Nope, I really can't raise my arms like that

I was asked on Knitters with Breast Cancer to detail the issues I've dealt with since my mastectomy, and as I prepared to head over here and write this entry, I stopped by Facebook. Kathi of The Accidental Amazon had shared the above picture, with a link to Feisty Blue Gecko's Unbelievable, a post about, as Kathi says, "The latest in tacky, ill-conceived, wrong-headed marketing exploitation." To paraphrase Feistyblue, many of us cannot go braless OR wave our arms in the air like that, so way to rub it in our faces, marketing people! In fact, I just returned home a couple hours ago from having an injection in my left shoulder for yet another impingement (I went through it with my right shoulder last year). No way I'm even gonna try that pose.

As always, Kathi writes beautifully about many of the issues mastectomy patients deal with: Arm and Shoulder Pain After Breast Cancer. I've had many of those myself. 

So, without further ado, my list of crap I've dealt with since I had surgery to remove both my breasts on February 8, 2012. They aren't in chronological order, but I'll try to delineate which have improved/resolved, and which are ongoing, as well as what treatment I had for each. Also, remember that not everyone experiences all, or even part, of what I have - I tend to be a "worst case" in part due to other health issues. But the things I'm dealing with are NOT uncommon!!!

Keep in mind that I was never told about a single one of these before my surgery. Not even a hint.

• Axillary Web Cording/Syndrome - extensive physical therapy for nearly 4 months. The cording isn't gone, but is substantially better. I rarely get electric "zings" down my arm these days.
• Shoulder Impingement Syndrome in my right shoulder - again, PT, which was concurrent with the therapy for cording. It's considerably better, but not gone; as I stated above I've just gone through diagnostics for my left shoulder including an MRI and an injection (which I also had in my right shoulder last year). PT will follow soon. Again. 
• Post-mastectomy Pain Syndrome (PMPS) - improved, but not resolved. My symptoms include phantom pain and itching (I say phantom, because I have little to no sensation in the areas that hurt and/or itch), and the above issues. Acupuncture helped tremendously, but I still have it on and off. And when it's on, IT'S ON. If you've ever had an itch that won't go away, multiply that by a thousand and then stick it in a place you cannot feel. It will seriously drive you crazy, and doctors DO NOT discuss it.
• Hypersensitivity in my chest and below the bra line where numbness transitions to so-called "normal" sensations. 
• Numbness in the reconstructed area (what you might call "breasts" or "foobs"). That was the ONLY thing I was told about before surgery. And while I was told, absolutely nothing prepared me for its reality or the psychological effects of losing a major erogenous zone. I also have numbness around my bellybutton from the reconstruction, since after the TRAM/DIEP they (sorry to be graphic) basically hauled all that skin up and moved my bellybutton. I have the same hypersensitivity on the borders of that area as I do in my chest. I never know when something's going to touch me in the wrong place and trigger the hypersensitivity, the pain, or the itch. It could be a hug, a touch, or even the fabric of my clothes.
• Pain in my lower abdomen from that part of the surgery. That's resolved now; it took time but no therapy was needed.
• Lymphedema. Oh, lymphedema! Many people know about the compression sleeves that help with axillary lymphedema from mastectomies; I wear one on my right arm. I occasionally need a gauntlet for that hand when I'm really puffy (I call my lymphedema "puffer fish" - because it changes like one, with the pain being the fish's spines). But most people don't know about truncal lymphedema, which I also have. I have it in my right upper chest, my "foobs," my torso, and the left side of my lower abdomen. I'm having custom compression garments made that will amount to a pair of bike shorts and a tank top, but don't think they're glamorous - they are really ugly, and the top had to be redone because the first one showed under pretty much every shirt I own except high-necked t-shirts, which I don't care for, and wearing clothes I like is a major thing I don't want to give up, nor should I have to! Until they're ready I wear a full Spanx, and yes, that makes going to the bathroom a challenge. But I cannot go braless without pain, and regular bras aggravate the lymphedema just below my bra line something awful. I own a long-line mastectomy bra that I wear sometimes, but those were not developed with comfort in mind! I sleep in an Under Armour compression t-shirt that holds a Pitpak in place in my right axilla to keep the swelling down overnight. I am so very sexy these days, with the lymphedema garments, all the scars, and knowing that touches can trigger extreme discomfort and pain at any time. I had a month of daily PT and have at-home exercises and MLD now, which admittedly I am not doing daily, but more on an as-needed basis.

