A few weeks ago, I had a bit of a scare. I thought Cancer had returned, I was stage IV and life was taking another proverbial right hand turn. Before I elaborate, I need to take a little sidetrip. I've got so much psychology swirling around in my head right now, it's making my head spin. Freud would have a field day. Freud would inevitably be wrong though. It's not my mother who handed down all this angst. It was Dad. My most recent struggle with my self worth stems from more than a handful of Daddy issues and a couple of innocent bystanders who happened to be in the right place at the right time at a particular "sensitive period" during my adolescence. It could have gone badly. I could be in Shanghai, China, doped out on who knows what, participating in a human trafficking nightmare. Instead, I'm safe in my bed in a house I built from the ground up with a man who treats me like the princess wretched Disney designed me to be. I am blessed with two gorgeous daughters who came out of nowhere. No really. Nowhere. Whaaa?
Ever look back at your life and wonder how in heck you got HERE? I'm still bitter at the machine for building the princess construct that for a short time led me to believe that happiness was a man on a white horse whose kiss would make my existence worthwhile. Ugh. I tried this on for size once upon a time and the shoe did not fit. Instead I had to choose between owning my life and a clueless prince who bought the same song and dance that I did. I chose to own my life and live a crazy path not found in storybooks until Disney finally figured out that strong female leads build strong female citizens. We still can't manage to shake the cute, dumb, male counterpart (Hans? Kristoff? Pet Reindeer? Really?), but at least the conflict is now between siblings. I'd much rather my daughters identify with Elsa and her sister Anna than Jasmine <sigh>. Sound bites such as "The cold never bothered me anyway" exemplify a chick on her own path.
Fortunately, I've adopted a handful of brothers along the way who have hand-picked the wreckage out of the burning ashes that Dad threw me into. Somehow the right adopted sibling bubbled up at just the right moment. I'm still trying to rationalize this past summer's journey through a series of emotional ups and downs. Just as time heals all wounds, time and space provide perspective. Since my last checkup, a lot of personal stuff has gone down ending with an unbelievable trip to Southern Utah to connect with one of my brothers and his very amazing family. It was just what the doctor ordered. It allowed me to forget that I have a 5cm mass on my ovary and a bunch of cysts in my liver. Previous testing shows none of this to be cancerous, so the right hand turn previously mentioned was not a right hand turn at all but rather a speed bump. Instead, I chose to take a psychological right hand turn and in the process opened myself up to some pretty awesome events. I made some new friends. I said goodbye to some old ones and flushed them from the current. Conveniently, it only took me a few weeks, and I am prepared for tomorrow.
Tomorrow, I go back to the doctor to get the final word on what's going on in my abdomen. Whatever the news, I feel surrounded by the love of my family and friends and have weeded out the drama and angst gifted to me by Dad and Disney. I am ready for this next chapter. Having spent an amazing summer galavanting around the countryside and connecting with friends new and old, I am empowered by faith and friendship. To see my girls interact and coexist with new members of our tribe is a remarkable experience. Whatever tomorrow's news brings, I'm in the best possible mindset to receive it.
Thursday, August 27, 2015
Monday, August 17, 2015
Time of Our Lives
"Time heals all wounds."
I found this to be true and it truly does work as long as you have the time. In my case, probably because my memory gets worse and I have less energy to focus on those wounds, so they just close all on their own and then I forget I had an issue in the first place. I'm fairly confident that this will be the case with a recent situation. However, I'm afraid I won't have enough time to see this through. I opened an old wound and the experience allowed me the good fortune to watch something amazing grow out of it. My intention was to cleanse my soul so that when I do run out of time, I don't have any demons to wrestle. My objectives were met. My expectations exceeded. Mission accomplished. Sadly, It created a new wound, a wound based on hope. Hope that now that the issue is "fixed," something new can grow from it and the efforts made to recognize how, would not be wasted. Hope that love and happiness will somehow find their way and the world, specifically my world, will be a better place.
Hope is a powerful drug.
In the law of 3's of the United States Air Force, hope can be the difference between life or death. A human being cannot survive:
I found this to be true and it truly does work as long as you have the time. In my case, probably because my memory gets worse and I have less energy to focus on those wounds, so they just close all on their own and then I forget I had an issue in the first place. I'm fairly confident that this will be the case with a recent situation. However, I'm afraid I won't have enough time to see this through. I opened an old wound and the experience allowed me the good fortune to watch something amazing grow out of it. My intention was to cleanse my soul so that when I do run out of time, I don't have any demons to wrestle. My objectives were met. My expectations exceeded. Mission accomplished. Sadly, It created a new wound, a wound based on hope. Hope that now that the issue is "fixed," something new can grow from it and the efforts made to recognize how, would not be wasted. Hope that love and happiness will somehow find their way and the world, specifically my world, will be a better place.
Hope is a powerful drug.
In the law of 3's of the United States Air Force, hope can be the difference between life or death. A human being cannot survive:
- 3 seconds without spirit or hope.
- 3 minutes without air/oxygen
- 3 hours without shelter in extreme conditions
- 3 days without water
- 3 weeks without food
- 3 months without companionship or love.
Not everyone is equipped to handle the intensity of raw emotion. People shy away from it as consciously as they shy away from pain. I've had a whole lot of experience with fear and pain and loss, so I'm not so averse to it. In fact, I tend to invite it because the richness and beauty that evolves from it, is so fulfilling. I struggle to understand why anyone isn't willing to go through a little discomfort to get to the good stuff. And I understand that some people are willing, but they fear those close to them cannot survive the journey. People opt out. Better to avoid discomfort than find solutions to the problems that arise. Few take chances on unknown risks.
