Cancer Has Made Me Socially Awkward

It has been six years since I moved to Arizona, after spending most of my twenties in Washington, DC. DC is a vibrant, transient city, full of young people eager to make a difference, people who care about current events and issues affecting our country; it's a city full of history, culture, and possibilities. (So...the opposite of Phoenix--I joke! Sort of!) I met my husband in DC, so I'm a little partial to that city.

And the thing about a city so densely populated, so full of youth and energy and drive, is that it was easy to meet people. Chris jokes that my job as a lobbyist was primarily about happy hours, and he's not totally wrong. Everyone wanted to network, so one new acquaintance led to ten others. And then some of those acquaintances became some of my best friends. Or maybe it was just about being in my twenties? 

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Our life is decidedly different now, and it would be easy to blame our relative lack of social interactions on becoming parents or getting diagnosed with breast cancer. In fact, having Quinn has probably improved our social life, as we meet parents from Quinn's preschool and get invited to toddler birthday parties (hey, it's an invitation and it usually involves cake). 

I am not the first person to lament the culture shock that comes with a move to Arizona from just about anywhere else. It quickly becomes a topic of conversation at most events we do attend. The question boils down to: why is it so hard to make connections here? 

Part of it is the sprawl, as Phoenix stretches for seemingly hundreds of miles in every direction. I met a couple of women at Quinn's swim school who seemed really cool, then found out they lived in "the Avenues," meaning west Phoenix, meaning a good forty-five minutes from our house just east of central Phoenix, so we didn't even bother to exchange numbers. Friendships here are often geographically unrealistic, and so they don't get off the ground. 

Part of it is the heat, as everyone goes into hibernation (or leaves town) during the unbearable summers here. We hardly even saw our next-door neighbors last summer because we all move from air-conditioned house to air-conditioned car (parked in a garage, if you're lucky) to air-conditioned store/movie theater/office. 115 degrees is too hot for small talk. 

Part of it is the culture (or lack thereof). It exists here, but you have to seek it out and even then the results can be disappointing (see: food and wine festival we went to a few years ago that was essentially an excuse to wear minimal clothing (or show off surgically-enhanced assets) and drink at a park during the day. Five weeks post-partum, this was not the culture I'd been looking for). 

But mostly--I think--it's the sprawl and the heat. Friendships here take an amount of effort and planning that ones in DC never required. 

DC is full of politicians and has terrible parking, though, so it's not perfect.

And I didn't mean to turn this into a post about how hard it is to connect with people in Phoenix. After six years, I have formed some really outstanding friendships with people I've met through Chris's job at ASU and my yoga community and Quinn's school. I have other moms I can call on for help when I'm feeling overwhelmed or friends I can invite over for a (relatively) impromptu dinner. Our social life is quite different than it was ten years ago, but I'm okay with that. 

What I want to talk about is what happens when I do meet new people here, and this is a direct consequence of cancer: I never know when or how it's appropriate to share my health history with others. I feel awkward and insecure, which is not typical for me. I went to three different high schools. I know what it's like to be the new girl, know how to make small talk with strangers. Or at least I did. Now I can be found milling awkwardly over the guacamole and chips while others mingle. I can't be the only woman living with Stage 4 cancer who has this problem, right?

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A family in our neighborhood hosted a block party over the weekend and I met a couple of new faces. One woman complimented me on my haircut. Do I mention cancer? I wondered. Ultimately, I did, saying this was grow-out from chemo and I'm not quite sure what to do with it in this in-between phase. "Oh, I'm so glad you're a survivor!" she responded. And then I wondered whether I should explain further--that, actually, I'm still in treatment, and I'm not completely comfortable with that word. But I didn't. I just smiled and said, "Yeah, me too." A version of this exchange happens pretty frequently. More and more, as my hair gets longer, I'm less inclined to mention cancer, but should I? Do I then become that weird cancer woman who doesn't talk about anything else? Am I already her?

Another neighbor standing nearby chimed in: "Oh, I just did the 3-day walk! It was so inspiring!" See? Cancer makes everyone awkward. I did resist the urge to get on my soap box about the evil empire Komen. 

