As parents, we spend most of our time doing for our kids. We cook for them, drive them around, help with their homework, teach them how to tie their shoes, tie a tie, answer their ever-changing but not always pertinent questions, clean their wounds, and ice their aches and pains. We feel competent and good about ourselves when we can solve a problem for them, teaching them a skill that they can carry through their lives. It’s the bonus check we get from this under-paid job — that internal feeling that we got something right. This is why we became parents–for the shiny, happy moments when our kids are happy and we in turn are happy knowing we had something to do with that.
But what happens when we notice our kids are not happy? What about the things we can’t fix? What about when your child tells you that the group of friends he hangs with, his best friends since kindergarten have suddenly shunned him? That they have decided for some reason, that your kid is no longer cool and that he should be not called or texted to go anywhere or hang out anymore?
After a week of seeing my son’s face walk through the door at 2:45, it finally dawned on me. He never used to come home after school. He would go off with his friends–either to someone’s house, or out to the local pizza joint. I realized that I had started seeing him come home, plop in front of the TV and stay there through dinner. There were no invitations coming at night or on the weekends either. This was not normal. This was my very social child, the one I never had to worry about.
This is the part of parenting that makes me want to run back to bed and throw the pillow over my head. Here is a problem that as a parent I can’t fix. Of course my first reaction is to go beat the crap out of this kid, the one who decided to use my son as a scapegoat to his own insecurities, to stoop to the middle school level and tell him what I think of him making sure I throw in a few choice adjectives that will wreck his self-esteem for the rest of his life; but I obviously realize that is out of the question, if for no other reason as it would ruin my son’s chances of EVER getting back in with his group of friends.
My kid is no saint, trust me. I went through this a few years ago only I was on the other end and received the call from the crying parent that my son was being a jerk. I did the appropriate thing–made him feel like crap and drove his sorry teasing ass over to the kids house to apologize. Did he become friends with this kid, no, but I did need to show my son that his behavior was not acceptable. I believe he did learn his lesson as his apology to the kid in front of his friends was quite humbling, but now he sits on the other side of it. And he is older–so the rules have changed,
So what is a parent to do? Call Channel 7 and report that my son is being bullied so he can be on TV and be made fun of for the REST of his life? Call the parents and cry and plead my case so they can feel bad and make their kid feel bad–until they get to school and pull him around back to beat the shit out of him? No. Unfortunately my role here as a parent has to be like the therapist. Listen, nod, say things like “How does that make you feel?” I need to control my urge to ride in on a white horse and fix it, because I know that it wouldn’t fix anything. I can joke with him and ask him if he wants me to beat these kids up–if only to make him smile a little–but ultimately it is up to him to figure it out.
As parents this breaks our hearts because we have all been through it at some point. I moved five times between 6th and 10th grades, believe me, I had my share of teasing and torture from kids in Wellesley, New York, and Florida. It didn’t help that the humidity in Florida made my acne rage and my parents didn’t believe in dermatologists, and honestly some of the slurs slung in my direction still stick in my mind after all these years. So I know what it’s like. But I had to figure it out myself and unfortunately so do my kids. And that sucks.
This problem had actually been going on for a while before I finally got my son to admit it to me. After he finally told me, he explained that he already had a plan in effect. He had already moved to a different lunch table with some kids that he had never hung out with. He told me he just hadn’t “established the friendship enough yet” to warrant hanging out with them after school but that he was “working on it”. So it seems that he is already handling it. Left to their own devices kids usually do. It’s just the impatience of us, the parents , that can sometimes make the situation worse.
It would have been easier for me not to know what was going on. I could easily have turned a blind eye and not pressed him for details –then my heart wouldn’t break for him and I wouldn’t have to worry about things I have no control over. But the bonus check will come here when he does work this situation out and my knowledge of the fact that he has learned a coping skill for the rest of his life. With that I also learn a lesson in patience and trusting that sometimes what we don’t do for our kids is just as important as what we do.
The second time I met Dr. Plastic he had a red gash on his forehead. He laughed saying that he had forgotten to remove his glasses from the front of his shirt when he pulled it over his head and the glasses cut into his forehead. This made Dr. Plastic a little more human to me. Over the past two years under his care I have come to understand just how eccentric he is. My oncologist described him as a little crazy but a genius. I am not sure I would go as far as to call him genius since he did pop my expander and also put in an implant one size too big–but one thing is certain, the man can sew human skin so as a scar is barely visible and he is a perfectionist.
Yesterday, I lay in pre-op waiting for my re-construction surgery, Mark and Gina at my side. My IV was in place, I had met with 2 anesthesiologists –one great, the other looked like she’d been sampling a little too much of her own anesthesia, 3 nurses and an orderly. According to hospital protocol, every person that enters the patients curtained area must ask three questions 1) What is your name 2) What is your date of birth, and 3) What are you having done today. I had no problem answering the first two, but as you all now know about my aversion to certain words, I stumbled on number 3 every time. ”Frances Kolenik, 2.13.63, ummm….nipple reconstruction.” Nobody but me flinched at the word–I really need to grow up.
The last person I met with was Dr. Plastic himself. He stumbled into my area, his head covered in white spiky hair still moist from his recent shower. I noted how much his hair had thinned in the two years I have been under his care. He had definitely aged through my cancer journey…I hoped that I hadn’t aged quite as rapidly as he. The second thing I noticed was a red gash that ran down the length of his forehead.
“Are you kidding me?” I said. Gina laughed out loud at this noticing it at the same time.
“Tell me you didn’t do it again.”
Dr. Plastic looked puzzled.
