate cancer, but on top of that is in the hospital recovering from surgery for lung cancer, which most people would decidedly not call a "good" cancer. He is enormously healthy and I think he is as likely as anyone to beat cancer down again. (He had it once before, over 4 years ago, and was treated successfully with surgery--this is a new primary cancer, not a recurrence.) But again, cancer sucks. It just sucks. It keeps hitting all these damn people I care about, and even if they (we) survive, it still takes things away. Months... Years... Lungs... Breasts... And any illusion that any part of life is the smallest bit fair.
I want to end on that angry note, but I can't. I'm also enormously excited and have to acknowledge the election of Barack Obama. This is a man whose mother and grandmother both died of cancer. He knows the cost. In his infomercial, he said that his mother's death taught him that you have to seize opportunities when they happen, and suggested that that's one reason why he chose to run for President so early. He has a lot of critical priorities and I don't know where cancer falls on his list, but I can't help but feel hope, that this President really understands what a scourge cancer is, and how unfair and brutal it is, and how we absolutely must defeat it. Now that's a war I can get behind.
Saturday, September 06, 2008
There's a new ad on my blog
Look in the right-hand column. See the bobbing head? (I am not wild about that, but it came with animation, so there we are.)
Ryan, a Hodgins lymphoma survivor, took the lemons of his cancer diagnosis and made lemonade--and lemon hats, lemon shirts, lemon coffee mugs... Seriously, I like the irreverent attitude and non-pinkness of this swag, so if you or your cancer-stricken/cancer-surviving loved ones are looking for the perfect statement, go buy from Ryan. (I don't even get a cut!!)
Here's the one I'm planning to get (clickable image):
Ryan, a Hodgins lymphoma survivor, took the lemons of his cancer diagnosis and made lemonade--and lemon hats, lemon shirts, lemon coffee mugs... Seriously, I like the irreverent attitude and non-pinkness of this swag, so if you or your cancer-stricken/cancer-surviving loved ones are looking for the perfect statement, go buy from Ryan. (I don't even get a cut!!)
Here's the one I'm planning to get (clickable image):
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Almost unimaginable
When I was first diagnosed, my oncologist talked seriously with Noah and me about whether we wanted to have children. Chemo often puts women around my age--late 30s and up--into early menopause. Sometimes it's temporary, just during treatment (as it turned out in my case); other times, it just keeps going after treatment.
We were advised to consider carefully whether we wanted to pursue egg harvesting or in vitro before I started chemo. It took about 2 seconds to decide that no, if the dice rolled that way, we were perfectly willing to adopt one of the many children out there needing a family and a better life; let's get going and cure me now, thank you.
As easy as that decision was for me, I'm sure it's quite tough for many women. And it seems unimaginably agonizing to think of learning you have breast cancer while you're already pregnant. The NY Times' latest thought-provoking breast cancer article is a long piece about the current state of treatment. It's really amazing--it appears that pregnant mothers can receive chemo through most of pregnancy without apparent harm to the developing child. Nonetheless, the depiction of new mothers--having just given birth, dealing with a newborn, and now going through more rounds of chemo--just makes me shudder. It is hard to go through cancer treatment. I stand and salute the women who do it with that much more at stake, and that much more to make it tough!
We were advised to consider carefully whether we wanted to pursue egg harvesting or in vitro before I started chemo. It took about 2 seconds to decide that no, if the dice rolled that way, we were perfectly willing to adopt one of the many children out there needing a family and a better life; let's get going and cure me now, thank you.
As easy as that decision was for me, I'm sure it's quite tough for many women. And it seems unimaginably agonizing to think of learning you have breast cancer while you're already pregnant. The NY Times' latest thought-provoking breast cancer article is a long piece about the current state of treatment. It's really amazing--it appears that pregnant mothers can receive chemo through most of pregnancy without apparent harm to the developing child. Nonetheless, the depiction of new mothers--having just given birth, dealing with a newborn, and now going through more rounds of chemo--just makes me shudder. It is hard to go through cancer treatment. I stand and salute the women who do it with that much more at stake, and that much more to make it tough!
