Three Weddings And A Funeral

About a week before he died, Paul made a strange request:

"Could we have a Halloween party for Ingrid?"

"...In May?" 

"Yeah. Like a Christmas in July thing, only it's Halloween...in May." 

"Um, I mean. I guess we could do that?" 

"I just love seeing her dressed up," he said. "We could get costumes and candy and have her cousins over to watch Halloween movies." 

"OK Paul. Yeah. A Halloween party it is. How are you doing on pain? Time for more Oxy yet?"

It felt like he knew he wouldn't make it until October. And maybe he just wanted one last stab at stealing sharing his kid's stash of Reese's cups.

But then, minutes later, he'd refer to some future event with giddy anticipation. Not at all like someone who was planning to die in a few days. Like, for instance, his baby sister's wedding that took place a couple of weeks ago. He was so excited to see her walk down the aisle.

I remember sitting at the dining room table with Paul on one of his last nights. He had a photograph of his youngest sister in his hands and he was saying, "She is so beautiful. Isn't she so pretty, Liz?" 

Hearing a brother say that about his sister—is there anything sweeter? I mean, really. But that was Paul for ya. He loved his family. LOVED them.

People tend to speak favorably of the dead, but I am only being sincere when I say I was tremendously lucky to have been Paul's wife. His siblings were lucky to have had him as a brother. His friends were lucky to have been witnesses to any one of his (possibly intoxicated)  impersonations of a French boarding school headmaster (long story). I won't say his parents were lucky to have had him as a son because *ahem* they had a major hand in molding Paul into the Paul that he was, so actually—he was the lucky one there.

So Paul, I just wanted to let you know—your sister was a lovely bride. All FOUR of your sisters were lovely. Your brothers weren't half-bad either. Ingrid and her cousin made the most darling flower girls. And the DJ was out. of. this. world.

A small handful of Ingrid's bajillion cousins

Guys, enjoy your trick-or-treaters. And hey! Do me a solid and save me any Junior Mints. You can have all of my Almond Joys and Mounds and whatever other candy bars decide to be gross by having coconut in them.

Also, to Paul's baby sister: I'm sorry if this makes you cry. But Paul loved you quite a lot and I dunno. Maybe it's good for you to hear that again. Don't be mad, pleaseeeeeeeee k love you bye.

I'll Follow You Into The Dark

"Most things will be okay eventually, but not everything will be. Sometimes you'll put up a good fight and lose. Sometimes you'll hold on really hard and realize there is no choice but to let go.  

Acceptance is a small, quiet room." 

- Cheryl Strayed, Author of Wild

At this point, many of you have already heard the latest on Paul through Facebook. For everyone else, here's the scoop:

In my last post, I mentioned we were spending Easter with Paul's family in Wisconsin. But as our two-week visit approached its end, it became more and more evident that Paul wouldn't be making our return flight to Buffalo.

So the three of us are staying at Paul’s childhood home in Oshkosh, Wisconsin where he has entered Hospice care.

We have long considered making Oshkosh Paul's final resting place on this Earth. After observing his almost immediate "release" when the decision was final, I can say with a fair degree of certainty that we chose correctly.

At various points in the last month, every one of Paul’s seven siblings traveled home to spend some precious time with their brother and each other. In true Coleman form, we enjoyed boisterous meals rounded out with a minimum of three to four protein choices. Ingrid bonded with her cousins. My sisters-in-law made sure there was never a shortage of Paul’s favorite cookies (oatmeal raisin, for some reason).

There were things back in Buffalo, though, that needed attention. So I boarded my return flight solo, the empty seats on either side of me stinging reminders of the rotten week ahead. 

Originally, the plan was to hit up Orlando after our Wisconsin trip. But instead of scoring autographs from Elsa and Anna, I would be spending the week selecting tasteful memorial cards and scouting out prime burial plots. 

Which—have you ever done that? Shopped for burial plots, I mean. It’s weird, right?! I’d compare it to house-hunting with your real estate agent, only slightly less cheery. 

“Well, The Good Shepherd Hill has the most scenic treeline, which will be lovely in the summer months. But then you can purchase a package deal if you go with the plots around Ascension Bell. Depends what you’re looking for.”