“Your forehead, the glasses? Again?”
“Oh now I am embarrased,” he said, touching the red line, “You remembered from last time? Well, what can I say, I was rushing?”
“This doesn’t bode too well, for me,” I said, thinking that stumbling and bumbling and rushing might cause my nipple to be placed somewhere around my bellybutton.
Dr. Plastics was insulted, “That’s ok, I am not doing the surgery, she is,” he pointed somewhere across the room to someone that was out of my sightline.
“NO! Just kidding. I want you to do it.”
“Ha, see?” he said. “Don’t worry.”
I actually have no way of knowing if he actually did the surgery or handed it off like they do on Grey’s Anatomy to an intern in the OR. Either way it’s fine. Somehow I totally trust this bumbling, eccentric genius. I trust him enough to sit there while he writes all over me in sharpie and draws the exact spot he will operate so I will be even with the other side. When he steps back to look at me and measure the distance with his artists eye and then calls Gina over to get her opinion I realize that I have lost every semblance of modesty that might have been left over after childbirth. My nipple has become public domain…as has my whole chest actually.
Gina noticed something else about Dr. Plastic. I don’t remember this because maybe they had already started the drugs, but according to Gina, Dr. Plastic tucked me back into bed and fixed my hair under the shower curtain they make you wear. It must be this gentle, caring side of Dr. Plastic that makes him so good at what he does. I believe he really cares about his patients and wants them to be happy. As a plastic surgeon, he is not dealing with life and death but instead deals with egos and peoples feelings of self-esteem which is so important after someone has lost a body part to cancer. He understands the awkwardness and pain that accompanies plastic surgery, and that is why he is a genius — oh, and man can he sew up skin!
Compared to my other surgeries, this was a piece of cake. He gave me the go-ahead to run by next Tuesday (which means I will run Monday). And thankfully I am coming to the end of this whole fiasco. My Barbie Boob is history leaving me only to meet with the tattoo lady in a few months, and In two weeks I will have my port removed. Then it will really be all done.
I am approaching the 2 year anniversary of when I started my Chemotherapy treatments; it was the Spring of 2008. A lot happens in 2 years and yet some days, it feels as if it never happened–almost. Here is a piece for a Grub Street class that I will be shopping out for publication. It is written in “Collage” form and really sums up how Chemo turned my whole world upside-down while I tried to create normalcy for my family. It’s kind of long and many parts you may recognize from other pieces — which is why it’s called a “collage” piece. I welcome your feedback, good and bad, as to whether or not you feel this is worthy of publication. Thanks.
Running Through Chemo
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Through my passenger side window I see them in their cars on their way to work. They drink coffee and talk on cell phones. I sit in silence while my husband drives. We listen to the droning talk of NPR on the car radio. He does not ask me how I am feeling whch is good, because I don’t know how I would answer. He does not ask me if I am scared which I’m sure he thinks would be too obvious. Since it is to be my first treatment, I don’t yet know about the long wait in the waiting room surrounded by men and woman in various stages of illness and treatment. I have yet to see the overly sunny infusion room where leather recliners line the walls like a furniture showroom. I haven’t met Heidi. I don’t know yet that Heidi will have to wear protective clothing when she injects me with the Adriamycin because if she gets it on her skin it will burn a hole in her flesh. I do not know this yet–or the feeling of sick-panic as I watch this toxic liquid go into my veins. Nor do I know yet how much I will come to love Heidi and her smiling face and infectious laugh. I haven’t learned about the ultimate trust you can put into another human being—one you have just met.
What I do know is that the car is barely moving through traffic and that we might be late and that I have to pee because a friend told me that the best way to avoid getting sick with chemo was to stay well hydrated. I know that my husband looks tired. I know that he didn’t mean what he said at dinner last night when I asked him what he learned from the book I gave him, “The Breast Cancer Husband.” I know he didn’t mean it when he said he learned that if “he didn’t leave me before, then he certainly wouldn’t leave me now.” I know he meant this to be re-assuring.
Now I can see the hospital entrance and the concrete ramp walls as we pull up into the garage – it is still so early in the morning, barely 6:30, and only the parking attendants are there.
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What exactly are the side effects, Doctor Anderson?
The biggest problem is the nausea and vomiting and/or diarrhea with loss of appetite, but we can control that with other drugs like Zofran, Compazine, Reglan, Emend and Ativan and we’ll give you a steroid to increase your appetite.
But I don’t even like to take aspirin.
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It is a sensory onslaught. The snap of the needles as they access your port, the crackle of ice packs, the ripping of tape. It’s the sweet sticky smell of the cold crimson poison coursed through your veins, warm packs on the infusion sight, dry mouth, metallic tasting water that doesn’t quench your thirst, queasy stomach; the salty taste as you swallow your tears… You close your eyes, try to listen to music, open your eyes, try to read a book, sleep, wake up, smile at the nurse, then it’s done. You go home and take massive amounts of anti-nausea medicine. Some make your heart race, some put you to sleep, some make you cry, but they are all supposed to make your stomach not jump around.
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There is of course the hair loss –fourteen days after your second infusion your hair will fall out. Some people just go ahead and shave their head– it’s a way to have some control.
Maybe I won’t lose mine.
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My baldhead is shiny and prickly at the same time. When I run my hand from my forehead to the back it feels as smooth as crushed velvet but when I rub my hand back upwards to the scalp it feels as scratchy as a cat’s tongue. It is ugly and beautiful and embarrassing and empowering. It screams to the world that I have cancer and it whispers to me at night that I may not survive. It is shapelier than some and tinier than most. There is no hiding under my baldhead. Every wrinkle, line, acne scar stands at attention on my face.