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Role Models and Broken Records
I was really surprised, and then really happy, to see that Christina Applegate is being so open about her response to her breast cancer. In case you've been on a desert island for the past few days--her mom struggled with breast cancer, surviving it twice, and Christina tested positive for the BRCA-1 gene. This puts her at high risk for getting breast cancer again in the future, so she opted for a double mastectomy, and then went on a morning talk show to tell the world about it.
As a starlet prized for her appearance, this has to be tough, but her attitude is great. And I just love the message it sends to all women who face the reduction or removal of breasts as a result of this disease: You don't have to be ashamed, you don't have to feel invalidated, and your life is far more important than your boobs. Oh, and along with those other women rushing out to buy fake ones anyway, remember you'll have perky ones in the nursing home.
It's no less traumatic to face a mastectomy, I'm sure, just because a celebrity has talked about hers. But it's just one more area of life in which we don't have to be silent, to hide in shame; we can speak out and own our experience, and know that we are still worthwhile and valuable even though something has been taken from us. Damn right!
Finally, I've said it before and I will keep hollering about it: We can cut our risk enormously by just watching what we eat and really exercising. Apparently most Americans already know this, and yet we're still not doing it. Watch a slightly fluffy treatment of the topic by CNN's Sanjay Gupta:
(It's looking like the embed might not be working; if not, here's the link.)
Now, I know it's hard. After losing 37 pounds post-treatment, I recently gained 6 of them back, and now I am having to watch my food strictly once more. (Exercise I have covered, with beach volleyball--go USA!!--at least 6 hours a week.) As I forego bread and use balsamic vinegar in place of salad dressing, I feel some pain. But a) eating healthfully is a lot more fun than going through chemo; and b) my life is too important not to do it!
Edited to add: I've already gotten rid of 3 of the 6, in just a few days. Yay.
As a starlet prized for her appearance, this has to be tough, but her attitude is great. And I just love the message it sends to all women who face the reduction or removal of breasts as a result of this disease: You don't have to be ashamed, you don't have to feel invalidated, and your life is far more important than your boobs. Oh, and along with those other women rushing out to buy fake ones anyway, remember you'll have perky ones in the nursing home.
It's no less traumatic to face a mastectomy, I'm sure, just because a celebrity has talked about hers. But it's just one more area of life in which we don't have to be silent, to hide in shame; we can speak out and own our experience, and know that we are still worthwhile and valuable even though something has been taken from us. Damn right!
Finally, I've said it before and I will keep hollering about it: We can cut our risk enormously by just watching what we eat and really exercising. Apparently most Americans already know this, and yet we're still not doing it. Watch a slightly fluffy treatment of the topic by CNN's Sanjay Gupta:
(It's looking like the embed might not be working; if not, here's the link.)
Now, I know it's hard. After losing 37 pounds post-treatment, I recently gained 6 of them back, and now I am having to watch my food strictly once more. (Exercise I have covered, with beach volleyball--go USA!!--at least 6 hours a week.) As I forego bread and use balsamic vinegar in place of salad dressing, I feel some pain. But a) eating healthfully is a lot more fun than going through chemo; and b) my life is too important not to do it!
Edited to add: I've already gotten rid of 3 of the 6, in just a few days. Yay.
Monday, August 18, 2008
A-ha...It's a theme
Following up on my post from a few days ago: Today, salon.com's advice columnist replies to a letter-writer who, in her 30s, has survived cancer and isn't sure she wants to go back to her exact pre-cancer life. It must be really tough to be filled with a fire for living and have everyone else standing around you with buckets.
The letters section already has a little debate going (and, as of this writing, there are only 5 or 6 letters). Should she do what she wants, bucket brigade be damned, in the spirit of living her life to the fullest? Or should she rein in those impulses, recognize the precious gift that is a community of loved ones in her life, and accept some limitations in exchange for those ties that bind her to others and to this world? It's a hard question, and heck if I know the answer.
The letters section already has a little debate going (and, as of this writing, there are only 5 or 6 letters). Should she do what she wants, bucket brigade be damned, in the spirit of living her life to the fullest? Or should she rein in those impulses, recognize the precious gift that is a community of loved ones in her life, and accept some limitations in exchange for those ties that bind her to others and to this world? It's a hard question, and heck if I know the answer.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Exercise, again
And again, the NY Times. Today, an article about the benefits of exercise for those undergoing treatment.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Who I was/Who I am
The NY Times, in its ongoing fabulousness, has an article today about coping with identity changes, and I love it.
