A Lily in the Field

4 days until surgery. The Richter scale of madness is steadily rising.

I recall telling people during the early stages of treatment that I was "quite zen" about things. I wasn't being flippant here. Or arrogant. I wasn't trying to downplay the gravity of our family being handed a second cancer diagnosis. I was just telling the truth. I felt peaceful. I don't know why. I'm a freak. I'm a weirdo. I don't belong here.

If you approached me anytime from late February until maybe a few weeks ago and asked me how I was doing that's probably the answer you got: I feel fine. I'm at peace. Life, I love you; all is groovy.

Of course, timing is everything.

My sometimes fragile mental state has been subject to a rather extreme yo-yo effect since diagnosis. The first two weeks? Zen is not the word I'd use to describe...anything. Things were more like a runaway train heading full-speed towards a collapsed bridge—with the exciting movie score replaced by panicked primal screams.

Those first two weeks I was light years away from anything remotely resembling "zen." I was scared. Angry. Anxious, mostly. 

Some of my fears were sensible. Who would take care of Ingrid when we were both too tired to move from the couch? How were we going to make mortgage payments? How would we keep our refrigerator stocked? How were we going to coordinate puking time slots with ONE bathroom???

For two weeks, I was in full-on freak-out mode. Probably only Paul noticed. Because I have gotten expert-level good at hiding crazy.

On Sunday, we heard this fortuitous Gospel: Matthew 6:25-34. It's a personal favorite. You know it—the one with the "birds of the air" and the "lilies of the field" that goes:

"So do not worry and say, 'What are we to eat?' or 'What are we to drink?' or 'What are we to wear?' Your Heavenly Father knows that you need them all. But seek first the Kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given you besides. Do not worry about tomorrow; tomorrow will take care of itself."

Don't worry. Easier said than done, yes. But absolutely necessary if I ever planned to make it through the next several months.

I did make it through. Hi. I'm Liz. Still here, still (almost) sane, still making mortgage payments and feeding my family.

I'm slated for surgery in 4 days. My surgeon will remove both of my breasts (one for prophylactic measures) and all of the lymph nodes in my right underarm. He'll also remove my mediport (sayonara sucker). My plastic surgeon will insert expanders, which will slowly stretch the skin. (I know. It freaks me out, too.) It will be several months before they can put in implants because I need to get blasted with radiation first.

My anxiety through all of this has been like bookends, sandwiching a few months of calm. I've come full circle now, back to the nail-biting sour stomaches of my initial diagnosis. Three cheers for Lorazepam! 

And, truth be told, even my transitional period of "zen vibes" was peppered with worry. Perusing my journals, I found an entry in May where I confessed to crying for a full week. Basically over nothing. But then my smart husband reminded me:

"Uh, Liz. This isn't 'nothing.' It's not just some minor bump in the road that every couple encounters. This is big. And it's hard. And you just got your body pumped with drugs. So go REST because this is big, hard, shitty stuff, and your brain can only take so much before it cracks."

It was such a gift, then, when my Godparents offered their beautiful home on Lake Canandaigua for a brief respite before surgery. They are the loveliest people, and being on the water with my favorites was exactly what I (we) needed.

 

I believe those three days made up the longest stretch of time I've gone without dwelling on my upcoming procedure or  Paul's cancer. That's something. We drank beers on the pontoon, laughed hysterically on the jet skis, and reminisced about Breaking Bad in the hot tub under the stars. We collected seashells and memories. It was marvelous. It gave us the distance we needed from our worries to just be with each other and enjoy life. 

At one point, my sister's boyfriend asked a rather oddly phrased question: "Liz, are you excited about your surgery?"

I laughed and replied with quick sarcasm. Um, yeah, very excited to have my body disfigured and go through several weeks of feeling like I have cannonballs strapped to my chest. 

But he was serious (?!) Once I worked through his question, which was probably garbled by a couple of IPAs, I understood what he meant. He was asking me (rather astutely, actually) if I was excited to GET THIS CANCER OUT OF MY BODY ONCE AND FOR ALL. Was I excited to be CANCER-FREE? 

I can get so caught up in the awful things that surgery means to me. (disfigurement, pain, helplessness during recovery, lack of control, etc.) But, really, I should be looking at surgery differently: it's going to fix me. It's going to take my breasts, yeah, and I'm angry about that. But it's also going to give my cancer the boot.

So ok: I guess I am excited about surgery. Or I should be. If I think hard enough about what it really means, I can be happy about it. If it can save my life and keep me around for my daughter, then I say: take whatever body part you must.

Precisely three years after I was admitted to Millard Fillmore Suburban Hospital as a rotund and blissful mom-to-be, I will be admitted there once more. Less rotund, less blissful. But still hopeful. And, dare I say, excited?