You have to allow people to experience moments of pain and grief and loss so that they may move through to the other side. You must trust them and know in your heart that they will evolve all on their own because it is out of this faith in them that they grow. Good friends are the ones that see you jumping off of the cliff, and let you jump anyway because they know that if doesn't kill you, you'll be better for it. True friends help pick up the pieces. To be a good friend, sometimes you have to watch your friends go through hell. This can be rough but if you have just a little faith, a little trust, and a little patience, you can watch their life change before your very eyes.
You have to allow people to experience moments of pain and grief and loss so that they may move through to the other side. You must trust them and know in your heart that they will evolve all on their own because it is out of this faith in them that they grow. Good friends are the ones that see you jumping off of the cliff, and let you jump anyway because they know that if doesn't kill you, you'll be better for it. True friends help pick up the pieces. To be a good friend, sometimes you have to watch your friends go through hell. This can be rough but if you have just a little faith, a little trust, and a little patience, you can watch their life change before your very eyes.
I jumped off of the cliff and yes, I'm a little battered from the experience. I'm also enriched by the feeling of "freefall," so I continue to hope for a new way to experience it without all the battering and bleeding at the bottom, but there is an element of healing time that must be respected. Is it a year? 5 years? 30?
I don't have that kind of time. Maybe, I have five years left. Hopefully seven or more so that I may see my children make it to adulthood. Given my survival rates, I'm already way ahead of the game and grateful for all my moments, but I'm not complacent. I have no delusions that anything can happen, that it CAN and will happen to me, and that my life can end at any given moment.
Thankfully, I have plenty of oxygen, water, food and companionship and love, and truthfully, I only have to endure short bouts of hopelessness and a deep sadness from time to time. At this point, it is I who must have faith and trust that the universe is unfolding as it should. I must allow friends to evolve and grow and find joy. I see this as a test of my survivorship. It is a test of my faith. Faith that I will have enough time to see good things happen.
I can muster 3 seconds of faith. I will have faith for the rest of my days that good things will prevail. If I can get the bleeding to stop, I know time will heal all wounds. I am not worried. As we say in the ER, "All bleeding stops eventually."
Saturday, August 15, 2015
Turn Down for What
"This thing all things devours; Birds beasts, trees, flowers; Gnaws iron, bites steel; Grinds hard stones to meal; Slays king, ruins town, and beats high mountain down."
Slays king. Having been active and healthy most of my life....well, except for the cancer and a few orthopedic mishaps, I've aged fairly well. I've got some healthy laugh lines and a few sun spots. I'm not particularly psyched about the jowls I've got going due to the unrelenting pull of gravity. Nor am I happy about the lack of energy due to low numbers of mitochondria. Still, I'm doing better than most. I attend corporate functions with my husband from time to time and meet people in their thirties that look older than half my friends from High School. The beatdown of time takes its toll but there's another offender that takes even more of a toll than time.
Discontent.
I see it in my friends faces. They've given in and given up. They've stopped wanting, stopped dreaming, and stopped planning their next adventure. They refuse to adapt. It is in this era of our late 40's, early 50's that we see changes. People move, change jobs, buy 2-seaters or see drastic changes in their relationships. It's the mid-life crisis. It's that time when we ask ourselves if we have arrived at the place we've been striving for through our 20's and 30's. We look at the rest of our lives under a microscope and visit our bucket list. Are we satisfied with what we've created for ourselves? Have we learned all we've set out to learn? Are we ready to go gently into that good night?
I, for one, am not. I still have to learn an instrument, explore my artistic side, and earn enough money to buy my mid-life crisis-mobile: a black Lamborghini. Or at least drive one. My bucket list is a little short, largely because I've been checking things off throughout my life. Most of the things on my list were travel items. South America, Southeast Asia, Australia, Europe, and Central America. Check. There were accomplishments such as college degrees, certifications, and savings accounts. Relationship goals of marriage and kids and a 20th wedding anniversary. I've had the good fortune to marry a couple of close friends which, while not on my bucket list, was a gift of experience. We put in a pool. This is more of my grandmother's dream but because she never got it, I decided I would make it my own. We've built a house from the ground up. Learned a language. Swam with dolphins. Rode Camels.
Most of what is left involves watching my kids grow. Graduations, grandkids and maybe a 50th wedding anniversary for my husband and I. May I be so lucky. I don't feel quite so desperate to squeeze it all in because since cancer knocked on my door, I've had a healthier respect for the here and now. I have no patience for discontent in my life. Discontent, fear, guilt, shame.....all wasted emotions that I have no tolerance for. A waste of spirit.
As we age, we deteriorate. We are asked to give up certain things. Recently, I've had to give up playing soccer and running because my knees and hips are so damaged from overuse (better to use 'em up than let 'em rust), they can't tolerate the impact and I can't tolerate the pain. However, rather than propping myself in front of the television, I've switched to my bicycle, walking up hill, and finding other ways to get that workout that feeds my soul. Not sure what I'm going to do when I lose that capability. I've been paying a lot more attention to adults in their 60's and 70's looking for the cliff notes on what's to come. I see a lot of these people having a blast traveling, chasing grandkids, retiring and ticking off bucket list items. "A body in motion stays in motion until another force acts upon it." (Newton's First Law) There's a light at the end of the tunnel. We just don't see it as our eyesight starts to fail.