Another couple of women at the potluck had seven children under the age of seven between them, and asked the inevitable question of whether we were going to have more. What should I say? I debated saying I couldn't get pregnant because of health issues, but I didn't. I just said we had our hands full with one for now. I felt like I was admitting defeat to these super producers of little humans, like I am a lesser being because I don't know if I could handle more kids and here they were with three or four each. But I don't want every conversation to be about cancer.

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Yet another woman asked whether I worked and whether Quinn was in preschool. No and yes were my answers. "He's in school a couple days a week because I have some health issues and need the extra help so I can make it to all my doctors appointments," I said. Or something like that. I skirted the issue, which felt disingenuous. Should I have just talked about how good I think it is for his social development? Probably.

I'd love to hear your thoughts on this. Because lately, cancer has been making me feel awkward, insecure, and insincere. All good qualities for sparking friendships, right? So. . . short of becoming more of a recluse, how do I navigate this weird space I'm in where I look mostly healthy but have treatments and am on disability and still live with this disease all the damn time? 

Hey, at least I don't have to worry about dating.

Three

My Sweet Bugsy Boo,

Last Thursday you turned three years old. You'd been looking forward to your birthday since just after Christmas, and you'd tell anyone who would listen, "I'm going to be three at my party!" "In March!" "At the train park!" Lately, you'd added, "And then I'm going to be four, and five..." Let's not get ahead of ourselves, okay, my Mr.?

Earlier last week as I was tucking you into bed (because I still lie down next to you until you fall asleep; I'm not sure how to break that habit, or whether I'm ready to), you turned into me and snuggled, then told me I was your best mama. It was the end of a long day; you'd woken up whimpering because of an ear infection/fever combo and I felt like I was catching your cold. We were both worn out. Then with your sweet declaration, my heart nearly exploded. We're going to be okay, I thought.

Most nights, we tell each other what our favorite part of the day was. You leave out the "favorite," though, and just say, "My part was..." "What was your part?" you ask me. "What was daddy's part?" You make me guess. I always want to tell you my favorite part is that moment, snuggling next to you and talking about our days, but you say, "Nooooo. Your part was prolly..." and you come up with something else. How could bedtime possibly be the best, right?

Getting ready for bed is another story. Teeth-brushing is a battle, but we manage to turn it into a counting game. For now, you're not bored with that, but you still end up clamping down on the toothbrush between your teeth in defiance most nights. Part of me wants to throw my hands up and tell you they're all going to fall out anyway, but I don't want to give you nightmares.

You bargain for more books as often as you can. I love it that you love to read, but right before bed is not the time for all twelve stories in the Curious George anthology.

The point is, you can be stubborn and ornery and you know exactly how to push my buttons.

And you remind me so much of myself in those ways. I remember very clearly putting my foot down about something, anything (everything, probably) when I was a little older than you, and not being sure why except I didn't want to be told what to do. Hell, if I'm being honest, I'm still combative and cranky for no tell-tale reasons sometimes. Cancer hasn't helped. So I try to go easy on you, and keep an eye on your blood sugar and sleep levels (because that's when I'm at my worst, too--when I'm tired and hungry. Aren't we all?)

On the other hand, you are at a magical age, discovering and learning new things every minute. I try to pay attention, to soak it up, to remember all your funny quips and special pronunciations and curious observations. But my memory is terrible (again, cancer hasn't helped), so here are a few things:

Your favorite color is green. You are particular about your clothes. You want to brush your own hair (or not brush it at all).

You say:

"Rethcue copter" for helicopter
"Buzz year" for Buzz Lightyear
"Banas" for bananas

You have trouble with the "sn"and "l" sounds, so "snuggle" becomes "nuggle," "snow" becomes "no,"  "Loki" becomes "yoki," "look" becomes "yook," and I get mad at anyone who tries to correct you. Someday you'll enunciate perfectly, and I'll miss these little imperfections that are so perfectly you.