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“This was a really bad idea,” I say to my husband.
There are so many people around us, hundreds of children and parents clamoring to buy overpriced popcorn, candy, soda and pretzels, before the show starts. Pushing us around. Their close proximity is making me sweat. I don’t know why we are here, especially during April vacation. Our usual trip to Myrtle Beach cancelled this year because of my stupid cancer. Why did I think this was a consolation prize? The Greatest Show on Earth? Hardly. My kids are far too old at 14 and 11 to be here. Even the 8 year old seems aggravated. My head is itchy. It’s too hot. Everyone is staring at my head. Everyone knows I am wearing a wig.
“Calvin!” I say to my oldest son, trying to get his attention.
“What?”
“How does my hair look?” I whisper at him over the noise.
“What?”
“How-Does-My-Hair-Look? Do you think people can tell it’s a wig?”
He stares at me for a moment while I wait patiently for his words of reassurance and encouragement. Words like “No Ma, it looks great.” Or, “You can’t tell at all.” But instead, as if I were a department store mannequin, he reaches up with both hands, grabs my hair and shifts it to the right with a slight yank.
“There,” he says, “That’s better.”
#
There will be a decrease in your white blood cell count called bone marrow suppression but you will give yourself a shot after each chemo treatment to increase the amount of cells, which will cause joint and muscle pain. Because of your repressed immune system you should stay away from crowded places like schools.
What about Nursing Homes?
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“I’m sorry mom, but I think this is really it. You won’t be going home this time. It’s not safe for you anymore.”
“That’s all right dear, don’t worry about me. Everyone is very nice here. I just wish she would leave,” she said pointing at her roommate in the curtained area next to her bed.
“She seems nice,” I lie, glancing at the woman who blocked my way on purpose with her wheelchair when I tried to enter. She probably sensed my disgust, my utter impatience with the aged. My sister-in-law never understood how I would much rather spend a day with a roomful of children than the elderly. She always preferred the opposite – but, sometimes we have no choice.
“Listen, Mom, I am not going to be able to come visit for a few months while I am getting chemo.” Could she see the relief on my face? After 25 years, I had grown weary of this trip to Hingham from the North Shore – now I had an excuse, carte blanche from my oncologist.
“I never lost my hair, you know,” she said running her crooked hand through her still thick locks.
“Right, Mom, that’s because you had radiation, not chemo, remember?”
“Still as thick as ever. You have beautiful hair, you know that? Do you know how beautiful you are? You don’t do you? I never thought I was beautiful. Tom Callahan used to tell me I had the most gorgeous legs –but I never believed him.”
“I know, Ma. Will you be all right without me for a while? Maureen and Karen will still come, and I will call, but you know, the germs and all.”
I was surprised by her strength when she grabbed my hand, her rings cutting into my skin, “I worry about you every day – it’s not fair, you are so young, and I am so old.”
“Oh, please don’t cry. Really I will be fine, look, I am strong, really. It’s no big deal.”
#
Neuropathy is another side effect – a numbness that occurs in the hands and feet; this can be permanent.
But how can I run on numb feet?
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Most days, I walk a tightrope of sanity. Running is the velcro that secures my sneakers to that rope. It helps me avoid the tumble into the abyss of insecurity and paranoia that waits to swallow me. While I run, my head gets cleared of all the negative thoughts about my friends and my family. It allows me the time alone with my feelings to understand that life can be hard but that there is so much to appreciate as well. It’s free and quick and allows me to eat cookies –lots and lots of cookies. Some days as I run through the streets of my suburban town, I list my blessings, as my mother always tells me to do. I have 3 beautiful and healthy children, a house, a family, and some truly supportive friends, My feet and knees are still intact so I am lucky in that respect. This feeling of thankfulness particularly happens on cool crisp fall morning runs. Although I now run year round, it’s the fall days that bring my spirit back. The late morning sun warms my back while a brisk breeze cools my face. There is nothing like jogging through newly fallen leaves and inhaling the smell of burning wood to make you appreciate the seasons and remind you why you live in New England.
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What else, doctor?
The combination of A/C, Taxol and a full year of Herceptin, can sometimes be toxic to your heart, causing congestive heart failure, but it is rare.
Wait. You know I do triathlons. What happens if my heart is damaged?
Well, if you want to get rid of the cancer then you have to take those chances. Besides you should be fine –you are an athlete.
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“Maybe we should go home,” my 11-year-old son said to me as I stopped at the stone wall at the top of our street, my hands on my knees.
I can’t catch my breath.
“No, let me just sit here a minute.”
Aidan sat next to me, putting the library books down on the ground between us so he could rub my back.
Shit.
“Do you want me to run home and get dad?”
“Let me think a minute.”
Something’s wrong.
“You know what, let’s just head back home. I need to lie down, ok? We’ll go to the library tomorrow.
“Sure, Mom.”
#
I wasn’t expecting the phone call so soon as I drove home from the hospital after my MUGA heart scan –a nasty test where they take out some of your blood, mix it with
radiation and shoot it back into your veins—to see if my heart was failing. I wasn’t 20 minutes away when my oncologist’s name came up on my cell phone. “You were right,” she said, “They called me from radiation. Your Left Ventricular Function has dropped significantly, looks like we are going to have to stop the chemo for a while, maybe for good. Go on vacation and relax. We’ll revisit this at the end of the summer.”
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We know now that the heart damage is permanent but we need to finish the treatment. Let’s pick up where we left off.
