One month post surgery, here's how I am

Ok, the last blog was admittedly theoretical, but I am working to use all that we know about coping with uncertainty and transition and put it into practice during this uncertain transition for me. But people want to know how I am. So here goes.

I’m mixed. Ha! Don’t you feel well informed now?  Mostly I’m mixed trending to good, often to excellent. Some days are harder.  I am sore but nearly pain free (I take painkillers only at night) and I go for long walks with Melissa in the hills each day. I am back to working, which is so good for me. I have a full schedule of phone calls each day to design or coach or debrief the Leadership Circle, and I can feel my life lifted by these experiences. I laugh easily and often. I connect deeply with my clients and friends—maybe more deeply than I would have two months ago. I soak up the sunset and the calm still days and the blackberries in the park. I am learning to like green tea, as long as it’s mixed with some kind of citrus.

My body is coming back into shape though my reconstruction is not yet complete. (Good things come to those who wait?) Because the implant sits behind the chest muscle, it needs to be inflated over time. On Monday I flew to Auckland for the first of probably two such trips. It was the most surreal appointment I’ve ever had, as Stan found the valve he implanted under my skin and slowly, while chatting, pumped 50ccs of saline through a massive syringe and into a tube into the needle into my body. It looked everything like a bike tire pump. But I trust Stan and he takes my questions seriously and gives me straight answers.  He’s my favourite cancer doctor ever.

I have struggled more in the Wellington system and right now feel like I’m at a very confusing part of the decisions. We do in fact feel like a number in the bureaucracy of the public system—probably not different from what it feels like in an HMO in the US. It is hard to get the questions we have answered and between how busy they are and how busy I am these next three weeks, it looks almost impossible to sync up. Chemo is a clear go, and starts probably on the 24^th of March. Radiation is a question—two panels of oncologists have looked at my test results and recommended different things. The drugs after the chemo (or chemo and radiation) are a clear go—for five or ten years. I will need support getting through this storm.

I have had my last hair cut—which I love (if you’re in the Wellington region you should try the brilliant Rene at Renascence by the C). Rene knew that this is the last time I’ll cut my hair for a while—and that this is the cut from which the wig gets made, so it had to be good. Still, it was surreal to imagine that this cut might be my last hair cut for 8 months or a year, and that then I’ll emerge with spiky hair, shorter than I’ve ever had it before.  (I have had emails from those of you who have lost locks permanently and are now totally bald forever—and I happen to think bald men are beautiful—and I want you to know that I’m feeling your pain. And I’m utterly grateful that mine will grow back.)

My diet has shifted in some remarkable ways, instantly. I have given up refined sugar and white flour, just cold turkey. No cravings, no sadness. Sugar now terrifies me. I’ve always known it was poison, but now I know that cancer loves sugar and I am really not a fan of cancer.  I don’t mind eating chicken as much as I thought I would—if it’s your chicken or your life, that’s an easy equation (but I don’t cook with it or eat it with bones or anything).  I drink my carrot and ginger and plum juice with turmeric each day (cancer hates turmeric). I say dozens of times a day: “My body hates cancer and won’t grow it.” In the odd ecosystem of the breast (which is so hormonally active) cancer can grow. But cancer in your breast doesn’t kill you. In the rest of my body, I’m believing cancer won’t grow. And just in case, we’ll work on the diet and then toss the chemo and the drugs at it to be double sure. (I’m sure this diet will not be absolute, that I’ll indulge in birthday cake and delicious pastries again, but I bet I’ll never go back to the way I was.)

Mostly I live in a deep gratitude. I wake each day in the most spectacular place. I love the letters you send me when you are just thinking about me or thinking about something we have done together. (Even when I am too swamped to answer them all, I love them so much and read them again and again.) Aidan and Naomi are thriving in high school and doing really well generally. My dogs make me laugh. As long as I don’t give into the Bad Questions and dip into a cycle of despair, I am more open to love and delight than ever. And if it’s all tinged with a kind of bittersweet, that feels ultimately truthful. The bitter and the sweet create one another. Giving ourselves over into the fullness of it feels like it makes more things possible, feels like we’ll spend less of our time and energy forcing the dark away and just let it in, knowing that it’s frightening and sad as well as soothing and delightful.  These next six weeks are a contrast in opposites too. I’m off to Sydney next week and I’ll work like crazy for three weeks (mostly out of town, mostly swamped) and then come home and begin the long quiet chemo time. I am strong and I have a fabulous web of friends all around me, all around the world. Surely that will help me get through. Surely your strength and love become a part of me as my strength and love become a part of you. We make each other better. We can each work to make every day count. We can each work to be a little more open to the pain, which makes us a little more open to love. Drink your green tea, throw out your soda, and tell someone how much you love them, even if that’s a little frightening. This is the way we know we are alive.