So. WEIRD.

I fully expected to be wiped out after my cemetery tour. I had anticipated feeling a little drained after drumming up an obituary draft with our funeral director.

What I was less prepared to hit me so hard was the realization that the three of us would never be together in our little home again. Relics from Paul’s last few months in our house were like little knives to my heart every time I discovered them. Things like pill bottles tucked behind picture frames and vials of holy water resting on his bedside table.

It was gutting to see the recliner he’ll never sit in again, the bed he’ll never sleep in again, the flannels he’ll never wear again. Maybe that's dramatic, but as someone who weeps while putting baby clothes in storage, well, you can see how troubling this is for me.

But I survived. I accomplished what I needed to accomplish. Now I'm back in Wisconsin, and we are exactly where we’re supposed to be.

Paul’s days oscillate from “semi-tolerable” to “well, this is the pits.” Some days he can stomach a 20-minute jaunt around the neighborhood in his wheelchair. Some days he can’t get out of bed.

Tearful moments are often followed by welcome stretches of peace. I can only attribute these tranquil periods to the many prayers and well wishes being said on our behalf. That or my meds are triggering some choppy mood swings. Hard to say. Let's go with the former.

Thank you for being with our family in our sorrow. Your continued prayers and kindnesses mean more than I can express adequately here. 

Gonna Put The World Away For A Minute

Not to brag—but when I married Paul, I kinda hit the jackpot, family-wise. I gained seven delightful siblings (and their equally wonderful spouses and kids). And Paul's parents are also more than alright. ;)

My mother- and father-in-law are so lovely and so generous, in fact, that they organized a Coleman vacation in Florida this month. Most of us live in places with monstrous winters (Buffalo, Philly, Wisconsin...), so wearing a bathing suit in February felt like an absolute TRIUMPH.

Paul's family is scattered across the map. It's a big deal when they get together. I love being a part of that. I love that Ingrid will grow up being a part of that. Family is, like, where it's at. 

Rockin' the pineapple with plaid. Paul—you're a legend.

"Smile for the camera, Ingrid!"

"What mastectomy?" Inordinately pleased to have found a bathing suit that works.

 

What's So Great About Being Busy?

Turns out radiation leaves me wrecked, and I am running on loooow batteries, friends. Anything not required for basic survival is...just not happening. Including writing. And probably mailing out Christmas cards. Which, normally, are two activities that give me quite a lot of pleasure. Now, they just look like work. I am trying to give myself the grace to NOT do things. And to not feel bad about not doing things. (Which ERMAHGERD, is so much harder than it should be!)

Can We Stop Glorifying Busy, Already?!

Ever feel like being busy is the modern equivalent of “living life to the fullest?” We’re obsessed with being busy. It’s in vogue.

It’s also a drag.

Look at the way we talk—autopilot kicks on when people ask about our weekend—“It was good, just busy.” We don’t even notice ourselves saying it because it’s become such an ingrained dimension of how we interpret our worth. If we say we’re busy, we must be productive. If we’re productive, we must be worthwhile.  

I say it. All the time! Even when I KNOW I haven’t done a bloody thing for five consecutive days. As if declaring my busyness proves, cancer be damned, I am STILL a contributing member of society.

After my morning treatment, one of the techs will often ask about my plans for the rest of the day. I’m weirdly relieved when I have a number of errands I can rattle off. Or a family outing.

Today I had nothing. Literally, nothing. And I was bizarrely embarrassed to admit that.

“So—any plans for today?”

“Nope. Um. Nope. Nothing. Just going home. To. Rest?”

Inside, of course, I was thrilled to finally have a day with nothing I had to do. Thrilled and ashamed.

This time of year, especially, we run around like chickens with our heads cut off, and we’re happy to do it because it makes us feel important and needed and valuable. We wear our busyness like some twisted badge of honor. But—

How exactly does running ourselves ragged contribute to our well-being?

It doesn’t. It makes us stressed and miserable. I don’t want to be stressed and miserable.

And I’m not talking about our jobs or taking care of our kids or any of the things we HAVE to do. You should probably keep doing those things. But that doesn't mean you can't give yourself the space to just do...nothing. (It's really ok!)