Told you I'd be back if I thought of more: 

• Sternal pain. For the first year or so, my sternum ached almost constantly. Like a dull toothache pain that never completely went away. It took time and is finally better, although occasionally it returns for a day or so.
• Lower/mid-back pain from the TRAM/DIEP: it took me two weeks to stand fully upright. I was amazed when I first woke up from surgery how badly my back hurt; that was the absolute worst part of the early days for me. I would just cry from how horrible that pain was. While it did eventually improve on its own, I wish I'd been warned how awful it would be.
• The feeling I'm wearing a tight harness around my chest. I'm told this is almost universal to those who've had mastectomies; my plastic surgeon said that they can't really study whether it improves or whether we just get used to it. I get it now when I go braless, which is why I can't, because why would I willingly subject myself to that pain?

Some of these things can happen after lumpectomy and radiation, but I can only speak from my own experience with a simple (vs. radical - there's nothing simple about all this), skin-sparing double mastectomy. Also, I haven't really touched on the psychological crap, though I should write that post soon.

Monday's trip, depression, and a pinktober article

I was just too tired to post the results of my day at UAB yesterday. That trip wears me out - not just the 8 hours in the car, but the tests and, frankly, just walking into the clinic. We hit the breezeway that leads from the parking garage to the clinic and I felt the anxiety start creeping in. I felt the shakes, the tears, the "nonononoIwanttogohomepleasedon'tmakemegointhere" voice start. It's an act of sheer stubborn will (and clinging to Andy's hand) that allows me to keep putting one foot in front of the other in that place.

I had my MRI, and let me tell you, IT HURT. Remember my recent trip to the ER and diagnosis of costochondritis? Apparently even though my sternum doesn't hurt constantly and it doesn't seem to be taking the predicted 6 weeks to resolve, lying on a bed that has holes to drop the boobs into, meaning a hard thing between them is where your weight goes, isn't as fun as one might imagine. When it was time to get up, my sternum, chest and back hurt so badly that Andy had to come in and help me get dressed. I was in tears not only from the pain, but also because I'm sick of this. I'm sick of being screened for cancer (apparently having the most aggressive surgery for cancer that was caught as early as mine exempts you from nothing when it comes to screenings), sick of it hurting, sick of it causing such horrible anxiety.

The good news is that the MRI ruled out any recurrence. I really do "just" have costochondritis, and I'm good for another 6 months. I have two small cysts, one in each breast, that haven't changed (I didn't even know they were there), and are of no concern.

Yesterday I had the MRI on my shoulder; I'll get those results Monday when I see my orthopedist. There is a chance it's related to my mastectomy, as my other shoulder was when it was impinged.

So, if I have no recurrence and my shoulder problem is not cancer, riddle me this: why am I depressed? Why am I still close to tears (though at least the anxiety has dissipated), having weird dreams, and feeling so down I can't be bothered to accomplish much?

I'll tell you why: because as I said above, I'm sick of it all. I'm sick of finding more long-term issues that nobody told me could happen (hello, shoulder, I'm talking to you), I'm sick of the anxiety, I'm sick of the drive to UAB, I'm sick of pinktober, I'm sick of knowing that there are those who really wish I'd just move on and not mention having had cancer. I had it, I live with its aftermath, and while at some point it may move to a different part of my brain, right now it's really close to my mouth and out it comes. It's not my job to keep others comfortable about my cancer.

