Celebrating the Ordinary -- Day 5

About six years ago, I fell in love -- with the Mandarin language.

My aunt, knowing I would someday go to China to adopt my baby girl, gave me a present: a CD with 10 Mandarin lessons, hoping that I could say simple things like "hello" and "goodbye" when in China. I happen to love languages, and I really enjoyed the tonal songlike quality of Mandarin.

After I was finished with the 10th lesson, I was hooked.

Three years and 90 lessons later, having gone through each half-hour lesson five to 10 times -- it was finally time to make the journey to adopt my baby. When the referral for her came, I was excited and scared about the prospect of being a new mother, but I was confident in the Mandarin skills I had acquired.

How did I devote so much time to learning this magnificent language? I did so all within the comfort of my car.

Each time I'd drive somewhere, I would put on the next CD lesson and concentrate with great effort. That is why today's photo has part of my car's steering wheel (I was parked when I took the photo, so no worries) with the box housing the CDs. Many days I didn't feel like practicing, but I forced myself to go through lesson 76 again for the eighth time, knowing it would help me communicate in China.

Knowing it was my daughter's heritage.

Knowing I wanted her to learn Mandarin when she was old enough.

We in the travel group did not have to learn Mandarin; we had a translator. Yet, I wanted to become immersed in this language, not only for its beauty, but its utility. It would be practical to speak to the Chinese people in their own language, and perhaps I could soothe my child with the familiar sounds of her native language. And learning a language could perhaps help repair some of the chemobrain damage, I reasoned.

In China, the people were so friendly -- whether I spoke English or Mandarin. And the lessons paid off: while I can't call myself fluent, I can communicate enough to get by. In China, I was able to ask where the American Embassy was, ask if a restaurant was open for lunch, and say a lot more than "hello" and "goodbye."

Sure, there were some humorous episodes. Like the time when I told a shopkeeper that my daughter was 13 years old instead of 13 months old. Yep. I got quite a stare that helped me correct my error. Or the time when I almost bought a business class airplane ticket when all I wanted was to know where a particular souvenir shop was.

Leaving China for home in the United States felt bittersweet. I was glad to be heading home, but sad to be taking my daughter from her birthplace, even though circumstances gave us no choice.

Today on my way to work, I continued studying Mandarin. After all, when my daughter and I go to China, I want to be more fluent. And I look forward to saying "hello" again to China.

Celebrating the Ordinary -- Day 4

This week-long challenge from Marie's Journeying Beyond Breast Cancer has helped me immensely -- I now stop to appreciate so many of life's gifts, seeing the ordinary as rather extraordinary. 

I took today's pictures on my walk this morning. 

I find regular walks so soothing to the body, mind, and spirit. Because of physical limitations, I can no longer run, but I can walk. And I have found walking to be a greater gift in many respects because I can slow down to appreciate the space that is my neighborhood.

At first, I wasn't happy with moving here because it is a greater distance from my doctors than the neighborhood I used to live in. I moved out of necessity, as cheaper living was to be found here, with the added financial responsibilities of a new child. 

But now I've come to enjoy passing each house, savoring people's gardens, and the lovely trees. 

The football field pictured here shows serendipity. It's located in a pretty park, but it's not just an ordinary football field. I take it as a sign from the universe that I was meant to be in this space, place, and time. The football field, I was to eventually discover, is the home field for a high school team named the Spartans.

I cried when I first came upon the Spartans sign, for my alma mater is Michigan State University, the home of the Spartans sports teams.

Serendipity, indeed.

Home to the Spartans

Where Ari plays regularly (same park)

The neighborhood on my routine walk.

Celebrating the Ordinary -- Day 3

I would be remiss if I didn't mention the other significant being in my household -- my cat Hemi. I adopted him a few years ago as a rescue cat, wanting a companion for my other kitty Cosette. It wasn't exactly love at first sight (mostly on Cosette's end), but now they play and sleep near each other.

Hemi was named for the Hemi engine -- because he purrs and purrs and purrs.

Loudly.

He is easy to please and very social. He prides himself on being quite the looker. He is a tuxedo Manx cat, and he really sports that tuxedo well, as you can see.

He is so special to me. I love his kisses and purrs, and he is eager to climb on my lap for affection.



"I know I'm handsome."



Celebrating the Ordinary -- Day 2

Today's post is designed to celebrate another family member -- my cat Cosette.

She is beyond special to me. I adopted her from a shelter the day after my breast cancer diagnosis. She innately understood the sorrow and anguish I was feeling and approached me, sticking her paw out of the cage to touch me.

Cosette and I were both sick, it turns out. She had an almost-fatal respiratory infection, and I held her for hours trying to comfort her, and she purred trying to comfort me.

She was hospitalized the day before I went into the hospital to get my lumpectomy and axillary node dissection. I joked that we should've had adjoining beds, as we were both in our respective hospitals on the same day.