Good Things Happen When We Stop Trying To Do It All

Photo by Nine Köpfer on Unsplash

When we’re not distracted by a relentless flurry of activity, something really cool happens: we connect, we reflect, and we grow. Three things I'd wager that are more important (and fun and pleasurable) than an overbooked planner.

When we slow down and eliminate even just a little of our self-imposed busyness—that’s when most of our so-called “a-ha” moments occur. Stepping off the hamster wheel gives us clarity. It lets us enjoy the things we insist are important—leisurely moments with the people we love, watching our children delight in nature, a rich inner life.

I don’t like to credit cancer with enriching my life (cancer didn’t make me grow—I did) but treatments did force me to reevaluate how I spend my time and energy. There were moments in the last year when I felt like I was juggling a dozen swords and flaming torches while balancing on a unicycle. I was exhausted and frazzled.

But I think it's safe to blame a lot of my exhaustion and general frazzledness on activities I didn’t NEED to do. (that and chemo running through my veins. But mindless busyness, mostly.)

Here's the thing. There is value and opportunity for growth in the moments when our busyness comes to a screeching halt. I know that sounds like the advice you’d get from a bearded, blissed-out mountain guru, but I stand by it.

A few years ago, Tim Kreider wrote a hugely popular and insightful article called “The ‘Busy’ Trap” for the New York Times. In it he says:

“Idleness is not just a vacation, an indulgence or a vice; it is as indispensable to the brain as vitamin D is to the body, and deprived of it we suffer a mental affliction as disfiguring as rickets. The space and quiet that idleness provides is a necessary condition for standing back from life and seeing it whole, for making unexpected connections and waiting for the wild summer lightning strikes of inspiration—it is, paradoxically, necessary to getting any work done.”

You are not a loser for taking it easy today. Relaxing doesn't make you a failure. You’re not less ambitious or dull or pathetic if you want to check out for the afternoon. And. Just. Do. Nothing.

Do you ever feel pressure to fill your days with busyness?

Do you feel guilty or lazy when you aren’t busy? Like you should be finding something productive to do with your time?

Or do you consciously try to set aside time for just “being” instead of “doing?”

It's Brave (and more than ok) To Accept a New Normal

My original goal here was to write at least one blog post per week. But I was busy watching season 2 of Stranger Things last week. And by week, I mean 3 days. Because how could you possibly take longer than 72 hours to watch it? If you have no clue what I’m talking about—I’m sorry, but if you haven’t watched Stranger Things, are you even living?

So. Why are you still here? Go. Watch. And then come back so we can fangirl together until our heads and hearts explode over how awesomely awesome that show is. 

The past is in the past. Let it go.

With Halloween in our rearview, we are clipping along at a furious pace towards the holiday season—and I find myself glancing back at the contrasting landscape we found ourselves in a year ago. Because I am a well-adjusted individual who participates in healthy activities that foster self-love and contentment. 

Things weren’t perfect last year. But they were blissfully far away from the shit show that is 2017. 

Sometimes I like to hang out in that cobwebby corner of my mind, waiting for those memories to show up. Even if they come with switchblades in their pockets—my thoughts can be devilishly masochistic. 

A year ago, I was trying to get pregnant.
This year, we face the almost certain chance our daughter will be an only child.

A year ago, Paul was working a physically demanding full-time job.
This year, he’s working his haute couture cane down the driveway.

A year ago, my biggest health concern was shrinking a few haphazard zits along my jawline.
This year, shrinking a massive tumor in my breast took precedence. 

Last summer, Paul had the stamina to rig up our toddler’s trailer and tug her behind his bike for hours.
This summer, our bikes didn’t leave the garage. 

Last year, our weekly schedule revolved around Paul’s varying work hours.
This year, our weekly schedule involves a juggling act of 4 or more doctors' appointments.

How many times during crisis mode do we say “I can’t wait for things to go back to normal?”

I used to say that all the time.

I can’t wait for Paul to finish chemo so he can stop being tired all the time. 

I can’t wait until I finish treatment so I can just get on with my life. 