So, that's where we are right now. Today I'm going to have a treat day: I'm going to Sephora (oh, someone protect my wallet), then to get a manicure, then to Wednesday knit night, which I've missed since August.

I leave you with this article: Why #Pinktober consumerism makes this breast cancer survivor uneasy - I didn't write it, but I could have, right down to the disbelief and, yes, guilt, that comes with not needing radiation or chemo.

Inspiration - but not the fun kind

It's been awhile - almost a year, to be exact, but I'm inspired again. Inspired by the influx of new folks to Knitters With Breast Cancer, my online support group, and realizing that things haven't changed much as they struggle with the exact same decisions and issues that I did when I was newly diagnosed. I'm inspired by the much-dreaded pinktober's early start, with its pink awareness crap in everyone's faces. I'm inspired by tomorrow's visit to UAB for a 6-month oncology check and my first post-cancer MRI. I'm inspired by too many BC sisters who are dealing with recurrence and are now considered stage 4/metastatic, and the knowledge that MBC is desperately underfunded and that's where we need to point our breast cancer awareness. I'm inspired by being diagnosed with lymphedema, which both my oncologist and my plastic surgeon missed (and which is a whole 'nother post). So lots of inspiration, none of which I particularly want.

Last Sunday I had an ER scare. I had sudden, sharp pain in my sternum, along with nausea and dizziness. After a couple hours of tests, I was sent home with a diagnosis of costochondritis. While this is likely the case, two things scare me: the first, this was my friend Brenda's original diagnosis before they discovered that her pain was due to cancer in her sternum, and second, it came on suddenly and resolved within about 48 hours, which isn't the norm (though when I've ever been the norm I have no idea). I'm told the MRI "sees" the chest and sternum, so if there's anything going on I'll know by tomorrow afternoon. In addition, I found a lump in my shoulder, which my orthopedist says is likely something-or-other with my acromioclavicular (AC) joint - basically an injury (except I didn't injure it). I have an MRI for that on Tuesday; he said that while he'd always do an MRI, with my history it's vital. If it sees what he expects, an injection may be all the treatment I need. I'm just so tired of there always being something, and while that's been the case much of my life, post-cancer everything carries a much heavier weight.

Most people consider going to the doctor when something hurts or changes. Sometimes we dismiss it because we're getting older, or it's just a cold, etc. But here’s the thing: for those of us who have/had cancer, it's completely different. We are forever changed - we've lost an innocence we didn't know we had and gained fears that, while time may dull somewhat, will never go away. We all cope a little differently, but we all experience the fear. Logic doesn't help, things like "the odds are..." don't help, and pats and "there there, it'll be fine" doesn't help. My coping strategies for this new normal are things like pajama days, antidepressants, copious amounts of knitting and crochet, tears (I wasn't much of a crier before), fun-colored hair, a comfort blanket that I knit myself, sleeping with my stuffed llama and unicorn (both gifts from my son), and allowing myself to FEEL, even when it’s not “socially acceptable” and others want me to be positive and move on. I do the best I can, and while it may not be “enough” sometimes, it’s what I have. I also subscribe to The Spoon Theory because right now, I have very few emotional spoons and I am gonna be damned selfish about how I use the ones I do have.

I'll have more to say in the coming month - about how to talk to people with invisible illnesses (and post-cancer definitely qualifies), about ways to actually help during pinktober, and links to articles and other bloggers who really "get it." In the meantime, I'm going back to my yarn and hanging with my boys, so I can get through the time til we leave for the long drive to Birmingham in the wee hours of tomorrow morning.