A couple of weeks ago, I was giving you a bath and told you it was time to get out of the tub. You observed, "There's no clock in here." So I told you I just knew the time in my head, which seemed to blow your mind. "You have a clock in your head?" you asked me, laughing. "I don't have a clock in my head!" you declared. We giggled about that one for awhile. I love watching your wit and sense of humor grow.

Over the long President's Day weekend, I decided I was done with diapers. You'd resisted giving them up on a couple of other attempts, but I was determined and confident you were ready. We went "nudey booty" (and by "we" I mean "you") the first couple of days. At first, you cried for something to "catch my pee," but I am floored at how quickly you caught on to going to the bathroom like the rest of us. Once you warmed up to the idea, you were the valedictorian of potty training--there were no accidents after the first week. There was no turning back, which sort of sums up your approach to life.

You amaze us with your curiosity, your love of the outdoors, your physical prowess. I took you hiking a couple of months ago, and you were off like a mountain goat. And you are swimming like a fish now, so my biggest hurdle is that you are bored with swimming lessons and don't want to do what the other kids are doing. We tried out an indoor rock-climbing place last month, and once you got on board with the idea of a harness, you were above our heads and out of our reach in no time. 

Quinn, watching you become a little human has been the greatest experience of my life. I am so grateful I get to be here to help parent you, guide you, be your friend. I am so lucky to get to know you a little better every day. I hope we have so many more days, months, years together.

Love,
Your Mama

The Elephant in the Room

Stage 4 breast cancer often gets swept under the rug in the sea of pink awareness campaigns. (I've talked about my frustration here and here and here, and what might help here.) It is a tough fact to face that thirty percent of breast cancer cases will someday metastasize, that metastatic breast cancer is not yet curable, that breast cancer -- despite the advances in detection and five-year survival rates (which don't mean a whole lot) -- takes 40,000 lives in the U.S. every year. 

None of this is good news. None of it is wrapped in a pretty pink ribbon of survivorship or triumph or convenience from a marketing perspective. 

METAvivor is one of the few organizations dedicated solely to funding research for Stage 4 breast cancer. It's estimated that research for Stage 4/metastatic breast cancer accounts for only about 3% of the overall funding for breast cancer research. METAvivor is looking to change that. 

In 2012, METAvivor launched its Elephant in the Pink Room campaign to attempt to bring more awareness to Stage 4 cases. A few weeks ago, Kohl's Department stores and Komen partnered up and launched a Pink Elephant in the Room campaign urging customers to shop to raise money for Komen. No word about Stage 4, no nod to METAvivor, just another commercialization of this terrible disease, apparently using lifted slogans and ideas. 

Despite many attempts by METAvivor to reach out to both Kohl's and Komen requesting they halt their Pink Elephant campaign, the only response they've received is a promise by Kohl's to add some language about Stage 4 (which they have now done). METAvivor is seeking legal opinions as it considers its options to force Kohl's/Komen to take down their campaign. 

I am a lawyer, but copyright is not my area of expertise. Without referencing some really old textbooks of mine, I don't know if what Kohl's and Komen have done is illegal, but I know it leaves a pit in my stomach. It feels wrong and shady, not to mention -- really? Another "shop pink" drive? I'm not the only one disheartened by this latest launch on behalf of "awareness."  Tell me, what do you think?

A Chemo-Week Godsend

Yesterday was one of those days -- this week has been one of those weeks -- when the post-chemo exhaustion catches up with me and knocks me square on my ass, when the steroids (or my hormones) make me weepy (highlight: my yoga instructor played "Stand by Me", my and Chris' wedding song, in class the other day, and I was sobbing in down dog), when it feels like a struggle to get out of bed, let alone play with Quinn or do laundry or pour myself a bowl of cereal. I must have an amazing ability to forget how wiped out each treatment makes me, because all of this never fails to surprise me. Chemo-nesia? Something like that.

Part of it -- a large part of it, actually, I think -- is that the steroids I'm given with my infusion keep me up well well well past my bedtime, my mind and body buzzing like I drank a quadruple venti mocha with dinner (the only time of the week I have any energy). I got four hours of sleep Monday night, which is not nearly enough. Then I spend the rest of the week trying to play catch up, and I am too old for this shit.