I'm more compassionate and patient with those falling short of expectations because I assume that mid-life is making a contribution, specifically in the case of women going through menopause. I am already finished with menopause. It was not easy and took a lot less time than it takes regular women. Chemo throws you into it and the cancer meds you continue to take for ten years have side effects. I had my own struggles. For a few years I was sad that I no longer had those awesome hormones that drive a healthy sex life. I woke up in puddles of sweat at night. My joints hurt, and my body did not feel like my own. I had a lot of struggles because I wasn't sure if this was a permanent condition or not. That drove a fear that as I lose more and more of my capabilities, I will be far less able to carry out those things on my bucket list like skydiving, hang gliding or a flying suit. Now that I am through it, I feel like I have a second chance, a new lease on life which is exacerbated by beating cancer. The return of my sex drive has made a drastic impact on my mood although I'm still trying to figure out how it actually works. Perhaps another post. Now, many of my friends are starting the menopausal process and I can see the angst, fear and discontent that I once felt. It affects how we interact with one another especially since it wreaks havoc on emotions. It's hard for me to watch friends or their spouses go through it. If you oversimplify it, people just get mad at you.
"Relax, it's menopause."
"NO IT'S NOT! MY LIFE IS HELL!"
"Right. My bad." (w*h*a*t*e*v*e*r. See you in five years)
In this case, slays Queen, which in turn slays King. Time beats us all down and requires adaptations. Choose not to adapt and ye shall be slain.
Slays king. Having been active and healthy most of my life....well, except for the cancer and a few orthopedic mishaps, I've aged fairly well. I've got some healthy laugh lines and a few sun spots. I'm not particularly psyched about the jowls I've got going due to the unrelenting pull of gravity. Nor am I happy about the lack of energy due to low numbers of mitochondria. Still, I'm doing better than most. I attend corporate functions with my husband from time to time and meet people in their thirties that look older than half my friends from High School. The beatdown of time takes its toll but there's another offender that takes even more of a toll than time.
Discontent.
I see it in my friends faces. They've given in and given up. They've stopped wanting, stopped dreaming, and stopped planning their next adventure. They refuse to adapt. It is in this era of our late 40's, early 50's that we see changes. People move, change jobs, buy 2-seaters or see drastic changes in their relationships. It's the mid-life crisis. It's that time when we ask ourselves if we have arrived at the place we've been striving for through our 20's and 30's. We look at the rest of our lives under a microscope and visit our bucket list. Are we satisfied with what we've created for ourselves? Have we learned all we've set out to learn? Are we ready to go gently into that good night?
I, for one, am not. I still have to learn an instrument, explore my artistic side, and earn enough money to buy my mid-life crisis-mobile: a black Lamborghini. Or at least drive one. My bucket list is a little short, largely because I've been checking things off throughout my life. Most of the things on my list were travel items. South America, Southeast Asia, Australia, Europe, and Central America. Check. There were accomplishments such as college degrees, certifications, and savings accounts. Relationship goals of marriage and kids and a 20th wedding anniversary. I've had the good fortune to marry a couple of close friends which, while not on my bucket list, was a gift of experience. We put in a pool. This is more of my grandmother's dream but because she never got it, I decided I would make it my own. We've built a house from the ground up. Learned a language. Swam with dolphins. Rode Camels.
Most of what is left involves watching my kids grow. Graduations, grandkids and maybe a 50th wedding anniversary for my husband and I. May I be so lucky. I don't feel quite so desperate to squeeze it all in because since cancer knocked on my door, I've had a healthier respect for the here and now. I have no patience for discontent in my life. Discontent, fear, guilt, shame.....all wasted emotions that I have no tolerance for. A waste of spirit.
As we age, we deteriorate. We are asked to give up certain things. Recently, I've had to give up playing soccer and running because my knees and hips are so damaged from overuse (better to use 'em up than let 'em rust), they can't tolerate the impact and I can't tolerate the pain. However, rather than propping myself in front of the television, I've switched to my bicycle, walking up hill, and finding other ways to get that workout that feeds my soul. Not sure what I'm going to do when I lose that capability. I've been paying a lot more attention to adults in their 60's and 70's looking for the cliff notes on what's to come. I see a lot of these people having a blast traveling, chasing grandkids, retiring and ticking off bucket list items. "A body in motion stays in motion until another force acts upon it." (Newton's First Law) There's a light at the end of the tunnel. We just don't see it as our eyesight starts to fail.
I'm more compassionate and patient with those falling short of expectations because I assume that mid-life is making a contribution, specifically in the case of women going through menopause. I am already finished with menopause. It was not easy and took a lot less time than it takes regular women. Chemo throws you into it and the cancer meds you continue to take for ten years have side effects. I had my own struggles. For a few years I was sad that I no longer had those awesome hormones that drive a healthy sex life. I woke up in puddles of sweat at night. My joints hurt, and my body did not feel like my own. I had a lot of struggles because I wasn't sure if this was a permanent condition or not. That drove a fear that as I lose more and more of my capabilities, I will be far less able to carry out those things on my bucket list like skydiving, hang gliding or a flying suit. Now that I am through it, I feel like I have a second chance, a new lease on life which is exacerbated by beating cancer. The return of my sex drive has made a drastic impact on my mood although I'm still trying to figure out how it actually works. Perhaps another post. Now, many of my friends are starting the menopausal process and I can see the angst, fear and discontent that I once felt. It affects how we interact with one another especially since it wreaks havoc on emotions. It's hard for me to watch friends or their spouses go through it. If you oversimplify it, people just get mad at you.