One year today

A year ago this exact minute, Andy and I were sitting in the waiting room of my surgeon, waiting (as you do in such places). Waiting to hear confirmation that the tissue removed during my biopsy was, in fact, scar tissue. We waited so long, and I was so nervous I couldn't even knit. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew. I won't retell the whole thing, as it's here. But oh, how much I remember Dr. Stewart's face when he came in. How he slowly sat down and said "unfortunately, we've found some carcinoma." How Andy took an involuntary step backward, then put his hand on my back. How the whole room felt as though it tilted on its side, and all the air was sucked out. Yeah, I remember. Endless sleepless nights spent crying. Trying to keep from waking Andy, yet somehow he always knew, even when I would go into the living room and rock, trying to sob silently. Holding it together in public, for the most part. Having to tell people. How nearly impossible those words were in the first, early days - "I have cancer." Then how they would spill out at improbable and sometimes inappropriate times, as though once my lips tasted the truth they could no longer contain their poison. "I have cancer." Cancer. That loaded word. The one that seems to cause others to need to distance themselves, as though negating their own risk.

In that year I've been through my own personal hell. I've had my entire torso rearranged, gone through indescribable pain (both physical and mental), and begun the long, slow process of putting myself and my life back together. I'm still dealing with complications from surgery - phantom pain and maddening itching of the reconstructed breasts, median nerve irritation, axillary web syndrome, and shoulder impingement on my right side, numbness around my belly button, and constant fatigue. I am coming to realize how much stamina I've lost, and it's going to be a long process to rebuild that.

I've also learned more about myself and the world around me than I could have imagined. I've made new friends and learned things about my existing friends and family. I've discovered a well of strength I never even dreamed I possessed. Through all this, while I've had days when it seemed as though I couldn't stop crying, I've never broken down in public. I've never told off someone who made inappropriate comments, never asked someone to please stop telling stories I'd rather not hear, never (at least I don't think), been rude even when inside I was screaming.

Today, I have finished 4 months of physical therapy for the complications (though I will have home exercises for a long, long time). I have finished all treatment except the touch-ups on my areola tattoos, and I only have to return to Birmingham every 6 months for checkups with my oncologist.

I have made huge changes, and I am sane and stable, something I never thought I'd be able to say. I am not nearly as reactionary as I used to be; cancer is so huge, and with everything I've had to deal with, most things now are so trivial that they can't compare. I sport brightly-colored bangs, jeans that fit (and look great, if I say so myself), and don't care so much what others think. I'm learning to LIKE myself. Andy and I are closer than ever, which I didn't think was possible after nearly 20 years together.

I just answered a friend's message with these words: "The glass IS full, not just half. I am so very different, and while I will never see cancer as a gift, or believe that the changes are worth what it took to get here, I can still embrace them. In some ways, that lack of certainty makes every second that much more precious."

Brain reboot, with pictures!

Recently I was sick. Actually, I was *really* sick. Like, if I hadn't had my own nebulizer, I'd have been at the ER Saturday before last. My doc stopped short of Dx'ing pneumonia, as he didn't want to bother with a chest xray when it wasn't going to change the treatment. 

So I lost about a week and a half to this bug. I was nearly bedridden the whole time, so basically I slept, coughed, and watched a lot of mindless TV. I barely even knit.

It's almost like this forced rest caused a reboot to my brain, and in a way, to the universe. As I started to improve last Thursday/Friday, all sorts of amazing things started to happen. The first was that I got an etsy convo from the owner of Mrs. Hudson's Yarns and Teas in Bellinham, WA, asking if I could do wholesale. I mathed (all by myself!), took out the fees I pay to etsy and PayPal, did multiplication, etc. and realized that YES, I can. I was pretty amazed by that, let me tell you. So we back and forthed for a few days - she's pretty cool - and in the end, she's ordering enough that when I added up the number of individual pieces (she's ordering sets of stitchmarkers), I realized there are 300 to be made! I'd already spoken with the owner of Unwind in FWB about consignment - we have a few things left to hammer out, but that will be happening too. Plus I was invited to teach at Unwind - I love teaching, so that's really exciting.


In the week since the first wholesale inquiry, I have gotten three more bulk requests. I'm working on prototypes for the first two and waiting to hear back from the third. My brain is percolating overtime with ideas, and I am so busy I can't figure out when I'll fit it all in - but for the first time in years, I feel truly happy. I laugh all the time, and have decided I'm celebrating a second childhood.

