Here's to More Birthdays

Birthdays post-cancer are a funny thing. I mean, of course they're great and we want more of them, but being diagnosed with cancer doesn't mean you don't notice the lack of collagen as the years pass. Or get irritated by grey hairs you-know-where when another part of you remembers you should just be happy to have hair.

Cancer doesn't give you a free pass when it comes to being weirded out about all the things that happen as you get older. For example, I have what I thought was the makings of a pimple on my chin, but now I'm pretty sure is just an ingrown hair. On my chin. Why? WHY ARE HAIRS GROWING THERE BUT NOT ON MY EYEBROWS!!!

So, I'm ecstatic to have more birthdays but also not going to pretend I don't notice the fine lines around my eyes or the fact that I can't eat peanut butter straight out of the jar (sometimes with a spoon) without then having to get raised eyebrows from the nurse at my oncologist's office as he weighs me in and sees I've gained four pounds. Sigh. But also? I don't really care. Because you only live once, and sometimes peanut butter is worth it.

I'm talking about getting older because my 37th birthday was last weekend. Somehow, that makes FIVE birthdays since I was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer. SO, YES, I HAD A CUPCAKE. And a bourbon drink. What can I say? I celebrated.

I celebrated with friends and my husband who arranged a small gathering at a local...speakeasy? Hipster dive bar? There was skee ball and air hockey (at least I think. Us parents sat and visited the whole time. We were just happy to have a night of uninterrupted conversations. Even though, sure, ninety percent of those conversations were about our kids.)

We were clearly the early crowd, arriving at seven and ordering menu items like charcuterie and arugula flatbreads. Then around 9:30 things shifted, and we were easily the oldest, quietest, least collagen-ed people in the place. I vaguely remember a time when Chris and I used to leave to go out for the night around 10 p.m. (Here's photographic evidence.)

{circa 2006, celebrating Chris's 30th birthday}

But last weekend, we were home by 11, in bed shortly after, and I was still tired for two days because of it. And here's where I don't know whether to blame cancer treatments or aging or possibly even just being a parent to a little boy who wakes up ready to run and wrestle and do all of the things at seven a.m. But life is short, so why not do all of the things?

Here's to more birthdays and more doing and more celebrating (but maybe less peanut butter).

The State of My Eyebrows (with Video!)

I never imagined "eyebrows" would be on my birthday list, but there they are, staring me down as sure as age thirty-seven is just around the corner. Nope, I am not complaining. I am happy for every year of it, but it is downright weird to be approaching my late-thirties. I still feel like I should be in law school babysitting for people in their late-thirties in order to have some grocery money.

Yet here I am, thirty-seven on the horizon, and my eyebrow situation has not improved much over the last couple of years. Chris asked me -- over bath time for Quinn, which is when we have time to talk lately -- how much they cost.

"Between $200 and $500, depending on who you go with," I told him.

"I feel like tattoos on your face aren't exactly the time to go with the discount person," he reasoned. "Unless you're Mike Tyson."

True, but even at the costlier, fancier place, the thought of tattoos -- specifically tattoos on my face -- scares me. I'm scared of both the pain and the permanence. I mean, what if I don't like them? What if the artist has a muscle spasm mid-brow? What if I look surprised or angry or any number of emotions expressed by one's eyebrows for the rest of my life?

And then Quinn broke my train of thought and asked why I would need someone to put eyebrows on my face. I could feel the mood shift as Chris waited to see how I would answer.

"Because I had to have some really strong medicine that made all my hair fall out, and all of it grew back except my eyebrows," I explained.

Quinn's eyes grew even more huge as he blinked back shock and processed the idea of something so strong it could make your hair fall out, and I realized he has no recollection of that time in our lives. Most likely because I am light years behind on putting together any kinds of photo albums from his first four years. We don't spend our evenings flipping through and reinforcing memories the way I did with my mom when I was Quinn's age. This is one huge downfall of the digital age, I think, but that's a whole other blog post. 

Have I avoided it because I don't know how to talk to Quinn about cancer? I have a therapy appointment for that exact topic tomorrow. I will let you know how that goes (and whether I have any major breakthroughs because this is still my biggest hurdle, how to explain what I'm living with to my son.)

In any event, here is a little something about my eyebrow process each and every day. In a nutshell, this is why I'm considering tattoos. Have you done them? Considered them? Would you? Let me stop before this gets to Green Eggs and Ham territory. 

Products used in this video and/or products I've found useful:

Makeup Forever's Aquabrow

MAC's brow pencil in Lingering

Anastasia Beverly Hills' Brow Powder Duo

Angled Eyebrow Brush