"Relax, it's menopause."
"NO IT'S NOT! MY LIFE IS HELL!"
"Right. My bad." (w*h*a*t*e*v*e*r. See you in five years)
In this case, slays Queen, which in turn slays King. Time beats us all down and requires adaptations. Choose not to adapt and ye shall be slain.
Friday, August 14, 2015
Drive
I've been doing a lot of driving this summer. My kids have reached the magical age where they both have their own electronics and set of headphones and can finally refrain from the constant bickering for hours while they watch movies, text friends, and surf the internet via satellite. After 13 years of "Mom, Mom, Mom, are we there yet? Mom! I have to pee," I can don my own headphones, crank the Def Leppard and drive very far away from the tedium of 3 soccer practices a week, 5 meals a day, 6 loads of laundry, and the constant battle of who's turn it is to take out the garbage. I love driving. It parallels ski racing. Where else can you drive 90 miles per hour, initiate and take turns until the car tips just right or get all four wheels off the ground..... (wait, maybe not that last one.)? Then, there's the passing game. How many cars can you pass before you have to change lanes to pass the truck in the right lane? And how big is the gap between those two cars and can I squeeze into it without pissing anybody off? I love the drive from California to Utah. The speed limit is 80mph which means I can technically go 90 without going to jail, at least I think. I have been looking for more opportunities to make this drive which can be anything from visiting a friend in the hospital to a summer concert series being held at Deer Valley. Effectively, I call it the "Pro Leisure Tour" where I stay with friends, find cool stuff for my kids to do and make sure they get to hang out with all of my friends' kids. My motives are ulterior. If they bond with my friends' kids, then I get more trips to Utah. I love my hometown.
However, I've lived in California for 21 years. I used to be a Utah girl but after my last trip, it is painfully obvious that I am officially a California girl. I'm not a native but I have assimilated. On my last trip, I realized that my Utah-isms don't come as automatically. Instead, of "Oh my heck!" I now say, "O-M-G," and I have lost all understanding of the liquor laws and the times the State store is open ( I used to know these by heart). Of course, this could be related to the fact that I no longer drink alcohol and I'm not properly motivated. But I digress.... Another obvious sign that I am no longer a Utah girl is I get a lot of stink eye by the Utah drivers, but I'll get to that.
If you are not sure of the difference between Utah and California, just get a in a car. I swear the difference is immediately discoverable upon crossing the state line. Suddenly, everyone slows down about 20 miles per hour and moves into the left lane, except the truckers who stay in the right lane. This requires some slalom skills because you have to weave back and forth between cars and lanes to pass. Again, this speaks to my slalom skiing soul although most people don't like it as I weave left and right to pass. They decrease the distance between themselves and the car in front of them so that I am forced to wait for a more appropriate gap OR "wiggle" in the small space forcing them to increase that distance. This is not popular. Hence the stink eye. I try to be respectful unless they insist on blocking and then it's on. I can't be held responsible for my competitive nature. It's instinct at this point, homegrown in Utah and bastardized by 21 years in California. The problem, up to now, is that I have insisted on believing that I am a Utah girl, it's my State and y'all need to mellow out in solidarity. Sadly, this is no longer the case. I am now a visitor. A guest in someone else's house, and traditional etiquette requires that I respect the house I am in and thus, my gracious hosts. It makes road wars much harder to win especially with California plates on my car. Go home California....I used to say this myself, back when I was a Utah girl.
The other huge difference between a Utah driver and a California driver is the use of a turn signal. Okay, this one just makes me crazy, because not only is it a problem on the road, it parallels the nature of the culture. THIS is what delineates the difference between me and my former home state. Utah drivers are poor communicators. I can make the same argument for a few former Utah boyfriends but I'll save that for another post. Nobody uses their turn signal. Seriously? I don't care if you wanna wiggle in between me and the bumper 5 feet from mine, just tell me. I'll back off and let you in (because I wanna be a good guest in your state) but if I don't know you're coming over, I can't be as accommodating. No disrespect, but I'm focused. I'm waiting for my moment to move over and pass the idiot driving 20 mph below the speed limit in the fast lane trying to pass a truck that thinks it's funny to speed up just enough so that both lanes are blocked for an indefinite time. (I'm convinced truckers have a field day with drivers from all states.) I am not looking sideways and I rarely see my peripheral until it's almost too late which creates all kinds of drama and scares the hell out of everyone. A blinking light gets my attention well, and these days they put that flashing light on your external rear view mirror, your tail light, your front parking light etc. If you don't turn it on, it doesn't work as well, nor does it allow me the opportunity to display my good nature and express respect for you despite the fact I can't possibly figure out how your system works. With no designation between the left and right lanes (which one is the fast lane again?), one must weave which requires MORE use of the indicator light and yet, it is rarely used. I suppose there's a different message like "slow down, you're in Utah," or "You'll get there when you get there. It's in God's hands now." Knowing this, I keep my frustration to a minimum. I go to my happy place which usually requires a Bon Jovi soundtrack or an 80's playlist inspired by teenage memories of being a Utah girl. No longer.
