The Bosom Blog – Part deux – The trendsetters
February 6, 2012 | By Mari | Musings with Mari
“YOU’VE PRACTICALLY MADE SCARRING A FASHION”
Bosom Blog • Part Deux
I hurt this morning and am in a poor Mari mood. It is not an attractive state of mind, so I have put myself on a reduced-pity diet. I shall allot exactly 15 minutes to moaning, groaning, screwing up my face in an unbecoming scowl, whimpering, etc. And then, Fini! Roll the credits.
A little grumbling is good for the soul, but like all things, moderation is preferable.
Tell a lie; that isn’t always the case. When in thrall or impassioned, one makes a deal with oneself: in order to have it all now, we agree to suffer later — good naturedly, of course.
To defer one’s pleasure, or to defer one’s pain, that is the question? When inspiration strikes and epiphanies present themselves, well, as my younger compatriots say, “It’s a no-brainer. Grab the pleasure, and fuck the pain.” My friends have mouths on them.
When the Muse calls, for example, I am not going to put her on hold. She can have as much of me as she desires, and when she discards me, I will live off her vapors and the sweet perfume of the words she has inspired — until her return. What follows is a blissful state of obsessive editing, at all hours. And then drawing. Fatigue is a small price to pay for the joys of creativity. They require only minor adjustments: endless cups of industrial strength tea, extra triangles of dark, dark chocolate and understanding companions.
Mother Nature, my creative nature, and loved ones are keeping me sane and in a state of grace in the face of the powerlessness and unpleasantness of cancer.
Surgery • Before, after and in between
My medical spies report that it went well. The initial pathology was promising — no nasty cells in the two sentinel nodes that the surgeon excised. Now we wait to see what the thousand slices reveal.
The Epitome of Surrender
Where do you find your power when you are lying supine, with IVs in your left arm, attired in a frayed, grayish-beige, formless gown and covered with a gray blanket? You feel cold and fear makes you colder.
My right arm is now considered sacrosanct – an endangered extremity requiring protection. This necessitated an update to my Medic Alert dog tags. Up until now, my prosthetic heart valve was the featured item, but now she shares the headlines with my new left hip and sensitive right arm. The phone update lasted 30 minutes, and by the time we had accounted for all my bionic bits, there was no room left to include my blood type. The woman on the phone assured me that this was not a crucial oversight. I decided to let the detail go. One dog tag is enough for me, even if Mumbles and Snowflake have two.
As I lay on the gurney, in limbo, waiting to be wheeled into the operating room, I had an array of visitors.
Lying hostage on the table, I craned my neck to the right and regarded the lineup on the bench against the wall – a sampling of my near and dear. They included a stunning young couple of artistic persuasion, sporting tattoos and piercings; A loyal, curly-headed charmer who is a nurse at the hospital and had been in attendance prior to my hip replacement – splendid déja vu; A gentle and self-composed young woman I have known for 15 years; My nurse navigator, cum/angel; And of course, Robert, my Knight in mufti. Since I was safely ensconced, he vacated his seat without ado and set off to do errands and stay busy until I was in recovery.
My other bosom friend (or should I say, “lack of bits of bosom friend?”) had arrived au debut at seven A.M. and hung around from the insertion of the needle into my right breast at the Imaging Center (a signpost to the tumor) to my delivery here. Then she fled to work. My friends were on shifts.
Also while waiting, I received the regulation bag of Cancer survivors’ items. Everything was pink. They included: 1 – a stuffed toy designed to beat against hard objects in an effort to relieve aggression. It had three buttons where a face should be and was scary looking. Did I mention that it was pink? 2 – two pink bulldog clips. 3 – a calendar covered in plastic – only partially pink. 4 – a pair of pink booties. 5 – an emery board, you guessed it — pink. This baffling array of pinkness struck me as odd, but it gave me a sense of comfort, pink of course.
Then there was Teeka, a gift presented by my artist pals. So many toys are soulless, but Teeka, a mutt with a soft, black and white muzzle, had the necessary je ne sais quoi to guarantee a future on my pillow.