I don’t want the weekly Taxol –just give me the year of Herceptin—there are far less side effects.
Well, we really recommend the Taxol.
No, I’m good.
#
“She doesn’t recognize you.”
“Mom, it’s me, I haven’t been here in a while.”
“Have you ever driven with, Franny?’
“I am Franny, Mom.”
“You are pretty. I like your haircut.”
“Mom it’s me.”
“Have you ever driven with Franny? It’s a tough ride. A tough ride.”
“Mom, are you comfortable? I’m sorry I haven’t called in a while.”
“Tough ride with Franny, have you ever driven with her?”
“Well yes, I have as a matter of fact…and she certainly always gets you there on time, now doesn’t she?”
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Bet you never thought you’d see this day.
What day?
Today is your very last infusion
You mean, that’s it?
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“This place is bad enough in the daytime –it’s seriously creepy in the middle of the night.”
“Can you help me dress her?” my sister asked me.
“Maureen, the funeral home will do that.” I knew they were on their way, they only gave us two hours with her before they called the mortician.
My mother’s roommate snored in the bed next to us and a woman was screaming across the hall for somebody “anybody” to help her.
“I am not sending her out of here in someone else’s nasty bathrobe, she would never forgive me.”
I laughed at this. Maureen had never been more serious.
“Black or Brown belt?”
I looked down at my mother, whose body, even in the few hours since her last breath, had begun to contort. She didn’t look peaceful to me. She looked as if she had struggled against the inevitable right up until the last minute.
“I should have come to see her more.”
“Well you couldn’t,” my sister said, pulling a tan jacket out of the closet and holding the belt against it to see if it matched, “besides, it’s too late now.”
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When the IV line beeped, signifying my last bag of medicine was empty, and my port was de-accessed, I headed for the elevator, said goodbye like any other day and walked through the garage to my car. I left that building that I had visited every 3 weeks– sometimes more often than that– for the last year and a half, the halls of which signified a beacon of hope in an otherwise bleak forecast to my future. I left, looking for a parade in my honor. Of course, there was no parade, just the garage attendant who took my money and stamped my ticket like he had every other day.
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Leaves fell like tickertape as I ran through my suburban streets last week –and I learned something about living in the moment. I realized that if I think about how much farther I have to go until the end of my run or even visualize a hill that I will be ascending a few streets away then my run becomes very difficult. I become tired and weak, my legs feel heavy and, I begin to think that I won’t make it through the whole route. If, on the other hand, I concentrate on how my legs feel with each footfall and how pleasant the cool air is against my face, or how much I love the song that is reverberating in my ears, then I feel invincible –like I could run all day.
Yesterday was Valentines Day. Never a favorite holiday of mine. Partly because I believe it is a made-up Hallmark Holiday but mostly because it is the day after my birthday, which means everyone in the world gets to recieve flowers and candy and goes out to eat. My birthday feels like it is tacked on to everyone else’s special-ness. Must be the same for Christmas babies. Growing up, my parents always gave me something for Valentines Day that I know was held aside from my birthday booty, just so they could give me something. Never was this more evident than the year I got an unbrella for a Valentines Day gift. Really? An Umbrella? I guess their love for me was evident in that they didn’t want me to get wet and catch a cold.
Valentines Day–the day of chocolates and jacked up priced roses and Prix Fix Dinners, when couples around the world show their love for one another. As I am a deep-down-soul-crushing romantic, Valentines Day should make me happy. But it just makes me sad. It makes me sad because everywhere I look I see un-happy couples. Most married couples I know are terribly dissatisfied with their marriages. Many have left, most want to get out but don’t know how to, and some are resigned to stay in loveless partnerships. What is going on? Is it what happens when we hit our 40’s? The kids are grown and now after 20 some odd years you look across the breakfast table at your partner and…yuck, who ARE you. You are not the same person I married. I am not the same person you married. WHY are we still sitting here?
This scene is nothing new. It has played out over the years in every household at some point. I remember the night my mother told me that I would have to choose between her and my father as she kicked him out. She always threatened to go but they always stayed together. They stayed for appearances sake and fear of the stigma of divorce. After my father died my mother talked of their marriage like it was ideal…but we all knew better. Would they both have been happier if they had parted ways early on? Would any couple be better off?
I honestly think that humans are not meant to be together as long as the bible, or the pope,or whoever it was that made up the rule that we are supposed to mate for life. I believe that marriage should be treated like a business or a sports contract. I believe that every 7 years both parties should come to the table with grievances. If there are irreconcilable differences, or someone just wants to go, then that’s it. The contract is dissolved. Split the house, figure out the schedules, remain friends. Since everyone else would be on this 7 year plan then there would be plenty of “free agents” around. No stigma attached to the word “Divorcee” or dishonor involved from a “failed” marriage. No one hanging on to “spite” the other. Nope. We just decided not to renew our contract.
Since both parties know that there is a time limit on this “contract” it becomes less likely that one party will take the other for granted as the years go by. You’d better make damned sure you treat him/her right since he/she has the option of signing on with someone else. You may listen more intently, you may put the toilet seat down, you may fill the Brita when it becomes bone dry. You may do these things because you do love this person and the thought of them leaving you makes you awfully sad. So you work a little harder at keeping them around. You pay attention so you don’t wake up one day after 25 years of marriage to a note on your pillow saying that she has found someone else more sensitive. Even though you could be that sensitive, you forgot, because it seemed like you had plenty of time to be that great guy…but time ran out. With the 7 year plan, you always know that you can’t let things go too long.
