On Aging

What the heck, September? PTA meetings and a conference in NYC and turning THIRTY-EIGHT went and sucked up all of my time this month. Thirty-eight -- how did that happen?  PTA MEETINGS! Ha! Who am I?!

A friend wrote a Facebook post the other day about how time is a contortionist. I spent the other night looking at old videos of Quinn, crying my eyes out because where did my sweet toddler go? Who is this five-year-old who thinks it's hilarious to send his dad poop emojis in a text?

And then I looked at those puffy eyes of mine and realized I am super overdue for investing in an effective eye cream. And possibly also some botox. Five years of cancer has aged me and mama is tired.

About a week before I was diagnosed, 2011.

I recently commented on a blog post written by my college friend and author/mom/cook/all-around-badass Amelia Morris. Its themes are something I've been giving more thought to lately (maybe because suddenly I'm old enough that my child is SCHOOL-AGED and also because he regularly tells me I have a squishy belly. "Uh, because of you," I want to respond).

Amelia, a former gymnast, reflects on the Olympic sport of women's artistic gymnastics and the pressure we women feel to have it all and look good while doing so.

She writes:

"And while I agree that our ideas about the female body and its power are, indeed, unresolved, perhaps the gymnasts themselves have it figured out. Aly Raisman is performing world-class gymnastics; she looks good doing it; and (bonus points?) seems to have a really strong sense of self. As for me, as confused as I am—as torn between appreciating my body and criticizing it, between feeling endlessly grateful for motherhood and feeling trapped by it, between wanting to appear effortlessly pretty and wanting to literally put no time or effort into that aim—I remain hopeful for the future."

***

I didn't used to think of myself as high-maintenance, but between my eyebrow tattoos and eyelash extensions to give me a semblance of what I had pre-cancer, the occasional mani/pedi to mask the spot where I'm missing a toenail -- thanks again, chemo and five years of Avon Walks -- and actually having to do something with my hair for the first time in five years (NOT that I'm complaining and even though that something is often a ponytail), I feel decidedly higher maintenance than I'd like. I care about how I look. I wish it were effortless but it just is not any more.

New eyebrows (about 8 months ago)!

And don't even get me started on fillers and lip plumping and teeth whitening. I am not there yet. Yet. But the immobile foreheads of every twenty- and thirty-something in my yoga classes reminds me that I am in the minority. I have a plastic surgeon, yes, but for far more terrifying reasons.

Or maybe this focus on our looks is just a phenomenon where I live? But having read Wednesday Martin's Primates of Park Avenue as part of a book club last year (and every cover of every Star or US Weekly at the newstands ever), I don't think so. Also, Amelia doesn't live in Arizona, either.

Still, as much as I lament the scowl lines in between my tattooed eyebrows, or wish I didn't have such extreme bags under my eyes, as much as I'd love to have Kerry Walsh's washboard abs, my comment on Amy's post was about how it took cancer to allow me to -- almost -- stop criticizing and spend much more time appreciating my post-baby body. How crazy is that? That it took being told I had a deadly disease to learn to pump the brakes on being an ass to myself.

Now, Quinn is 5 (and a half), I have purplish scars across my reconstructed chest, a softer belly than before pregnancy, neuropathy in my right hand from radiation or surgery or both, and an inability to move or stretch in ways I could before cancer because of those surgeries and radiation. So much for the cover of Yoga Journal. 

But I appreciate what my body can do. Hike mountains. Show up to volunteer with a class of kindergarteners. Dive into a late-September pool to the delight of my boy, who knows it's going to be too cold for me (it is). I appreciate what my body has done. Recover from surgeries and radiation. Run marathons. Give birth. Breastfeed. I mean, how awesome is that?! I grew and sustained a LIFE with this body.

I watched this video a while back with tears streaming down my cheeks, and then it showed up again in my Facebook feed a couple of months ago.

I hadn't remembered the part about the women who'd lost their boobs. Pay attention at 2:50. Actually, pay attention to all of it. You are amazing, and beautiful, and strong. All of you. Even at 38 years old.

Sorry, Honey, My Warranty Is Expired

I haven't had strep throat since I was in middle school, the year I had my tonsils out. The surgery was preceded by seven (yes SEVEN) bouts of strep and/or tonsillitis, so at the first sign of health, I was scheduled for surgery. I didn't have another surgery (or even hospitalization for any reason) for TWENTY years.

Then, as Chris says, I started falling apart. Ha. Hahahaha.

Case in point: I had chemo this week, which was fine. I even went for a hike on Wednesday. I was feeling great, I thought!

Then that night I was hit with a fever, chills, and inability to swallow without feeling like I was being stabbed. I've got fatigue that has me winning sleep trends on my Up24 (not so much actual fitness, alas). And a self-diagnosis of strep (confirmed as "likely" by my oncologist's assistant) led to my second Z-Pack in as many months.

I no longer have the fever or chills, but am still holding on to the fatigue and sore throat. Why is there no place to put "I'm sick" in my Up tracking? Instead, my "smart coach" keeps encouraging me to take more steps if I want any chance of reaching the suggested 10,000 per day. I'm not just sitting on my ass because I'm lazy, guys.

Still, I am the worst at being sick, whether my smart coach is goading me to move or not. I want to go to yoga, but won't, because I don't want to get anyone else sick lest my antibiotics haven't kicked in yet. Also, who am I kidding? Down dog when you have a headache is decidedly NOT fun. I should probably just take a nap, but keep thinking there must be something I'm not marking off my to-do list that I should while I've got a quiet day.

I want to do a tutorial on my eyebrows but haven't figured out the logistics yet. I thought about talking about capsule wardrobes, but here's the gist: I cleaned out my closet, which isn't all that exciting. I love to cook and was thinking of doing a series on foods to help you get past chemo but then our stove broke (again) and I haven't had an appetite this week because it is so very, very painful to swallow. Maybe I'll do a series on smoothies?