After she had recovered, she wouldn't leave my side through cancer treatments. In turn, despite my being sick from chemo and radiation, I would take her to the veterinarian for many followup visits. 

She also comforted me during my divorce and through several cancer scares/surgeries. 

Cosette is quite playful and has fur as soft as a rabbit's. She is not a total lap cat, but she loves to lay her head on my lap for hours. She's my ever-steady, faithful companion.

My Sweet Friend

Celebrating the Ordinary -- Day One

Marie at Journeying Beyond Breast Cancer has challenged us bloggers to a fun, exciting assignment: to post one picture each day for a week that illustrates our celebration of the ordinary in our lives. 

I love Marie's challenges, and I am embracing this one with a sense of awe and fun. Here's my photo:

Jumping to the Challenge

This girl is my four-year-old daughter Ari, and she is my universe. The picture was taken this weekend at a place called Xtreme Trampolines. The joy on her face and the sparkle in her eyes tell the whole story. 

Here's a girl who had just been jumping for 45 minutes on a trampoline. Jumping with zest, abandon, and with a sense of childish glee.

I asked her to stop so I could snap this picture. Then she got back to her business of being a child, sporting a bandaid on her leg, not because she had a boo-boo but because it was a fashion statement.

Watching her jumping, I was amazed and grateful to have her in my life and for the lesson she was teaching me right this very minute: to jump into life joyfully and confidently. 

And I learned that a snapshot of an ordinary day is actually quite extraordinary.

The Straw That Broke This Camel's Back

After a two-month self-imposed blogosphere exile, I'm coming clean. 

Over the last couple of months, I've been dealing with yet another scare that's left me feeling like a James Bond drink: shaken, not stirred. And as if a train were getting ready to flatten me to Kingdom Come.

It all starts with pain in my left ribs.

And a "routine" followup appointment weeks later with my oncologist, Dr. B.

                                                           *****

He prescribes an anti-inflammatory for the rib pain, which doesn't work.

He then orders a CT scan and bone scan; I schedule both for the day before my daughter and I leave for Florida to visit my parents and for some R and R. During the bone scan, the staff repeatedly ask me about my cancer background, about my surgeries, and all-things-cancer. 

Too many questions for my comfort. 

Something is wrong.

I do get a chuckle from one technician. Upon my telling her I've had a double mastectomy with reconstruction, she asks me if I am currently breastfeeding.

Once in Florida, I try to forget the drama. I try to forget about the tests. I'm here to have fun, after all. And for three days, I am at a tentative peace.

Dr. B calls my cell and leaves a hopeful-but-ominous message: "There's nothing terribly, terribly, terribly wrong with you. I just have to talk with you about the bone scan." 

There are too many "terriblys" in his message for my comfort.

My parents know nothing about what's been going on. They love me, but they could not handle my breast cancer diagnosis and treatment years ago. I won't tell them a thing, I decide, but just act as if nothing were wrong.

Finally, Dr. B and I connect. He is kind and doesn't want to worry me, but he sounds uncomfortable. He talks about my CT scan, which reveals a number of "multiple healing fractures" in my back. He talks at great length about how symmetrical the "breaks" on both scans look and that if I had a cancer recurrence, it would not look symmetrical.

The dreaded R word, but there it is.

He continues talking about his extensive experience in interpreting the scans, how even if the bone scan report says one thing, he knows better and is pretty certain that I just have broken back bones. He is adamant that the bone scan report is wrong.

I ask what the bone scan report says.

He hesitates. He then says, "Metastasis to the bone."

                                                       *****


I'm audibly silent. 

He tells me he's very sure it is not because in this case, the CT scan gives the fuller picture and the broken bones are in the same areas as those that lit up in the bone scan. Besides, once a person has cancer, he continues, those interpreting diagnostic tests have a cancer bias.

I listen and listen. And then I listen.

He asks me if I had any injuries to my back that would cause my bones to break. I tell him that I don't know, but I do. A major injury. 

Chemotherapy. 

Since chemo, my bone density has dwindled considerably.  Since chemo, I've had bone-related problems. Since chemo...[fill in the blank]

I ask him what the next step is. He tells me to take the over-the-counter pain killers regularly and see him in a month.

Do I have bone mets? Or do I just have bones that inexplicably break? I'm hoping for the latter. My body keeps betraying me, I think.

My parents call me to dinner. I wipe my tears and paint a smile on my face. During dinner, I laugh and joke and put on a happy, happy face. 

                                                     *****

But depression sets in the next day. I'm in a fog. I'm not proud of what I'm about to reveal: 

I sleep all day, knowing my parents can watch my daughter. I just want to be alone. But my daughter doesn't want to leave my side, and she asks me what is wrong. I tell her that mommy isn't feeling well and that I will be OK soon.

And this is true: I haven't been feeling well. My back hurts a lot.