Some might say that we have become a throw away society. That no one is willing to work at their marriages. I agree. I agree that time should be spent on fixing what has been broken or rekindling what may have become lost over the years of diapering, and paying mortgages, but when that doesn’t work, when people are not in love anymore I say, move on. Find someone you do love; feel the butterflies again,be happy, let your partner go to be happy. Love is everywhere and it is real. It is not in a box of chocolates, or a card that was bought at the Paper Store on your way home from work, or in a $200 dollar dinner–it is in our hearts and we deserve to be happy. You deserve to be happy.
My family moved a lot when I was growing up. Between 6th and 10th grade I lived in seven different houses in 3 different states and went to six different schools. Aside from leaving me a nervous wreck and very restless at times, this transience taught me one valuable lesson—how to make friends. I became quite adept at meeting new people and making them like me, laughing at the right time, acting cool. I learned the subtleties of not seeming too desperate but being available enough so when I got the call to go out, I was ready to go. Because of this constant mobility, I also became quite proficient at leaving people behind. It became clear that friends come into our lives and often leave for good. I got very good at “moving on”…which, in certain situations, is quite necessary.
Most of our adult friends can be categorized; they serve different functions in our lives and apart for your very best friend who lives far away or your local best friend and the few go-to-pals who you can always call for drinks or tea or a good cry, most friends come and go throughout our lives as our interests change.
I have running friends—the people I do my races with. We talk about race times and training and when our next race is. I also have separate biking and swimming friends. I have the friends I met through my kids over the years—the parents of their friends, or through their sports activities. These are the friends I can chat with at hockey games or school functions so I don’t look like a complete loser standing off by myself. I have my concert buddies—those with the same taste in music as I have that will always go to a show when I ask. I have my writing friends, my gym friends, and my work friends. All of these friends are based on a mutual interest and sometimes when that interest fades or changes, so too does the relationship. It’s a natural progression, the ebb and flow of friends in our lives.
While I was going through my diagnosis, surgeries, and chemo, I noticed that I had lots of friends. There was always someone at the door, ringing the phone, checking on my well–being, sending a thoughtful card, or delivering food. Now that I am “better” those friends have receded back into the shadows of my life. I understand that this is exactly how it should be and is the nature of life after any turmoil—eventually everything must go back to normal, but sometimes, I miss that part of being sick. I miss the company, the human contact that is painfully lacking in our new Facebook generation. Ironically, I am in touch with many more people than I used to, but I spend far more time alone.
Facebook tells me I have 113 friends (which is quite low compared to others) and suddenly all these old friendships, which were essentially dead in the water, naturally purged, are bobbing to the surface. It’s difficult enough most days trying to swim through this life but now here is Jane from grammar school popping up on your left, and look-out up ahead, its your old boyfriend from High School, and everywhere you kick its Bob from your first radio job and there’s that girl, oh what’s-her-name? –The one you used to get high with all the time? Facebook lingo dictates that these are my “friends”, when really many are old acquaintances or just plain old people that knew me when I was skinnier and didn’t have to color my hair.
But we left all of these people behind for a reason. Some of these friends were only that because they went to the same parties you did, or were on the same soccer team. Some are simply friends of old boy-friends or kids you’d see in the halls whose basis of friendship at age 15 was pure and simple—no strings attached—“you like the Clash? Me too. Let’s hang out. Maybe it’s someone who worked at the first job you had or a friend of a friend from College.
So now we are forced to get to know these people all over again. These grown-up versions of the people we used to know. Which has turned us all in voyeurs. Don’t deny it. If you have a Facebook page—you are a voyeur. This is how it goes: We friend someone or accept their friendship invitation, send them a brief note to catch them up on the last 30 years and then we watch. We watch their status reports to see if they are funny, or serious, smart or quirky–to make sure they are political, but not TOO political. We browse photos of their families and sometimes of their friends’ families. Have they gained weight? Do they look happy? We discover that they have had some amazing careers, or lived through terrible tragedy. If we like what we see then we send them comments, or just hit the “like” button if we don’t feel witty enough to reply. Then eventually a new friendship emerges, very different from the original relationship, but a new one—quick, easy, convenient. Very little effort needs to be exerted. I can learn about your life without actually talking to you.
But what about those ‘real’ friends we have –you know, the ones you actually go out with in person? These relationships actually take some work. Both parties are responsible for keeping communication open, making sure there is enough contact and learning when to talk and when to listen. These are the real friendships and the ones we need to work on cultivating so they won’t slip through our hands. I fear for my children because they are growing up in an age when quantity takes precedence over quality—they are judged by the number of ‘friends’ on their page, quick hits are easier to make then a phone call, and texting is faceless and easier than listening to the disappointment in someone’s voice. My kids will not learn the art of cultivating friendships like I did, because like everything else it’s been pre-packaged for them.
I don’t imagine that Facebook will go away—it seems as if it is here to stay. And there is some good in it. I have discovered a few unpolished gems among these old acquaintances. These are people I never would have had the opportunity to meet again. What I find most fascinating is that there seems to be a genuine caring that emanates from these old friends, who knew me way back “when” before we had grown up, when the world was at our feet, and opportunity abounded. We had dreams of where we would end up and ,whether we hit the mark or not, I find that their opinion holds a lot of weight with me. Also, Facebook helps keep me in contact with family members who live far away—where a phone call would be impossible and expensive.
But as great as Facebook can be, I must remember that it’s the real friendships in my life that hold the most importance. I need to make sure that the bulk of my time is spent with my real-live friends—to be careful that I don’t become lazy and remember that friendships –real friendships—take a lot of work, and are well worth it.