I recently drove from Northern California to San Diego. When I got to L.A., I felt completely at home. The speed of travel of lanes increased proportionately from right to left where slow people drove in the right lane and maniacs drove in the left lane. If you really want to mix things up, try the carpool lane. It's a mish-mash of different drivers although it favors the maniacal. Traffic flows and weaves and people use their turn signals and everyone drives 10-20 mph over the speed limit. Competition is pretty even and respect is widely practiced save one or two outliers. I love California driving. It's challenging and the rules are fairly clear. I never thought I would ever assimilate into a California driver. It used to seem crazy to me. Now it seems like "home."
Perfect for a California girl like myself.
However, I've lived in California for 21 years. I used to be a Utah girl but after my last trip, it is painfully obvious that I am officially a California girl. I'm not a native but I have assimilated. On my last trip, I realized that my Utah-isms don't come as automatically. Instead, of "Oh my heck!" I now say, "O-M-G," and I have lost all understanding of the liquor laws and the times the State store is open ( I used to know these by heart). Of course, this could be related to the fact that I no longer drink alcohol and I'm not properly motivated. But I digress.... Another obvious sign that I am no longer a Utah girl is I get a lot of stink eye by the Utah drivers, but I'll get to that.
If you are not sure of the difference between Utah and California, just get a in a car. I swear the difference is immediately discoverable upon crossing the state line. Suddenly, everyone slows down about 20 miles per hour and moves into the left lane, except the truckers who stay in the right lane. This requires some slalom skills because you have to weave back and forth between cars and lanes to pass. Again, this speaks to my slalom skiing soul although most people don't like it as I weave left and right to pass. They decrease the distance between themselves and the car in front of them so that I am forced to wait for a more appropriate gap OR "wiggle" in the small space forcing them to increase that distance. This is not popular. Hence the stink eye. I try to be respectful unless they insist on blocking and then it's on. I can't be held responsible for my competitive nature. It's instinct at this point, homegrown in Utah and bastardized by 21 years in California. The problem, up to now, is that I have insisted on believing that I am a Utah girl, it's my State and y'all need to mellow out in solidarity. Sadly, this is no longer the case. I am now a visitor. A guest in someone else's house, and traditional etiquette requires that I respect the house I am in and thus, my gracious hosts. It makes road wars much harder to win especially with California plates on my car. Go home California....I used to say this myself, back when I was a Utah girl.
The other huge difference between a Utah driver and a California driver is the use of a turn signal. Okay, this one just makes me crazy, because not only is it a problem on the road, it parallels the nature of the culture. THIS is what delineates the difference between me and my former home state. Utah drivers are poor communicators. I can make the same argument for a few former Utah boyfriends but I'll save that for another post. Nobody uses their turn signal. Seriously? I don't care if you wanna wiggle in between me and the bumper 5 feet from mine, just tell me. I'll back off and let you in (because I wanna be a good guest in your state) but if I don't know you're coming over, I can't be as accommodating. No disrespect, but I'm focused. I'm waiting for my moment to move over and pass the idiot driving 20 mph below the speed limit in the fast lane trying to pass a truck that thinks it's funny to speed up just enough so that both lanes are blocked for an indefinite time. (I'm convinced truckers have a field day with drivers from all states.) I am not looking sideways and I rarely see my peripheral until it's almost too late which creates all kinds of drama and scares the hell out of everyone. A blinking light gets my attention well, and these days they put that flashing light on your external rear view mirror, your tail light, your front parking light etc. If you don't turn it on, it doesn't work as well, nor does it allow me the opportunity to display my good nature and express respect for you despite the fact I can't possibly figure out how your system works. With no designation between the left and right lanes (which one is the fast lane again?), one must weave which requires MORE use of the indicator light and yet, it is rarely used. I suppose there's a different message like "slow down, you're in Utah," or "You'll get there when you get there. It's in God's hands now." Knowing this, I keep my frustration to a minimum. I go to my happy place which usually requires a Bon Jovi soundtrack or an 80's playlist inspired by teenage memories of being a Utah girl. No longer.
I recently drove from Northern California to San Diego. When I got to L.A., I felt completely at home. The speed of travel of lanes increased proportionately from right to left where slow people drove in the right lane and maniacs drove in the left lane. If you really want to mix things up, try the carpool lane. It's a mish-mash of different drivers although it favors the maniacal. Traffic flows and weaves and people use their turn signals and everyone drives 10-20 mph over the speed limit. Competition is pretty even and respect is widely practiced save one or two outliers. I love California driving. It's challenging and the rules are fairly clear. I never thought I would ever assimilate into a California driver. It used to seem crazy to me. Now it seems like "home."
Perfect for a California girl like myself.
Thursday, August 13, 2015
Good Girls don't, but I do
When I lost both of my breasts to cancer, I initially felt the shame of deformity in the presence of my fabulous C-cup friends in their summer tank tops and low cut shirts. Of course, not for long because shame is a ridiculous waste of my time. However, from time to time, and especially in summer, the absence of cleavage spotlights the contrast of my shape. I have a whole bunch of gorgeous friends who are in great physical condition. While they are not endowed with a large cup size, they are curvy and the presence of breasts adds a certain softness to a hardened body. I miss that dichotomy. I've worked out all of my life so I have a few muscles here and there and breasts used to soften that look. My outward appearance used to say, "yes, I'm a badass, but I'm still a girl." Now, it says, "I'm a badass and my biker girlfriend is going to throttle you."
A great rack gives you a sense of confidence. It earns you a spot in the club of your women friends who sit around and complain about how they wish their breasts were bigger or smaller or perkier or whatever. While it may seem that the complaints indicate insecurities regarding body image, it's actually a way to connect with other women and celebrate your membership in that exclusive group.