Or maybe I will just nap, after all.

Kidding. Off to the grocery store. Because someone in this house still has an appetite.

Conversations with My 3-Year Old

One of the things that has surprised me most about parenting is how curious Quinn is. I expected the "Why, mama?" questions, just not quite so early. Lately, he asks about EVERYTHING. Here is a typical conversation for us:

Q: "Can Oliver come over to play?"

Me: "No, honey, not right now."

Q: "Why, mama?"

Me: "Because it's late, and he's having dinner with his family."

Q: "Why, mama?"

Me: "Because that's what people do at the end of the day -- have dinner with their families."

Q: "Why, mama?"

Me: "So we can catch up with each other and talk about our days, and eat healthy foods together."

Q: "Why, mama?"

Me: "So that we stay close as a family and have energy to grow and play."

Q: "So can Oliver come over to play?"

And then I just stare at him in disbelief.

Another conversation I've had to have with Quinn recently? Why our bodies are different, a chat made more interesting given my scars, my port, my tattoos. Read here on Scary Mommy to see how I handled it.

Helpers

Just a quick update from Vicodin la-la land. I'm told my surgery yesterday was a complete success, that my surgeon was very happy with how easy it went. He didn't have to replace my implant and didn't have to give me a drain (like I had after the mastectomy). He just re-sewed my incision from the inside out and bandaged me up. I'm not in too much pain because Vicodin is powerful stuff. Thank you all for checking in on me and sending love (and food!)

I've spent the past two days in yoga pants, mostly on the couch (they should be renamed "couch pants"), propped up with lots of pillows and drinking a ton of water. Chris' wonderful family and my dear friend Laura have swooped in to help me with Quinn, since I shouldn't probably drive to daycare on painkillers, nor wrestle with Quinn to change his diaper lest I pop another stitch. Chris gets home tonight, thankfully.

I am so lucky to have such wonderful people in my life, who will drop everything at a moment's notice to take care of me and our little boy. Thank you a million times over for being so willing to help us out. I hope I never have to return the exact favor, but I hope you all know if you ever need anything I will drop everything for you, too.

I remember seeing this quote from Mr. Rogers after the Newtown shootings, and it bears repeating: “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping,'" He continued: "To this day, especially in times of 'disaster,' I remember my mother's words and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers -- so many caring people in this world."

I'm not going to lie: I was pretty scared Wednesday night when my wound opened up and I was by myself with a cranky 2-year-old who wanted to be held, wanted me to bathe with him, wanted normal 2-year-old things that I couldn't provide. It certainly wasn't on the scale of what happened in Newtown, but in that moment, I was having my own minor disaster and there was no way I could have handled everything that needed to be handled on my own. Then my helpers arrived, my surgery went well, and it all seems manageable again. Crisis averted because of all the caring people in my world.

All of this to say that I'm okay, if a little sore, a little exhausted, and a little less cocky about how quickly I think I can recover from major surgery. I'm so very lucky to have the people in my life that I do. Thanks for being my helpers.

Setback

I started today with a quick good-bye to Chris, who left for a conference in Tennessee, followed by a 7:30 a.m. meeting with our architect to discuss setbacks and site plans and elevations. (We're building a two-car garage, and I swear the permitting process makes it seem like we want to erect the next Sears Tower.)

And I ended the day with a more major setback of a different type: my damn incision split open, and I'm headed into semi-emergency surgery first thing tomorrow morning to fix it. Apparently, this is fairly common on irradiated skin because it just doesn't heal that well, so while my left side is almost perfectly recovered from that swap-out surgery 3.5 weeks back, my right side is a bloody mess tonight. I've got it covered in gauze and took a valium to calm myself down because go back and re-read that first sentence. My husband is in freakin' Tennessee. 

Luckily, we have incredible family who have rearranged their schedules last-minute to spend the night at our house (even make their own guest bed because I wasn't expecting to have to use it so soon), take me to surgery tomorrow, take Quinn to daycare, pick both of us up, and calm me down because they're able to handle the logistics while I focus on my second surgery in four weeks. This is the same family who helped us move last month. They organized packing parties, saved newspapers, rounded up boxes from other family members, managed our contractor--even when he threatened to walk off the job because we were asking him to fit too much into a one-week period--and scored $10-a-square-foot tile for us for $3.25. I am grateful beyond words. This family is a keeper.

Also, maybe this time I should take my doctor's advice and rest a bit after my surgery instead of trying to fit in a move and set up a new house. To be fair, I know the moment the incision tore (I mean, you can't miss that kind of pain), and I was getting out of the bathtub. So, see? I was trying to relax, even if it was a bath with Quinn. But it's a deep tub, and I must have flexed my pec muscle too hard boosting myself up to get out of it, and I split my damn incision. DAMN DAMN DAMN.

I honestly thought I'd popped an internal stitch, that my surgeon would be able to use that surgical glue stuff to hold everything neatly in place, and I'd be fine. But he took one look at me today and said he'd have to go back in and possibly even exchange my implant if there are even the tiniest signs that the environment is no longer sterile. (By environment, I mean my breast pocket. Just to be clear.)

I tried not to cry in my surgeon's office as his assistant made a bunch of calls to get me on his surgery schedule tomorrow. I was not successful. I know that in the grand scheme of things, this is minor. As one survivor said to me, "Every molehill is a mountain when faced with this [expletive] disease." But there's also a gaping wound where my breast used to be, the timing is awful, and this means the clock starts over until I'm allowed to pick Quinn up again. Six weeks is a long time not to be able to hold your kiddo.

Damn molehills. Damn setbacks.