I visited my old friend Dr. Plastic this week. It had been awhile. Except for a brief sighting in the halls of The Brigham last month where I crooned like a fan-girl spotting my favorite rock star before Gina pulled me away (“oh, look…it’s him…”), I hadn’t talked to the good surgeon since last April. That’s when I was convinced that my silicone implant was leaching poison throughout my body slowly killing me or turning me into stone like Joan Rivers’ face. He assured me that it wasn’t. At that visit we did discuss the fact that he had made me a tad lopsided and would possibly need to re-do the entire surgery to give me a smaller implant to match my other side.
I don’t get the warm and fuzzy feeling from Dr. Plastic that I used to get. Maybe it was the drugs they had me on. Maybe he felt bad for me then. Now I am just another patient to him, one he can’t even really gouge for more surgery as I think these guys are required to perform a certain amount of mastectomies for insurance reasons. I had become an onerous obligation to him. One he should have been done with already. Otherwise, his real bread is buttered by the botox, boob-job, and butt-lift crowd. When I entered the waiting room, he barely looked up from the receptionist desk as he and his gal poured over vacation spots on the internet; “See this one has 4 pools and a walkway to the beach.” Ack.
When he checked out my chest in the office, he was all business. We concluded together that I would not go ahead with replacing the whole breast again. It would be too much surgery for me and he thought that the next size down would be too small. I have no problem with this since in nature we are all a little lopsided anyway.
“Just see how it goes,” he said as he closed my file and headed for the door.
“Wait.” I said. ”What about the rest of it? So I don’t have a Barbie-boob anymore.”
“What? Oh do you want….”
Don’t say it, I thought, not the word….
As many who know me are aware, there are a few words in the English language that I can’t handle. They skeeve me, make my skin crawl, and I have a hard time rolling them off my tongue. Ointment is one of those words, the way it sounds, the connotation, the word itself. Chipotle has also become one of my truly despised words. To me it’s completely made up and you have to actually swallow the word to say it. It gets stuck deep in your throat. I won’t even take my kids to the restaurant of the same name…and they know it. ”Oh don’t ask Mom to go to Chipotle, she’ll freak out.” Slacks, blouse, bosom, I have quite a few and thanks to my catholic upbringing many of which involve female body parts. But one of the worst for me is Nipple.
Here I was, faced with having to not only say this word but ask for a new and improved version of my old one.
“So you want to go ahead with the nipple replacement surgery?” he said.
“I guess so.” I said. Ew. Now I just wanted him to go back to his travel-agent secretary and stop thinking about my nipple and fast. But instead he was back sitting down telling me about how they would be taking skin from my ASS and making a, well, you know. And that I would be out of commission for 4 weeks. Here we go again, I thought, just in time to begin my training for the Pan Mass.
“Schedule it with my secretary for some time in March,” he said, “I will be away in February.”
Ya, I know.
As much as I don’t want another surgery and am actually contemplating pushing it back until next year, I also want this whole thing finished. I am starting to feel like the Golden Gate Bridge. By the time they finish putting me back together and painting me up all nice, I will be falling apart and rusting somewhere else. I also figure the faster I get this done, the faster I can stop having to find ways of avoiding the word I hate so much. Like when my 16-year-old son asked me yesterday why I was having surgery, I said, “Umm, so they can make me anatomically correct.” He didn’t ask any more questions.
Surgery is scheduled for March 11th.
I began believing in ghosts at a young age. When I was a little girl I watched a Hall-Mark television Christmas special “The Littlest Angel” where a little shepherd boy named Michael–well known at the time for his role as Buffy’s sidekick Jodi on the TV show, A Family Affair–fell off a mountain while chasing a butterfly and he died. After he was in heaven for a few hours, God let him go home to get his treasure box that he kept under his bed as a gift for the baby Jesus. After he retrieved the box, the boy watched his parents crying over the death of their son. He tried to reassure them that he was all right, but as hard as he tried, he wasn’t able to speak to them. The frustration I felt for Michael/Jodi was so real—I was devastated that he could not communicate with his parents and it was then that I became certain about the existence of ghosts. I became convinced that once you die your spirit can come and go as it pleases. I believe that spirits exist all around us; especially tortured souls who hang around trying to right a wrong or wander aimlessly in search of happiness.
It wasn’t until I was much older that I encountered my own ghost. Mark and I were at a Bed and Breakfast in Vermont. It was a cold late fall weekend and we had booked a room at the old farmhouse hoping for a few days filled with hiking and snuggling by the fire. As it is in many Bed and Breakfast type inns, often there is a communal bathroom – something I never liked –so I always insisted on a room with a private bath. This particular Inn only had one room with a bath available but it was an “Attic Room”.
Three flights up and we really were in the attic. Sloped ceilings, cobwebs, gapped plank wood floors and all. The tiny windows sat at floor level and looking at them from the massive four-poster canopied bed made me feel enormous, much like Alice in her rabbit hole. Across the room where the roof met the windows at the dormer, there was a rocking chair, which looked out onto a meadow replete with sheep, next to that was a small end table with an off-white dialed radio, circa 1950. It was on this chair one morning that I encountered Amanda.
“Mark, wake up.” I tried to prod him awake so he could see what I was seeing. It was early morning, the mist was still on the sheep field and the light was just filtering in through the gossamer curtains, I shook my head and tried to clear my vision. “Mark, there is a woman in our room.”
It was her profile I saw. She sat in the rocking chair, straight backed and silent, looking out the window. Her hair was up in a tight bun and she wore a floor-length dress. Her hands—tiny delicate hands—were folded in her lap. She did not move; only sat and stared.