I used to sense the pity of others and endure the endless advice of which particular flavor and size of bolt-ons I should get. I opted out of reconstruction because I think reconstruction is oxymoronic. You don't reconstruct anything. You construct a prosthesis that helps you deal with the whole mess psychologically but really, it's a mask you hide behind. Therapy is much more effective in this case along with a husband who'd much rather have an original than some plastic surgeon's version of stomach fat. I've been flat and nipple-less for 4 years now and as we all go barreling into our fifties and gravity refuses to relent, I'm feeling like maybe being flat is not such a bad thing.
Dramatic irony is I have daughters. My oldest is now a c-cup which on a 13 year-old frame, almost looks obscene. They are perfect. Round, full of collagen and bounce, they are exactly the product I would look for if I were shopping for a pair. My daughter is proud of them (and should be for all intents and purposes). She likes to wear strappy tops and fitting shirts that accentuate her new curves. I'm torn between the role of being the mom who is consistently telling her to cover up, dress modestly, and quit flaunting her new-found squeeze box, and the mom who sees beauty and confidence and a gorgeous pair of breasts that if I had them, I'd show them off too. She is pre-disposed to breast cancer having a Mom who has had it. I say put those things out there. Be proud and show them off. Share them with friends. You may not have them one day, and what a pity to hide a perfect rendition of nature. My philosophy is not a popular viewpoint among the PTA moms.
"Your daughter is distracting the boys in class."
Nothing maddens me more. We wouldn't want boys to act with impropriety so let's cover up the girls instead of teaching the boys what's appropriate and what's not. Ugh. Seriously? I'm pretty sure video games and porn sites are distracting your son too, but no one is shutting THEM down. Okay, I get it, I need to parent better and teach my breasty daughter some social mores about not dressing slutty in school. It's really just me living vicariously through the fact that if I had a rack like that, I'd most definitely dress those things up and put them out in front. At 48, having survived breast cancer, it's easy to give a little leeway to breasts that seem to defy gravity. The good news for me is not having any means I don't have nipples rivaling my bellybutton. I wear strappy, tight-fitting shirts because I have nothing that will fall out of them and frankly, the comedy of people trying to figure out what's missing is a little entertaining. I double dog dare anyone to tell me how to dress or give me feedback about how NOT to accentuate my flatness. It's unnatural. It's an abomination but it's badass and the paradox is funny.
When I had breasts, you said to cover them up. Now that I don't have breasts, you don't want to see the aftermath of two mastectomies but you tolerate my tight-fitting shirts because after all, I had my breasts cut off. I love to watch people struggle with this. There is also the "discomfort" of talking about it. Nobody wants to ask the question. I keep waiting for someone to look directly at my chest and tell me I'm missing something. If people stare, I throw out "Is it cold in here?" I always get a nervous laugh. That is one good thing about being breastless. No high beams in cold weather, which also makes wearing a see-through T-shirt in winter a fun exercise. It's out of place. An anomaly.
My husband is conflicted. He doesn't want his 13 year-old daughter looking fabulous with a great pair of breasts. He doesn't subscribe to my philosophy of live life to the "fullest" with regards to my daughter's T-shirts.
"Really? You're going to let her wear that?"
I can't parent breast shame. You just don't get breasts like that for very long. Ten, maybe twenty years tops, before pregnancy and nursing ruin them and gravity sets in. I say wear 'em loud, and wear 'em proud, but as I've come to realize not everyone is savvy to my particular brand of evolution. While I understand being sensitive to the views of others and respecting social constructs that keep us all from acting badly, I also feel the reality everyday that our time here is finite and far too short. Thankfully, my husband balances my "in-your-face" femininity with the subtleties a good father has learned to refine.
"You both might want to grab a jacket."
I look at my daughter and giggle. I am glad for her and I know that my breastless look reminds her of both her natural beauty and that not everything lasts forever. Live for today and be grateful for an amazing set of breasts.
A great rack gives you a sense of confidence. It earns you a spot in the club of your women friends who sit around and complain about how they wish their breasts were bigger or smaller or perkier or whatever. While it may seem that the complaints indicate insecurities regarding body image, it's actually a way to connect with other women and celebrate your membership in that exclusive group.
I used to sense the pity of others and endure the endless advice of which particular flavor and size of bolt-ons I should get. I opted out of reconstruction because I think reconstruction is oxymoronic. You don't reconstruct anything. You construct a prosthesis that helps you deal with the whole mess psychologically but really, it's a mask you hide behind. Therapy is much more effective in this case along with a husband who'd much rather have an original than some plastic surgeon's version of stomach fat. I've been flat and nipple-less for 4 years now and as we all go barreling into our fifties and gravity refuses to relent, I'm feeling like maybe being flat is not such a bad thing.
Dramatic irony is I have daughters. My oldest is now a c-cup which on a 13 year-old frame, almost looks obscene. They are perfect. Round, full of collagen and bounce, they are exactly the product I would look for if I were shopping for a pair. My daughter is proud of them (and should be for all intents and purposes). She likes to wear strappy tops and fitting shirts that accentuate her new curves. I'm torn between the role of being the mom who is consistently telling her to cover up, dress modestly, and quit flaunting her new-found squeeze box, and the mom who sees beauty and confidence and a gorgeous pair of breasts that if I had them, I'd show them off too. She is pre-disposed to breast cancer having a Mom who has had it. I say put those things out there. Be proud and show them off. Share them with friends. You may not have them one day, and what a pity to hide a perfect rendition of nature. My philosophy is not a popular viewpoint among the PTA moms.