I can’t wait until Ingrid is potty-trained so I can stop buying expensive diapers. 

We just want things to be normal. When life gets turned inside-out, we protest and pine for the way things used to be. But what if there is no more normal? What if things are never going to go back to the way they used to be?

When my husband was first diagnosed with terminal cancer, I was really bad at this. I clung to our old version of normal, desperate to retrieve it. I convinced myself that things could eventually be reversed. Paul would be cured and go back to work and we’d have a bunch of kids and spend our summers rambling the West in a vintage caravan. 

That was how we'd find happiness. By getting back to our own definition of normal. By getting back to our pre-cancer lives. 

Here’s a fun, little reality check for you: our old normal has been obliterated. As in, it no longer exists. We will NEVER EVER EVER go back to the way things were.

That can be a tough pill to swallow.

Changing our perspective on acceptance

I recently read Paul Kalanithi’s memoir When Breath Becomes Air. Paul was a brilliant neurosurgeon who was diagnosed with terminal, metastatic lung cancer at the age of 36. The book, which he wrote during his final year of life, explores his quest to understand what makes life meaningful. 

Following his diagnosis and depleting treatments, Paul continues to pursue his rigorous medical training in an attempt to maintain the normalcy of his life. But things couldn’t move in the same direction his healthy self had planned:

“As furiously as I had tried to resist it, I realized that cancer had changed the calculus. For the last several months, I had striven with every ounce to restore my life to its pre-cancer trajectory, trying to deny cancer any purchase on my life…[but] even when the cancer was in retreat, it cast long shadows.” - Paul Kalanithi 

It’s not about “giving up” or “letting cancer win.” It just is. It’s facts. It’s reality. Just as Kalanithi had to learn how to live with a new set of circumstances post-diagnosis, my family continues to adjust to our new normal. One we’re not particularly fond of, but one that we’re stuck with.

This happens to everyone: we’re thrust into new normals when we have children (5 AM becomes the new 9 AM.) It happens when we go through a divorce, when we move across the country, when we switch to night shift, when our favorite Korean diner goes bankrupt (oh, cruel world.)

Personally, our family’s new normal involves more ER visits and “why-do-I-even-pay-for-insurance” moments than I’d like. It involves more conversations on end-of-life care than I had anticipated as a newlywed. It comes with a lot more poking and prodding than my husband would prefer.

With time and practice and a healthy dollop of humility, I’ve come around to accepting my new normal. I still get wistful and cranky about it, sure. But my family doesn’t benefit from my bucking against circumstances that are out of my control.

For the record, accepting the way things are is not the same as “giving up” or becoming the proverbial wet blanket. Taking my reality for what it is and not demanding it be something it can't be—this isn’t an act of weakness or apathy or laziness.

It’s kind of brave to hold steady and look reality in the face.

It’s sort of a big deal to learn how to keep living with whatever version of normal life hands you.

Has life ever handed you a "New Normal"? 

Were you about to accept your new circumstances gracefully, or was it a challenge to move forward? 

Can you offer any advice to those who might be entering a drastically different season of life?

No Dress Rehearsal—This Is Our Life

Some awesome things that have been happening:

• 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. 

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.

• 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. 

All of this is troubling. Quite. But you wouldn't know it by talking to Paul. He makes cancer look easy. He's still as handsome as ever, and his skin tone is surprisingly healthy, plummeting hemoglobin and all.

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.

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:

A Q&A Blogging Challenge

I’m a little late to the party, but a fellow breast cancer blogger, Nancy Stordahl, who I so admire, proposed a summer blogging challenge last month. I got Paul’s answers for these, too. And they’re good.

1. Share anything you want about your cancer diagnosis (or your loved one’s). Share your age, cancer type, stage, when you were diagnosed, family history (if any), your reaction, how you learned the news, or whatever you’re comfortable sharing.

Liz: I was diagnosed with Invasive Ductal Carcinoma, stage IIIb, in February 2017. The cancer was in my right breast and had spread to my underarm lymph nodes. I was 30. No family history, really. Just one cousin on my dad’s side who was also diagnosed fairly recently. Because a lot of people ask: I found a lump so I went to the doctor.