Thirty seconds passed, if that. I hit Mark again. “What’s the matter?” he said.
I pointed to the window, “There is-a-woman-sitting-in–that-chair.”
Mark reached for his glasses on the bedside table. “Blind as a bat” some would call him. Without his contacts or glasses he can’t see inches in front of his face. I have always said that is why he married me, because he could never actually see how horrible I looked in the morning.
By the time Mark found his glasses and focused on the spot I was pointing to, the sun began to stream through the tiny dusty windows and Amanda was gone.
“It was probably just the light.” He said, rolled over and fell back asleep.
Later at breakfast I found out from the waitress that indeed I did see Amanda. I learned that she had come to the farmhouse in a blizzard with her husband at the turn of the century and that she was pregnant. I believe she died that winter, maybe in childbirth, I forget the particulars, but that she was so attached to this house that she refused to leave it. In the breakfast room as word got around that I had seen her, I got lots of stories from the girls who clean the rooms:
“ I will go up to that room and fluff and straighten the pillows, and then I go back 10 minutes later and they are all a mess.”
“I always get in trouble from the owner because I will turn the heat down, I know that I do, and she keeps turning the thermostat back up.”
“Once a woman stayed in that room and her husband was far away in a boating accident, the woman claims that as she lay there she felt comforting arms enfold her and she knew that her husband was going to be alright—and yet she hadn’t been told of the accident yet.”
I squinted and sneered at Mark as if to say “SEE, I am not crazy, and I do NOT need glasses like you said.”
Needless to say, after breakfast I threw my clothes into my suitcase and high-tailed it out of there –cutting our vacation short by a day. Amanda may have been a nice ghost but it was a little too close for me. At this point in my life ghosts were still a scary prospect –Ametyville Horror style. And again, like The Littlest Angel, a sense of sadness surrounded Amanda –a feeling of loss and an inability to communicate.
I am older now, and no longer afraid of ghosts. The ghosts from my immediate family, my two brothers, dad and mom have never revealed themselves to me. I am always looking for my father and mother to show themselves to me; I would love to see them in a chair by my window, but it seems they have moved on. Maybe that is good, maybe that means they have left nothing unresolved –with me at least. I do often feel their presence when I am frightened or sad, a general feeling of someone watching out for me, which I still believe is what ghosts are supposed to do—keep us safe, like Clarence did for George Bailey.
Recently, it occurred to me that it is the living ghosts in my life that are far more disturbing than the spirits that hang around after death. These living ghosts are the relationships that have ended, loves unrequited, friendships lost over petty differences or misunderstandings or people that I have just let slip away out of laziness. These are the ghosts that lurk just outside the periphery of my vision now. These haunt me more than any dead spirit. These are real human beings and there is often great sadness in their losses. Memories pass through my mind occasionally and I have clear images of times spent laughing with these old friends, or maybe I will see someone out of the corner of my eye as I walk down the street—is that them? No just a similarity. Or maybe it was. But we don’t speak anymore. We can’t communicate – like the littlest angel and his parents—we exist on different plains. I suppose I could wait until we all pass on and hope that there is some great reconciliation that takes place in the after-life. Or I could continue to live with these ghosts as I have for many years. I think instead, I will make a vow to myself in this New Year, this New Decade, that I will attempt to rid myself of these living ghosts. Maybe not all of them, but I can start with a few– I can make a phone-call, send a letter, learn to forgive. Maybe then, with nothing left to resolve, my ghosts can move on.
I spent a lot of 2009 worrying about my hair. Yes it seems specious and petty to some, but for me, the growing back of my hair signified a return to health. Every inch that grew on my scalp meant I was that much closer to being normal. I started this year with merely a wiffle and I end it with my hair pretty much back to where it was before chemo began –albeit a little shorter and curlier but with help of a flat-iron it looks almost the same.
When I was bald, I wrote the following excerpt one day about my head:
My bald head is shiny and prickly at the same time. When I run my hand from my forehead to the back it feels as silky as a baby’s bottom but when I rub my hand back upwards to the scalp it feels as scratchy as a cat’s tongue. It is ugly and beautiful and embarrassing and empowering. It screams to the world that I have cancer and it whispers to me at night that I may not survive. It is shapelier than some and tinier than most. There is no hiding under my bald head. Every wrinkle, line, acne scar stands at attention on my face.
I am so glad I wrote this at the time because if I had to think back and write it now, I don’t think I would remember how I felt so vividly. It’s all just a distant memory now, and even looking at these pictures makes me feel oddly removed from the whole situation –like it happened to someone else.
Happy New Year and may you all have beautiful healthy hair in 2010!
The waiting room crawled with toddlers in tasseled GAP boots, and babies in tiny knit hats, and they were all smiling at us.
“They are so happy,” My 10-year-old daughter said to me as we waited for her Strep test. “Don’t they know they are at the doctors?”
“I guess not.”I said, “They haven’t learned to be afraid yet.”
“Aww, look how cute that little girl is.” She crooned, “Looks like I am the oldest one here.”
It was true. I thought of the days when she was happy to crawl around this very same floor, chewing on books and banging at the Lego table. Now she sat next to me, my confidante, nervous in her knowledge of the pain forthcoming from having a stick shoved down her throat. She was growing up.
I thought how three days ago I put up on the mantlepiece the magical elf ,”Christopher Popinkins” ,who is supposed to stay with us from Thanksgiving to Christmas and magically “pop”around the house when the children aren’t looking. I was surprised when her usual glee at seeing Christopher, her excitement at the presence of Santa’s helper that would make her run around and shriek, was replaced by torpor. “Oh, yah,” she said. “Look at that.” Yawn.