"Your daughter is distracting the boys in class."
Nothing maddens me more. We wouldn't want boys to act with impropriety so let's cover up the girls instead of teaching the boys what's appropriate and what's not. Ugh. Seriously? I'm pretty sure video games and porn sites are distracting your son too, but no one is shutting THEM down. Okay, I get it, I need to parent better and teach my breasty daughter some social mores about not dressing slutty in school. It's really just me living vicariously through the fact that if I had a rack like that, I'd most definitely dress those things up and put them out in front. At 48, having survived breast cancer, it's easy to give a little leeway to breasts that seem to defy gravity. The good news for me is not having any means I don't have nipples rivaling my bellybutton. I wear strappy, tight-fitting shirts because I have nothing that will fall out of them and frankly, the comedy of people trying to figure out what's missing is a little entertaining. I double dog dare anyone to tell me how to dress or give me feedback about how NOT to accentuate my flatness. It's unnatural. It's an abomination but it's badass and the paradox is funny.
When I had breasts, you said to cover them up. Now that I don't have breasts, you don't want to see the aftermath of two mastectomies but you tolerate my tight-fitting shirts because after all, I had my breasts cut off. I love to watch people struggle with this. There is also the "discomfort" of talking about it. Nobody wants to ask the question. I keep waiting for someone to look directly at my chest and tell me I'm missing something. If people stare, I throw out "Is it cold in here?" I always get a nervous laugh. That is one good thing about being breastless. No high beams in cold weather, which also makes wearing a see-through T-shirt in winter a fun exercise. It's out of place. An anomaly.
My husband is conflicted. He doesn't want his 13 year-old daughter looking fabulous with a great pair of breasts. He doesn't subscribe to my philosophy of live life to the "fullest" with regards to my daughter's T-shirts.
"Really? You're going to let her wear that?"
I can't parent breast shame. You just don't get breasts like that for very long. Ten, maybe twenty years tops, before pregnancy and nursing ruin them and gravity sets in. I say wear 'em loud, and wear 'em proud, but as I've come to realize not everyone is savvy to my particular brand of evolution. While I understand being sensitive to the views of others and respecting social constructs that keep us all from acting badly, I also feel the reality everyday that our time here is finite and far too short. Thankfully, my husband balances my "in-your-face" femininity with the subtleties a good father has learned to refine.
"You both might want to grab a jacket."
I look at my daughter and giggle. I am glad for her and I know that my breastless look reminds her of both her natural beauty and that not everything lasts forever. Live for today and be grateful for an amazing set of breasts.
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
Dig a Little Deeper
Hey you. Yes you, sitting there, watching baseball, or golf, or paint dry. You who thrives on getting just 60 minutes to yourself so you can watch that "America's Got Talent" show that you saved on TiVo last week, or building that oversized birdhouse in your backyard because Home Depot had a free demo on it. As the seconds of your life tick by, and you sink into the comfort of your mediocrity, thinking that you have time, consider this.
I might die tomorrow. Not you. Not your 80 year-old mother or 90 year-old grandfather. Me. Middle-aged, full of life, vibrant, high-spirited, talkative me. Me, who turns your life upside-down because I have no filter. Me, who has tried to set you up with every single person I know because I want you to find the happiness that found me years ago. Me, who has been running around this crazy world, seeking dangerous circumstances, taking selfies, and posting to Facebook while you keep your couch from floating away. Yes, it is me who might just die tomorrow. Poof. Gone in an instant.
I guarantee the world will be different without me. The sky will be a little less blue. The grass a little less green and the sun just a touch less brilliant. You won't notice the sweet smell of an ocean breeze, or the crisp, clean air at the top of the mountain. You will lament the snowfall because you have to shovel your way out to get to that awesome, desk job day in and day out, rather than embracing the 8 inches of powder and heading out to play in it. I get it. You are an adult. You have responsibilities. You have kids. You can't just up and leave your life for that thing that feeds your soul. It's irresponsible. It's selfish. It's not serving the greater good. You've worked all your life for this stable, comfortable, state of mediocrity, and by gosh, you are going to see it through.
Then, you are going to retire and when you retire, maybe you'll take that trip you've always wanted to take, or buy that car you've always wanted to fix up. You'l remodel the kitchen for the umpteenth time or recover the furniture because, again, Home Depot has a workshop.
And when you finally find the time to do something wild and crazy, like shop at Trader Joe's instead of your usual Safeway fallback, I will be long gone. No more selfies. No more adventures. No more calls from the airport. "Hey, I'm in town. Drop everything and let's go act like teenagers."
You may not notice it at first, but something will be missing. While you are searching for the hammer you misplaced, you'll wonder why your email is full of spam instead of long-winded, heartfelt letters trying to explain the meaning of life from a cafe in Indonesia. You might wake up one day and say to yourself, "Something's missing."
And it will be me.
So by all means, isolate yourself with the meaningless and the mundane. Save up for that comfy vacation you take to Arizona every year, and count the days until you can get that AARP card. Relish those senior discounts all over town. Get a little fatter and make sure that pasty white skin of yours never sees the sun.
It's dangerous out there. You're too old to take those risks. You're too smart to do something wild and crazy and fun. You might lose yourself, or that ridiculously unhappy person in your life who sucks the life out of you. Your life might change.