Nurses came and went. The nurse navigator, Melanie, intuitively grasped my paw when unexpected tears began to flow. As the Versed entered my veins, I remember overhearing an earnest discussion about how to preserve and best care for curly hair. Very surreal. “I think I am in a scene from Legally Blond,” I muttered as I drifted off to dreamland and was rolled away to the operating theater.
After they transferred me from my traveling table to the chopping block, I regained my wits. Today’s anesthesiologist was the son of my heart surgeon, and like his father, he was a mensch. He took my hand. That was significant. We chatted a bit. His open kindness and compassion were just what I needed at that terrifying moment before I relinquished control – again.
We can cultivate faith, but I think, like the Muse, she appears as needed, when you surrender to her wily ways.
So often in the medical world, I have encountered complacent, detached coldness, but not there, not that day. The team surrounding me was sterling, and I salute them.
I went home later that afternoon. Also surreal. When they don’t keep you in the hospital, you expect to be weller than you are. My ragged state continues to shock me, and that is very unhelpful.
On Sunday, we peeled off the dressings. The plasters remain on the sutures. I am swollen, sore, itchy and a bit of a zoo in the bosom department. My whole body feels as though it has been invaded by cooties. Drugs are your friends, until they aren’t. You feel better and then you feel crappy all over again. A necessary evil. The anticoagulant stomach injections continued, and my abdomen began to resemble a dart board. R. was predictably heroic; I tried not to squirm or yelp when the needle went in, but a few expletives escaped under my breath.
Flowers and balloons have been arriving. I love it. Friends have brought soup, stew, cornbread, homemade cookies, ornaments for my healing tree and lots of love. I am grateful. This is the fun part. All that succor. After open heart surgery, December 16, 1999, I remember thinking how nice it was to be exempted from the expectations and pressures of Christmas. But no, it’s not worth the price. Don’t try this at home.
This week the surgeon called to say the comprehensive pathology looked good. “Hurrah!”
She added that the margins weren’t as clean as she had hoped, but before making a decision, she would confer with the oncologist. She is marvelous, but when I hung up the phone, I was assailed by images of lying naked on the operating table one more time.
Happily within the hour, more good news followed. No more surgery. The radiation and estrogen blocking drugs would be relied upon to keep the cancer at bay. Kiss the surgeon. Kiss the oncologist. I am blowing kisses everywhere at the moment.
Meanwhile, I have decided to stay in the ostrich bag regarding radiation. It will begin in five or six weeks, or as soon as my skin is healed enough to meet the new assault.
THE OSTRICH BAG
“Burning rays on your tender breast.” My mind belted out this new lyric. It sounded like a line from a country and western song.
“No. Do not think about it Mari.” And I find, I am not dwelling.
Illness is isolating. I have the eerie sensation that I am looking through a frosted windowpane. My friends are traveling to the tropics, to Europe, to India, to concerts, movies, theaters, restaurants, and I am trying to transform my envy into sympathetic joy.
“Their happiness becomes mine. Their success my own. I embrace my healing. Acceptance is my liberator, and other such bullshit, no, it really works. Trust me.”
Point being, regardless of the amount of love surrounding me, illness is a lonely battlefield. It’s the old birth and death conundrum.
Life is a labyrinth of lovely activities, enthralling experiences, intimacies, richness, pleasure, pain, loss, gain, praise, blame, fame, shame, real gelato and softee freeze, loose leaves and tea bags, the sweet scent of wet horses and dung on your boots.
But the laws of nature prevail. There is no pardon in the offing. Eventually, we will pen that final sentence, and a new paragraph will indent on a fresh slice of paper. There is no dodging this dénouement –the mysterious moment we have been avoiding and anticipating all of our lives.
But, back to the here and now. Time to dress and go to see the ophthalmologist. I have an infection in both eyes. Did I pick it up in the hospital? Does it matter? Life is dangerous. We have established that. My body is beat, but not beaten.
I will check in later. Meanwhile, I have one request: please run along the sandy seashore, just where the waves spread their foamy hems and release a red balloon for me.
CIAO but not Fini