I shouldn’t be so sad about the demise of this tradition since Christopher has caused me much anxiety over the past years. Many nights I would come home late and forget to move him and then wake in a panic when I heard little footsteps on the stairs. At which point I would spring from my bed and rush past the kids, sometimes actually pushing them against the wall to get to the living room before they saw that the elf was in the same spot as the night before. Sometimes I grabbed Christopher just in time to fling him high atop the christmas tree or up on the chandelier, but other days they were too quick for me.
Sad faced they asked, “Why hasn’t Christopher moved?”
And that’s when I should have had some moral dilemma regarding lying to children but instead said something like,”Oh he moved a few times while you were sleeping, I saw him in the kitchen and the playroom, he must just be back on the mantle by coincidence.”
Then there was the time when our new dog Carly had somehow jumped up and was chewing at him like he was a leg of lamb. I walked in the house to screaming children,”Mom, WHAT are we going to DO????Carly got CHRISTOPHER! DO something!”
This called for quick action. You see, according to the legend, Christopher was not allowed to be touched or he would go back to Santa, never to be seen again.
“Ok, We have to cordon off the elf!,” I commanded. I surrounded Christophers’ stuffed little body with three baby gates which we were using for the dog and I backed everyone away like it was a crime scene. We stared for a little while not knowing what to do.
And then I lied again.
“Grownups can touch him. Did I ever mention that? It’s totally fine if a parent picks him up in times of crisis.”
And they bought it. I replaced Christopher to his perch, higher this time, out of the reach of our elf-eating canine.
Since my daughter’s bored reaction the other day, Christopher hasn’t moved. And nobody seems to care. My daughter’s belief in magic is sadly slipping away.
Back in the waiting room I watched a cool, hip young mom walk in with her 4-year-old son. Kneeling on the floor in front of the reception desk I noticed her slightly flared corduroys and her chunky boots,probably her favorites as the bottom of the heel was worn away on one side. I remembered my favorite Doc Marten boots that I wore everywhere, replaced now by my more grown-up suede boots. This young Mom was trying desperately to talk to the receptionist and fill out paperwork, while her energetic little boy jumped around in the chair chattering to her, “Can I have gum? Mom, can I have some gum? Gum, um,gum. MOM I want some GUM!”. She held one hand out to steady the boy and alternately said “hush” while she answered questions about her insurance coverage.
It was at that moment I became happy about my age. Not in a “Thank God I don’t have to go through that” kind of way, but because suddenly I knew exactly what to do to help this woman. Because, as a young mother, I NEVER would have interfered, I would have sat there feeling bad for her but wrapped up in my own insecurities and unable to move. Oh I may have given her a sympathetic smile, but the young me would never have taken action.
See, I had raised 2 boys. I knew what to do. In the corner bookshelf I spied a book on Trains.
“Maeve,” I whispered, “go get that book and give it to him.”
“What? No way, Mom.” Exactly how I used to think.
Without hesitation I retrieved the book and approached the little boy. ”Hey, do you like trains?” Of course he did. As I knelt down so he could point out all the different cars to me and we talked about train-tracks and coal cars, his mother was able to finish her business. I had taken a chance that the woman would be pissed off that I had approached her son but she did not say anything–just smiled at me when she was finished.
When I sat down my daughter looked at me like she was noticing me for the first time, amazed at the magic I had just preformed on this little boy, “You-are- awesome-mom.”
And then I got it. It is alright that my kids grow up and lose their belief in elves and fairies and magic. This is supposed to happen — but now it is my job to make sure that it is replaced by their sheer and utter belief in human kindness.
Maeve and I volunteering at the Elliott School in the North End
Now that I am my old self again — well, mostly, except for the plethora of scars that now adorn my body plus the new hair, and half a fake rack– I have become tired of thinking about myself and my ailments, sick of focusing on my body and my health. Whenever there is upheavel in our lives, be it health issues or the death of a loved one, we immediately turn inward and become self-absorbed. This is not necessarily a bad thing. I believe it is necessary for self-preservation. Grieving in any form is very taxing on body and soul and requires many hours of quiet reflection in order to heal. But once the tragedy has passed or at least moved to the recesses of our minds it becomes necessary to turn our gaze outward again.
So I joined the organization called Boston Cares. This organization was started by a few grad students who thought people may not have the time or resources to volunteer at the same time every week so they set up a web site driven system where, after an hour-long orientation, volunteers can go to their site and pick and choose the projects they want to work on at their own convenience. So I may be able to give 2 hours this month and 20 next month. The wonderful part of this is that my kids can come with me and they get their hours tracked on-line as community service for things like CCD and high school requirements. Not to mention it helps my narcissistic darlings look outward as well.
These opportunities are anywhere from Lowell to Boston and run the gamut from working in soup kitchens to building playgrounds, folding clothes in warehouses to making recess books in the North End (see photo of Maeve and I). I highly recommend this organization to anyone who is interested. So many days I think that I am overwhelmed and unable to fit another thing into a 24 hour period, but you would be surprised how much you can help someone in 2 hours –and most of these projects are only that–a small amount of time that you may be wasting on face book or perhaps reading this blog!
Last year at this time I was thanking all of you for your help and support over the previous year. This year I am hoping to start a new trend where I am available to others in need which will give me the opportunity to say “you are welcome” more often than I say “thank you.”
Happy Thanksgiving!
Mothers with Cancer