But I eat dinner with my happy face and then go back to bed. My mind and body are shutting down, and I need more sleep. The next day finds me swimming by myself at the retirement community pool and crying. Later that day, I envy the 80-year-olds who seem healthier than me. No matter how much I exercise or take care of myself, I reason, my body will always betray me. So I do the only reasonable thing: 

I buy a huge-ass Godiva chocolate bar and devour it at 1 a.m. 

The next few days are better. My parents, Ari, and I go to children-friendly places. We have fun at a turtle sanctuary. I keep busy. I see a rainbow (pictured in this post), and I savor it.

Today I'm seeing my oncologist for a not-so-routine followup. Prior to this latest installment of my life, I was working hard on finishing my book and a new website (details to eventually come). This news has temporarily derailed my work.

I've had a setback. Don't we all? 

I've resumed work on the book and website. I refuse to allow this latest scare or any future scares to interfere with my hopes and dreams. 

A rainbow amid the storm clouds

I'm writing a book titled Calling the Shots: Coaching Your Way Through the Medical System. I am a professional writer and have published numerous academic and magazine articles, as well as an essay on my breast cancer experience in the anthology Voices of Breast Cancer by LaChance Publishing. I can be contacted at bethlgainer@gmail.com.

The Burden of Survivorship

My oil painting: "Survivorship"

I'm a breast cancer "survivor," whatever that means. 


But I'm still waiting -- waiting for that moment when I can feel like a triumphant and brave breast cancer warrior-survivor, that ever-so-neatly-packaged archetype.


I want to live up to those expectations, you know, the ones where people tell me how brave I am, how heroic I am, how much of a role model I am. 


How inspiring I am.


I wish I could feel happy when I hear the "good-for-you-for-winning-your-battle-on-cancer" comments.


But the praises and accolades don't sit well with me. 


Surviving breast cancer is a good thing, don't get me wrong. And I survived partly through self-advocacy -- and partly through sheer luck. Random luck. 


I wouldn't trade my life for anything. But the status of "survivor" carries a heavy burden and a heavy price.


People who see me as heroic should know some things about me:


Not a day goes by without thinking about cancer. I spend enormous amounts of some energy quelling the fear welling up inside of me. I get panic attacks and have to control them with deep breathing. I worry about the toll cancer treatment has had on my body, I have body-image issues, osteopenia from treatment, chemobrain, constant abdominal and back pain from surgery, and fear of recurrence -- and this is just the tip of the iceberg.


Emotions are still raw -- even 11 years out of treatment and six years out of my double mastectomy with reconstruction.


I try to keep busy. I work hard. I paint. I write. I care for my daughter.


But I'm always looking over my shoulder. Every body ache assaults me. I wonder, did I strain a muscle, or do I have cancer? My friend Faun died of metastatic breast cancer, and she became aware of it because she had hip pain and went for a "routine" physical.  


Nothing is "routine" I've learned. I grieve for her still.


My hip hurts. Is it cancer? 


"No it's not," I tell myself, "Stop being such a hypochondriac." I take Tylenol, and the pain goes away. Ah, I'm feeling more confident about my health. Later, my hip hurts again, and the rollercoaster twists and turns in my stomach all over again.


I put off getting routine bloodwork for almost a half-year after my general doctor ordered it. I am not proud of this. But for six months, I am trembling at the thought of the lab results indicating a new problem. I finally summon up enough courage to get the blood drawn on Friday. I am not afraid of the blood draw; I'm afraid of the results. I am trying to put it out of my mind for now.


I just set up an appointment with my oncologist, two months overdue. It is so painful to pick up the phone and make the call. My heart is racing. The receptionist tells me that my oncologist ordered bloodwork and I should get there early to have it done. I numbly say, OK, but when I hang up, I sob. "Why does he need blood from me?" I keep torturing asking myself. This "perhaps routine" test has been constantly gnawing at me on my mind ever since.


I get a "routine" colonoscopy this year, and the period of time leading up to it is hell challenging, and I spent a lot of time crying about it preoccupied with it. I'm convinced the results will be bad. Luckily, they are good. I'm relieved. For now. Until the next medical worry.


Yes, I'm waiting for that moment when I can feel like a brave and strong warrior. I now know I will never have that feeling of medical and emotional security. Because I have already had breast cancer. And that forever changed things for me.


In the meantime, I'll continue looking over my shoulders, which carry a crushing burden no one should have to bear. 


For an excellent article on the complexities of survivorship, please read  Darryle Pollack's article, Surviving Cancer: It's Complicated. 

Have you been put on a societal pedestal because of cancer? How do you define survivor? Please feel free to share your experiences.


I'm writing a book titled Calling the Shots: Coaching Your Way Through the Medical System. Please feel free to subscribe to this blog by clicking the orange subscribe button. I am a professional writer and have published numerous academic and magazine articles, as well as an essay on my breast cancer experience in the anthology Voices of Breast Cancer by LaChance Publishing. I can be contacted at bethlgainer@gmail.com and gainercallingtheshots@gmail.com.