Breakfast with the Sistas

A rainy Sunday morning--started the day the second-best way, over breakfast with the Breast Cancer Sistas, Tanya and Debbie. Oh, the things we talked about...

Bret Michaels and his band Poison, Pearl Jam and Bon Jovi, Magic Hat beer and waffles at a Vermont bed-and-breakfast, how much we love/hate our jobs, someone's fear of needles, the high cost of commuting from Nashua to Peabody, second-hand smoke showing up in a blood test, and deciding (at least I think we did) that the term "survivor," when tagged onto "breast cancer," is now an OK thing to call ourselves.

We met last summer in a breast cancer support group. The group facilitator called us "survivors" at the first meeting and we all (about 10 women) agreed we disliked the term significantly. As I recall we didn't come up with a better term. Maybe we did, but honestly, my memories of certain aspects of that slice of my life aren't as sharp as they could be. Maybe that's normal, I'm not sure, but whatever it is, it's the way it is.

I remember having breakfast with Tanya way back at the beginning of the adventure (I use that term very loosely), and our at-the-time lofty goals. We were going to save the world. Start a support group (better than the one we were in), reach out to patients (faster than anyone reached out to us) and give them a place to network with others and find the answers to all of their questions (questions we asked and to which no one could/would give us a straight answer). We were going to help their families (because no one out there was supporting ours) and give patients' spouses and significant others and kids and loved ones a way to work through the tough times that were coming and come out on the other side feeling as whole as possible (because there wasn't anyone who did that for our loved ones).

Looking back, I think I worked hard to live in the moment and be involved in what was happening and connect as best I could with the medical team. I tried to understand what was happening and be patient with myself as I tolerated treatments. I didn't look ahead or anticipate what was next. OK, I counted days, counted down treatments, but I didn't look too far beyond where I was, because I couldn't see myself moving beyond where I was. I expected my life to stay foggy and my head to remain somewhat disconnected.

And when the treatments were finally over, the fog started to lift a little, and slowly, things started to return to more of a normal than I'd thought possible. And now, I want to put all of it as far behind me as I can. I don't want to think about it and I really don't want to talk about it, because to do those things is to live with it. I'm tired of living with it.

(And here, respectfully, is where I have to say that I know I got out of it pretty damn easy and that I'm very lucky. I know that. I won't forget that, ever.)

I had a meeting with a coworker last week, someone I don't work too closely with and really don't know. She asked about my hair (which is growing in tight curls--I feel like a poodle). She asked if it had been curly before it all fell out. I told her no, it had been fairly straight.

She said her mother is on her second go-around with ovarian cancer. Had it, did chemo, lost her hair, and thought she had turned the corner. The cancer came back, and she signed on for a clinical trial. After six months (and losing her hair again), her docs have decided the trail has done absolutely nothing, so she's about to start another six-month trial.

Hearing things like that make me stop and think. What I usually shake out of one of those mind sessions is that I really want to put this all behind me. Pack it up and put it away. I'll take it down when I have to deal with it, and if forced to, will open up the box, put everything on the table and live with it again--if I have to.

Sometimes it's all w-a-y too much to think about. So I don't. Until I have to, and right now, I don't have to think about it. So, I won't.

Vacation starts at 5 p.m. tomorrow.