Until fairly recently, I've been in such a haze of grief that I couldn't see straight. But starting with my spontaneous self-haircut, it's like I am finally allowing the lessons grief has for me to come through. A huge one is BE FEARLESS. No more holding back who I am because I think someone won't approve. No more trying to be anything I'm not. No more spending a millisecond with toxic people, no more allowing others to harsh my mellow by putting their well-being above mine and not calling them on assholish behavior. But by the same token, BE PATIENT. Remember that I never know the fullness of anyone's story - this was proved to me as I came to understand how long I must have walked around with cancerous tumors growing in my breasts and never even suspecting. And by how normal I was - am - able to act in public even with cancer and its aftermath; this reminds me that everyone has a story, and sometimes it's ok to excuse someone for being a jerk. 


Now, for those who've asked, my new haircut! The glasses have no lenses, as these pix were taken at the eye doc's office of the glasses I ordered. Yes, they are dark purple on the outside and chartreuse on the inside! Also, the bluish bangs are going soon. I'm contemplating bright screaming read all over.

It all started with a book, and a haircut.

I'm reading a pretty amazing book right now: Five Lessons I didn't learn from breast cancer (and One Big One I did) by Shelley Lewis. The basic premise is that not everyone has a huge spiritual epiphany from breast cancer. Not everyone suddenly wants to sport all things pink and in fact, some of us get downright pissed. For many of us, cancer affirms who we already are, and enables us to draw on inner strength and skills we've spent a lifetime learning. Shelley is snarky and brutally honest, two traits I admire (and possess)! While our specific cancer and treatment was different, our inner thoughts are eerily similar. Her words helped me solidify a lot of things I've been thinking but just couldn't manage to convey, even to myself: yes, I had cancer. Yes, it changed some things about me (more on that in a minute), but what it really did was solidified who I already was. I am not - and do not need to become - fundamentally different. I like who I am!

I've heard it said that when confronted with a life crisis, many people who self-identify as agnostic or atheist will turn to religion. As a self-professed agnostic (often bordering on atheist), I had no idea whether that would be true for me. But not long ago I realized that not once through this entire crisis had I fallen to my knees or turned to a "higher power." I believe that I have softened, become kinder, more understanding about some things (and much more annoyed about others), but I have not suddenly found religion, nor do I think that's likely to change. What I did discover is that I have an immense well of inner strength that I never dreamed possible. I joke that if "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger" then I must be Hercules, but now I know that for me it's the truth.

That said, I have also discovered that when the constant stream of doctor's appointments, surgery, treatments etc. wind down, the brain kicks into high gear. From Shelley's book: "When you're in the middle of treatment, you've got a team of doctors working with you and you put your head down and do what has to be done. It's actually scarier when it's all over... " This is my truth as well as many women I've spoken to. Suddenly there's nobody doing for me, telling me what comes next, giving me instructions on how to handle whatever's going on. Now I'm on my own up here in my head, and that's a dangerous place for me to be alone, let me tell you. Since last September when I had my first abnormal mammogram, I've been waiting. Waiting for tests and more tests, results, surgery dates, pathology results, healing, more surgery, more healing. Even now, 4 months out from my mastectomy and a month out from revision, I'm still healing and waiting. I can't buy bras yet, I can't buy pants yet (my hips are still hypersensitive at the ends of my abdominal incision), and I'm still in pain. I can't go braless for any length of time or my chest aches. I still have a few stitches from revision. 