Paul: I was diagnosed with Peritoneal Mesothelioma in 2012 at age of 27. No family history. I guess I felt overwhelmed when I heard the news. I didn’t even really know what Mesothelioma was at the time. I definitely didn’t know how serious and deadly the disease was. I thought I could be cured.

2. What is the most outrageous thing someone has said to you about your (or your loved one’s) cancer?

Liz: Oh, there are quite a few of these. A well-meaning nurse told me during pre-op “At least you’re getting a new set of breasts. It’s like an upgrade!” Oi. It’s not. I can appreciate that she just wanted to make me feel better, so it didn't offend me. But it was still the very opposite of what you should say.

Paul: I was having a near-death reaction during a clinical trial at the NIH, and someone Facebook messaged Liz to say “they were praying for us, but Paul shouldn’t be getting chemo or other harmful cancer treatments and that’s why his body is reacting this way. Hugs!”

 Also, people telling me “all I need to do is change my diet.”

3. What is your biggest cancer pet peeve? I know it’s hard to choose, as there are many to pick from, right? But what irks you the most?

Liz: People touting basic self-care habits as cancer prevention. Like if I eat this dish of brussel sprouts instead of this dish of Panda Paws, my cancer will shrink. It won’t. It will just make me sad.

Paul: Anything that starts with “I read an article…”

4. What is something you want others to know specifically about breast cancer?

Liz: I’ll admit, I was in this camp before diagnosis, but people—breast cancer is total crap. It isn’t the easy-breezy cutesy disease it’s portrayed as. It KILLS people. It’s made our life very hard.

Paul: This is about Meso, not breast cancer. But I’d like people to know that not everyone gets a monetary settlement. When people hear "Mesothelioma," they usually associate it with all the lawyer ads. We never received any money out of this.

5. If applicable, do you worry about recurrence rarely, from time to time or a lot? What is your biggest worry today, right now, this minute?

Liz: At first, I didn’t worry about it. Not at all, actually. I was fully confident that if I just pushed through treatment this year, I could get on with my life. Now that we know my chemotherapy did NOT do what it was supposed to and my mastectomy did NOT do what it was supposed to, I worry. I keep myself distracted and busy enough that I don’t fritter my days away with worry. But it’s there. I’m terrified of it metastasizing.

Paul: My biggest worry is that I won’t be around when Ingrid is growing up.

6. Do you feel cancer has made you a better person? Yes, I know this a loaded question. If you do, specifically in what way?

Liz: Eh, no. Why is cancer the one disease that people expect to be morally edifying? Like I have this terrible disease, my husband has this terrible disease, and it sucks. If anything, cancer makes us grumpy and tired and sad. 

Paul: No, cancer did not make me a better person.

7. What is your favorite cancer book? (No, I’m not fishing for mentions of mine!)

Liz: Oh, I haven’t read any yet. But Paul Kalanithi’s When Breath Becomes Air comes highly recommended by a bookish friend whom I trust. Also, I LOOOOVE Nora McInerny. She wrote about her husband’s battle with brain cancer on her blog, My Husband’s Tumor, and I really need to read her recent memoir It’s Okay to Laugh: (Crying is Cool Too). She is hilarious and honest and wonderful.

Paul: Oh, I don’t read that stuff.

8. Besides your family, where do you turn for emotional support?

Liz: My cat. Seriously, haha! I’ve received loads of pamphlets with different young adult support groups that people tell me “I just have to join because it will help you so much!” But I just don’t go for that stuff.

Paul: My Faith.

9. How many cancer blogs do you read and why do you read them?

Liz: I don’t read any regularly. Mainly, because I am sort of new to this whole thing. I do like Nancy’s Point, though. She is honest. I appreciate sincerity and truth when it comes to cancer. No fluffy optimism for me.

Paul: I just read Liz’s.

Liz: Aw, thanks Paul. <3

10. Do you call yourself an advocate? If so, what drives you?

Liz: I don’t. My life is too full right now to focus on anything other than “getting though.” Being an advocate for anything sounds very important, though.

Paul: Ain’t nobody got time for that.

So, sunglasses. Over or under the headscarf???

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?