Two quotes in particular stand out. First,
This is so true. And once the critical illness is over, the permission fades. You were allowed to deviate, given lots of leeway, even permitted to say NO to things and to live your life to maximize health rather than busy-ness. But as time passes, people stop thinking that you are delicate and must be handled with care; they start thinking it's time you stopped whining and started being like everyone else again.
The other quote I loved:
I alluded to this in an early blog post. At first, I wanted so much to maintain my professional identity, to be the smart, strong person who just happens to be going through cancer treatment. I didn't want to be like those grey, wispy, shadowed people sitting in the waiting room in their headscarfs and their wheelchairs. When I had surgery and couldn't wash my own hair, it was hard to accept help because it just drove home my incapability. When I couldn't walk outside for a full half hour at a time, I felt the loss of my physicality more than I had ever felt its presence.
What the writer doesn't say, and what happened too slowly for me to watch, is that you really can go back to something like your old life, and leave that self-loss behind; but it's almost like a projection of your old life, one rendered in all the same colors and moving in the same patterns, but against a different screen, parallel to the old but never quite touching.
I actually have to fight with myself not to just go the straight denial route, and turn my back on the truth that I had cancer, and ignore anything to do with cancer. Someone close in my social circle just started chemo (her first treatment was on the 2-year anniversary of my last treatment). It is surprisingly hard for me to see her go through this, in part because I just want to deny, deny, deny; and, unexpectedly, her reality becomes a constant undercurrent for me, reminding me of what I experienced and what I am as a result.
Two quotes in particular stand out. First,
A critical illness is like a great permission, an authorization or absolving. It’s all right for a threatened man to be romantic, even crazy, if he feels like it. All your life you think you have to hold back your craziness, but when you’re sick you can let it go in all its garish colors.
This is so true. And once the critical illness is over, the permission fades. You were allowed to deviate, given lots of leeway, even permitted to say NO to things and to live your life to maximize health rather than busy-ness. But as time passes, people stop thinking that you are delicate and must be handled with care; they start thinking it's time you stopped whining and started being like everyone else again.
The other quote I loved:
I wanted to be someone, a recognizable personality, a full-blooded, memorable human being, and not just a cancer patient. I had already lost the person I used to be, that healthy, energetic 45-year-old woman. I wasn’t capable of losing more. Other friends had their own spins on claiming individuality in the cancer world.
I alluded to this in an early blog post. At first, I wanted so much to maintain my professional identity, to be the smart, strong person who just happens to be going through cancer treatment. I didn't want to be like those grey, wispy, shadowed people sitting in the waiting room in their headscarfs and their wheelchairs. When I had surgery and couldn't wash my own hair, it was hard to accept help because it just drove home my incapability. When I couldn't walk outside for a full half hour at a time, I felt the loss of my physicality more than I had ever felt its presence.
What the writer doesn't say, and what happened too slowly for me to watch, is that you really can go back to something like your old life, and leave that self-loss behind; but it's almost like a projection of your old life, one rendered in all the same colors and moving in the same patterns, but against a different screen, parallel to the old but never quite touching.
I actually have to fight with myself not to just go the straight denial route, and turn my back on the truth that I had cancer, and ignore anything to do with cancer. Someone close in my social circle just started chemo (her first treatment was on the 2-year anniversary of my last treatment). It is surprisingly hard for me to see her go through this, in part because I just want to deny, deny, deny; and, unexpectedly, her reality becomes a constant undercurrent for me, reminding me of what I experienced and what I am as a result.
Sunday, August 03, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
What Not to Say
Wow, this is a great summary of how to interact with people who have cancer--and it was posted on Craigslist, of all places! Craigslist is totally tha bomb.
I found it thanks to the Imagine Bright Futures blog, one I haven't linked to previously--but will.
I found it thanks to the Imagine Bright Futures blog, one I haven't linked to previously--but will.
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