But today I realized that there are improvements. I'm not really sure what clicked in my brain, but whatever it is I welcome it, because I realize that with it comes a feeling I'm completely unfamiliar with on this journey: the beginning of acceptance. Shelley describes what she calls "controlled panic" like this: "I look calm on the outside, but I'm mentally stripping off all my clothes and running naked down the street screaming 'Help!'" What a perfect way to describe the state I've been in for almost 9 months. Having cancer, a woman in Shelley's book says, is "like having a news ticker that's always running across my brain, displaying the words 'you've got cancer.' I go about my life and try to act normal but really, I can't think about anything else." Except for the first time since the beginning, I can. I can hang out with friends and talk about their goings-on, about knitting, about learning to spin my own yarn. I can joke, I can laugh, I can dye my son's hair bright blue and make up late-night jokes with him. And through it all I glimpse moments of grace, of realizing later that I've gone hours without thinking about cancer. 

So, the haircut. I'm a member of a group that's curly-hair obsessed. I used to be pretty damn obsessive about stuff like hair and nail polish, but then cancer got in my way and all that fell to the wayside. Recently someone asked what I'd done with my hair when I was in the hospital, and when answering her, I realized that not only had I not cared a lot about my hair since my mastectomy, I'd largely been wearing it up and I really didn't like it anymore. It never looked good no matter what I did to it. A month or so ago when my son wanted to bleach and dye his hair, I had a fit of adolescent pique and bleached my bangs (not that they qualify as bangs when they're past my chin) and started playing with all kinds of fun temporary colors. I realized it was a thing I could control, and I had a blast with it. But then when I was posting in my curly-hair group, I realized that I wanted to feel pretty again. I can't speed my body's healing, but I can do something about my hair, petty as it may seem. So I gave myself a haircut! Curly Girl by Lorraine Massey and Michele Bender includes a chapter on trimming one's own hair, and a DVD with a short demo. Using their technique, I lopped a bunch of hair off. I'd been trying to grow it out, but I'm thinking maybe I'm not destined for long hair, as it just never looked great.  (I'm not sure how long it is wet, but it's roughly chin-length dry now.) Last night, I got actual compliments on my hair, and not just on the purple/blue/teal gradient I have in my bangs, either! It was a great feeling, because I took control of something and just went for it. Is it a professional-grade cut? Hell no. But I like it, and that's what matters. Something about this hair thing, about taking control of something and liking my hair again has had pretty far-reaching effects that I couldn't have imagined. That acceptance thing. Some self-esteem, which is really hard to come by when you've had your torso basically rearranged. And yes, even some joy.

There's another thing that I've debated talking about, but I'm gonna give it a shot. 

I'm one of those people who needs to hear words. I need people to speak slowly and spell things out for me when it comes to feelings; I'm crap at reading gestures. I'm married to a man who speaks fluent gesture, however, and somehow I never get it. I'm always terrified that one day it'll all be too much for him: my crazy brain, my defective body. Now cancer and the loss of my breasts. My self-worth has been so shot that nothing he ever said or did got through to me, because I finally, finally get that it was never about him - it was always about me not believing I deserved this incredible relationship we have. Recently he left on the first business trip he's been on since my diagnosis, and I was a mess. I knew it would be good for him to have a break from my constant neediness, and that I had to start standing on my own and not relying on him for everything, but I wasn't sure I could. 

The other day he sent me a beautiful bouquet of flowers, and I broke down and sobbed. I called him and it took a minute for him to understand me, because I was completely unintelligible. Why that simple act of him sending flowers, of the little card in someone else's handwriting that said he missed me, broke through my addled brain in a way nothing else ever has, I can't say - but it did. I get it. Finally. 

See? Acceptance. 

Cancer's best-kept secret

I've recently discovered that cancer has many, many secrets. I'm not talking about the medical ones, the ones best left to researchers and doctors. I'm talking about the ones hidden from everyone - researchers, doctors, caregivers, and yes, patients and even survivors. The secrets that are rarely brought out in the open. The ones that are hidden behind the curtains, under the blankets, and even under our clothes.

