- I can wear mascara, finally (I have a full set of eyelashes!) It’s always been my favorite, and I went 6 months without, so no—I will not downplay my excitement.
- In case you didn’t hear, my second mastectomy was a success. Probably should’ve opened with this one, but gawrsh I love mascara.
- I am far enough along in my healing to wear a specially-fitted breast prosthetic. Which I realize is one of those things you maybe want to leave out on a blog that’s read by your parents and maybe your high school teachers. Anyway, it’s great fun because when I go out, I no longer have to choose between the unbecoming solo-boob look or futilely stuffing a wadded washcloth into my bra. It’s a massive relief to wear clothes that fit instead of the billowing, muumuu-like tunics I’ve been favoring.
- It’s not a huge deal, but I am stupidly proud of an article I wrote that was published on the website, Introvert, Dear. Possibly, I talk about introversion too much. It’s a quick read about coping with cancer as someone who requires (excessive?) amounts of alone time: “I’m the type of person who will go to great lengths to remain invisible in public. But there’s something about being eyebrow-less that turns heads. There’s something about a bald 30-something mom inspecting bananas at the grocery store that drives fellow shoppers to strike up a conversation. People want to express empathy, and that’s terrific. It’s also my worst nightmare.”
- A hugely awesome thing that I’ve been meaning to bring up for a while—these last several months, our "Coleman Army" has courageously picked us up, dusted off our pants, and engulfed us with love and pot pies. When people say “I don’t know how you’re doing it” all I can think is, “I’m not the one doing it! I’m being carried through this storm by a badass Army of the best folks on Earth. They’re doing all the doing.”
So thank you. I'll admit, those words do feel slightly pitiful because they just seem...insufficient. Against the multitude of ways people have helped us this year, my “thank yous” don’t really cut it. But it's what I got.
When life can be a real pisser, I’ve found that people can be quite the opposite.
People (dear friends, barely acquaintances, lovely classmates I haven’t spoken to in a decade, complete strangers) have jumped in and made this whole mess a lot less messy.
People have made us meals. So many delicious, nourishing, creative meals. Thank you!
People have sent us gift cards and packages with all sorts of goodies. Danke.
People have taken Ingrid to the Zoo or the park or wherever, just so Paul and I could rest. Much obliged.
This past spring, a young family helped clean up our overgrown yard. A million times, thank you.
One kindhearted and terrific individual set up a fundraiser to help us out. To everyone who has so generously contributed: you are rockstars and we thank you!
I am profoundly touched by all this kindness. Profoundly. I know Paul is, too. Also, I’m so grateful for the encouraging feedback I’ve received about these silly ramblings. I'm hyper-critical of everything I write, so hearing a friendly “good job, sport!” makes my heart glow.
It’s corny, definitely, but it must be said: writing about this cancer drama-rama has been beautifully healing for me. When Paul was sick the first two times around (in 2012 and 2014), I was my usual quiet self about things. I didn’t post updates on social media. Because who wants to hear about my little dark night of the soul when the world is already filled with an inconceivable amount of heartache?
So I kept these gross feelings mostly to myself. In the midst of full-blown depression, I stopped writing entirely. I let myself get swept up in the current of life’s foulest emotions—anger, grief, envy, complete and utter despair.
People have made us meals. So many delicious, nourishing, creative meals. Thank you!
People have sent us gift cards and packages with all sorts of goodies. Danke.
People have taken Ingrid to the Zoo or the park or wherever, just so Paul and I could rest. Much obliged.
This past spring, a young family helped clean up our overgrown yard. A million times, thank you.
One kindhearted and terrific individual set up a fundraiser to help us out. To everyone who has so generously contributed: you are rockstars and we thank you!
I am profoundly touched by all this kindness. Profoundly. I know Paul is, too. Also, I’m so grateful for the encouraging feedback I’ve received about these silly ramblings. I'm hyper-critical of everything I write, so hearing a friendly “good job, sport!” makes my heart glow.
It’s corny, definitely, but it must be said: writing about this cancer drama-rama has been beautifully healing for me. When Paul was sick the first two times around (in 2012 and 2014), I was my usual quiet self about things. I didn’t post updates on social media. Because who wants to hear about my little dark night of the soul when the world is already filled with an inconceivable amount of heartache?
So I kept these gross feelings mostly to myself. In the midst of full-blown depression, I stopped writing entirely. I let myself get swept up in the current of life’s foulest emotions—anger, grief, envy, complete and utter despair.
In the thick of things, I couldn’t see the point of sharing our experience. I wasn’t exactly doing a bang-up job of living our experience; what merit could there be in dragging other people down in the mud with me?
Once I made the decision to write (and to share what I was writing) I saw the benefit almost instantly. I can’t tell you how uplifting it has been to witness all of these people rallying around us, all of the thoughtful emails, the Facebook messages from total strangers, the prayers, the Moana-themed toys for Ingrid.
It has been one strange and hard and occasionally gut-wrenching year for our family. But I am happy I decided to share some of our story. The internet can do wondrous things (awful, terrible things, too. But for our purposes—wondrous things!)
Some less than awesome things:
Paul has been very up and down with his symptoms. More down than up, these days.
Paul has been very up and down with his symptoms. More down than up, these days.
- He has terrible stomach pains that leave him doubled over in bed.
- He's anemic.
- He throws up constantly.
- He's losing weight.
- He has balance issues, so he now uses a cane when we go out. We are officially 90 years old. Obviously, it's a snazzy green plaid cane. Because Paul is one dapper 90-year-old.
Some items I can’t categorize into awesome/un-awesome things:
Yesterday, Paul flew back to DC for a consultation at the NIH. They have a drug that's shown success fighting meso, and they want Paul to give it a shot. This could qualify as an awesome thing, but it’s too early for me to get excited about it. There’s a lot to consider before moving forward. Paul’s faulty kidneys, for one.
It’s a painful topic, but one that comes up more and more: how do you decide when to stop chasing risky treatments and just focus on symptom management? At what point do you call it quits and opt for a more comfortable (and maybe shorter) life?
I don’t know. Our default mode is to claw at every last scrap of life. But what happens when all this grasping for existence leaves you with a life of suffering and complications?
I want to live. I know Paul wants to live. Like I said—it’s a painful topic. But it’s the one shading our current world. It’s coloring the way we live, the way we envision our future, the way we smother Ingrid with desperate kisses.
Yesterday, Paul flew back to DC for a consultation at the NIH. They have a drug that's shown success fighting meso, and they want Paul to give it a shot. This could qualify as an awesome thing, but it’s too early for me to get excited about it. There’s a lot to consider before moving forward. Paul’s faulty kidneys, for one.
It’s a painful topic, but one that comes up more and more: how do you decide when to stop chasing risky treatments and just focus on symptom management? At what point do you call it quits and opt for a more comfortable (and maybe shorter) life?
I don’t know. Our default mode is to claw at every last scrap of life. But what happens when all this grasping for existence leaves you with a life of suffering and complications?
I want to live. I know Paul wants to live. Like I said—it’s a painful topic. But it’s the one shading our current world. It’s coloring the way we live, the way we envision our future, the way we smother Ingrid with desperate kisses.
If you're from the Western New York area, then you probably already know, but Gord Downie (lead singer from The Tragically Hip) died from a f***ing brain tumor last week. Death is sad whenever and however it happens, but right now cancer-related deaths strike a nerve.
I'm signing off, then, with some words from The Hip that seem fitting. Gord, you said it better than anyone else could, you shining poet:
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