As the years go by, you will train yourself not to miss me, or the countless others who disappear from your life. You will forget all the goodness I once brought to you, and the love that consumed you with passion and vibrancy. And while my death will be quick and tragic and awful, yours will be slow and methodical. You will lose one thing everyday, your agility, your memory, your eyesight. Until all that's left is a shell of a human being that your kids have to endure.
You will die too.
So make that phone call. Reserve those airline tickets and go to that place on the other side of the planet where the wind smells sweet and the music dances between the thunder of crashing waves. Write to her. Embrace him even though you know it's going to turn you inside out. Swim, ski, ride, play, dance, sing, because tomorrow, I will be dead. You will remain with the hollow feeling of "if only she had more time."
"If only I had taken that risk."
So far, none of us have gotten out of this life alive. That is certain. The when and how is not defined. If you only had six months left to live, what would you do with it? You can ask this question all day and answer with all the exotic plans you made as a young 20-something with your whole life ahead of you. But when do you ask yourself, what if Sally only has six months? What if Johnny is bed-ridden for the rest of his life. What if you can no longer call/text/email your best friend because they are now gone, mentally, physically, spiritually? Or stuck in a skilled nursing facility with no internet, no money and no Monday night football?
If you are happy with that particular brand of mediocrity, then by all means revel in it. Let it drive your emotions, and carry you away to that next Home Depot project. But don't count on me for vicarious adventures because tomorrow, I'm going to die. I'm going to die before you. You are going to feel it, and our last chance for love and friendship and laughter will die with me.
Then you'll be dead too.
I might die tomorrow. Not you. Not your 80 year-old mother or 90 year-old grandfather. Me. Middle-aged, full of life, vibrant, high-spirited, talkative me. Me, who turns your life upside-down because I have no filter. Me, who has tried to set you up with every single person I know because I want you to find the happiness that found me years ago. Me, who has been running around this crazy world, seeking dangerous circumstances, taking selfies, and posting to Facebook while you keep your couch from floating away. Yes, it is me who might just die tomorrow. Poof. Gone in an instant.
I guarantee the world will be different without me. The sky will be a little less blue. The grass a little less green and the sun just a touch less brilliant. You won't notice the sweet smell of an ocean breeze, or the crisp, clean air at the top of the mountain. You will lament the snowfall because you have to shovel your way out to get to that awesome, desk job day in and day out, rather than embracing the 8 inches of powder and heading out to play in it. I get it. You are an adult. You have responsibilities. You have kids. You can't just up and leave your life for that thing that feeds your soul. It's irresponsible. It's selfish. It's not serving the greater good. You've worked all your life for this stable, comfortable, state of mediocrity, and by gosh, you are going to see it through.
Then, you are going to retire and when you retire, maybe you'll take that trip you've always wanted to take, or buy that car you've always wanted to fix up. You'l remodel the kitchen for the umpteenth time or recover the furniture because, again, Home Depot has a workshop.
And when you finally find the time to do something wild and crazy, like shop at Trader Joe's instead of your usual Safeway fallback, I will be long gone. No more selfies. No more adventures. No more calls from the airport. "Hey, I'm in town. Drop everything and let's go act like teenagers."
You may not notice it at first, but something will be missing. While you are searching for the hammer you misplaced, you'll wonder why your email is full of spam instead of long-winded, heartfelt letters trying to explain the meaning of life from a cafe in Indonesia. You might wake up one day and say to yourself, "Something's missing."
And it will be me.
So by all means, isolate yourself with the meaningless and the mundane. Save up for that comfy vacation you take to Arizona every year, and count the days until you can get that AARP card. Relish those senior discounts all over town. Get a little fatter and make sure that pasty white skin of yours never sees the sun.
It's dangerous out there. You're too old to take those risks. You're too smart to do something wild and crazy and fun. You might lose yourself, or that ridiculously unhappy person in your life who sucks the life out of you. Your life might change.
As the years go by, you will train yourself not to miss me, or the countless others who disappear from your life. You will forget all the goodness I once brought to you, and the love that consumed you with passion and vibrancy. And while my death will be quick and tragic and awful, yours will be slow and methodical. You will lose one thing everyday, your agility, your memory, your eyesight. Until all that's left is a shell of a human being that your kids have to endure.
You will die too.
So make that phone call. Reserve those airline tickets and go to that place on the other side of the planet where the wind smells sweet and the music dances between the thunder of crashing waves. Write to her. Embrace him even though you know it's going to turn you inside out. Swim, ski, ride, play, dance, sing, because tomorrow, I will be dead. You will remain with the hollow feeling of "if only she had more time."
"If only I had taken that risk."
So far, none of us have gotten out of this life alive. That is certain. The when and how is not defined. If you only had six months left to live, what would you do with it? You can ask this question all day and answer with all the exotic plans you made as a young 20-something with your whole life ahead of you. But when do you ask yourself, what if Sally only has six months? What if Johnny is bed-ridden for the rest of his life. What if you can no longer call/text/email your best friend because they are now gone, mentally, physically, spiritually? Or stuck in a skilled nursing facility with no internet, no money and no Monday night football?
If you are happy with that particular brand of mediocrity, then by all means revel in it. Let it drive your emotions, and carry you away to that next Home Depot project. But don't count on me for vicarious adventures because tomorrow, I'm going to die. I'm going to die before you. You are going to feel it, and our last chance for love and friendship and laughter will die with me.
Then you'll be dead too.
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