I think I know why this is so. I think it's because only other cancer patients and survivors really, truly get it. To an extent, those with some chronic conditions or who have been through life-threatening illnesses do too, but cancer is its own beast. There are far too many preconceived notions about what it means to have cancer and what it means to be a survivor, and the media isn't necessarily helpful, because so many of us are portrayed as overwhelmingly positive, as WARRIORS (caps because that's how it always comes across to me), as somehow out of the ordinary.

The truth is, people who are diagnosed with cancer are ordinary folks like you and me who've had some crap luck. I've looked at people who portray themselves, or who are portrayed in the media, as “warriors,” “fighters,” etc. and who seem so positive, and now I know there’s more to it, because I've been told repeatedly that’s how I look from the outside. I honestly had no idea, because I’m here, in my head, living the truth. And the truth is, I don’t see myself as a warrior, or a fighter, or any of those things, and I’m far from upbeat and positive!

I've learned that when active treatment comes to an end, many people hit the wall of grief, and all the emotions that were suppressed due to the “busy-ness” of being a patient come roaring back. My husband told me the other night that the day of my mastectomy, he was floored at how I strode in (tiara and all) and owned that room. How I was just able to DO something so massive. But he’s realized now, as I am (not so) slowly falling to pieces, that what I was actually doing is not looking to either side or behind, but just putting one foot in front of the other, plowing through each step as I confronted it. It’s only now that I have time to take off the blinders, blink in the sunshine and think “holy hell, what have I been through?”

I am not happy with my body. My entire torso has been rearranged - while one day I'm sure I'll be pleased with the flat tummy and less-flabby hips (I had fat liposuctioned for a graft to my upper left chest), right now I'm still in pain, can't shop for pants that fit, and have to wear an extremely uncomfortable compression garment for four more days. And the foobs. Ah, the foobs. Someone told me that they were sad that I felt it necessary to call them that, but that's what they are. They are (mostly) breast skin, over abdominal fat/blood vessels. I no longer have nipples, but rather abdominal skin built to look like them. They are still the color of the rest of it, and the left one was just made, so I still have stitches there. I have no feeling, and I never will - this isn't like many surgeries where feeling comes back eventually; a mastectomy means the total loss of a major erogenous zone. Another secret - this is something you're told prior to surgery, but nothing can prepare anyone for this reality. Four months out from my surgery and I still can't assimilate it. Hell, I can barely assimilate that I had cancer in the first place! My husband tells me that I keep saying the words as though I've just discovered it, which in a way is true. Over and over I'm assaulted by this mass of flesh on my chest that doesn't feel like a part of me. (It doesn't help that I had a great rack before, either!) My goal is to reach acceptance one day. Even my therapist agrees that acceptance may be the best I can ask for - but it beats the hell out of the place I'm in now.

I told both my husband and son that I feel selfish. That I’m terrified everyone is going to get sick of me. I said that it’s my job to be the best wife, mother, friend, forum moderator, employee (insert other roles here) that I can be, and to be there and strong for everyone else. It’s what I DO. I don’t know another way to be - to tell the truth that I’m falling apart, that I’m scared to death of the magnitude of my own grief, that I felt as though I was heading toward a break with reality recently? That’s the stuff of my nightmares. Putting it out, making the choice not to hide it, takes just about everything I’ve got. My public face snaps into place without conscious thought on my part - I'm told that I'm one of the most "together" people some of my friends have ever met, and I don't know what to do with that information when it doesn't match what's going on in my head and heart.

My therapist gave me homework today:

1. Stop analyzing everything to death. If I catch the cycle starting, yell “STOP” in my head, or even out loud if I need to. 
2. Take naps. Naps are not “giving in” to depression, they are healing. 
3. Make things. I have a head stuffed with creative ideas, but I haven’t managed the energy to translate them from ideas to THINGS.
4. Journal, journal, journal. Which for me will be blogging, but that’s good too.
5. Take a break from all things CANCER once in awhile, which includes not sitting in front of the computer so much.

Along those lines, I hope to blog more often, as part of the above homework. It helps to know others are reading, and to hear that my words make a difference out there.