***

Did I mention our house is under construction? We're turning our one-car garage into a mother-in-law suite and building ourselves a two-car garage. Well, the construction guys are building it, and it's coming along at a pretty decent pace, from what I can tell. This week they're working on framing the roof.

Quinn loves it when the cement mixer or diggers show up on our front lawn, but after four weeks of activity the novelty of the construction itself has worn off. 

He'd rather watch Rescue Bots (which he calls "Rethcue Botsth to the Rethcue") on his iPad. Because I'm gunning for parent-of-the-year-award (they still give those out, right?) we spent all day Tuesday on the couch watching tv. I couldn't do it again yesterday, not with the incessant ham-ham-hammering going on above our heads, in my head.

***

A friend swooped in and saved my tired butt offered a play date at her house, and it was exactly what Quinn and I both needed. We may have overstayed our welcome (although I hope not). Quinn spent five hours running around their football-field-sized backyard, jumping with his friend on their trampoline, driving a "monster truck" until it ran out of batteries, until he ran out of batteries, too. Also? We've potty trained, so who needs pants when it's 75-degrees outside?

Somehow, parenting is a million times easier with two moms around. Math would insist it should be twice as easy, but no. A million. We visited lazily, the boys were happy, and Quinn came home as pooped as I was last night. It was glorious. And, finally, this week is coming to an end.

Thank you, Shannon. Next time I won't forget the wine.

Cookies, by way of Explanation

This is in no way a food blog, nor has it ever been. But chocolate chip cookies are showing up everywhere I look lately. See: here and here, and here, too. And after I dropped a hint last month that other health issues were plaguing me, I received a slew of phone calls, texts, and emails asking if I was okay. You guys are the greatest.

I think I'm okay. Let me explain.

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I've always liked to cook, liked the process of combining ingredients into something greater than their parts. I might not be any good at chemistry, but I can bake, dammit. And I'd always prided myself on making a decent chocolate chip cookie--until I met Chris, that is.

Chris' grandmother had been famous for her cookies. At Christmas, she didn't just make a few varieties and leave it at that, the way the rest of us mortals do. Instead, as the story goes, she would bake for days, making seventeen different varieties of cookies to share for the holidays. In the neighborhood where Chris grew up, her cookie plates were a highlight of the season.

I couldn't compete with that. My cookies were okay, Chris told me, but they just couldn't hold a candle to his grandmother's. (I had to woo him with my genius wit instead.)

He told me the key was to refrigerate them overnight, and I scoffed at the idea. Who plans ahead for cookies? They'd always been a thing I'd decided on last-minute, when I had a hankering. That was the beauty of chocolate chip, I thought. It was a cookie that could come together in an hour, tops, when you had a craving for one.

But then I stumbled across this recipe (I'm telling you, everyone else on the Internet is craving chocolate chip cookies, too). So I gave it a whirl. Lo and behold, the cookies were heavenly--chewy, full of toffee flavor, and with the addition of a sprinkle of sea salt on top I may have even tied the score with Grandma. It only took nine years.

***

I can't blame the lousy winter weather on why I'm craving cookies. I don't have much of a sweet tooth. I'm certainly not pregnant (although they tested, just in case). And I'd be freaking out so much more if I hadn't just had a clean scan. There may be one other explanation: PMS.

I have essentially been on my period since mid-December. (TMI? Maybe...) That's two months, folks. While I am so very happy that chemo hasn't put me in permanent menopause, I am really tired of ruining pants, doctors appointments with no answers, not to mention cramping and crankiness and headaches and bloating.

So far, the bleeding hasn't made me anemic. Which is great, since it means I can still get chemo. Luckily, we were able to get things under control with a ten-day course of progesterone that my oncologist approved (I was shocked). And yet, my uterus is still shedding.

I have my third meeting since Christmas with my gynecologist this week, to try to come up with a solution that my oncologist will be on board with. The go-to choice for regulating periods, birth-control pills, is not an option for me because of the hormones. Another possibility would be a hysterectomy, although I really don't want to lose another body part to this disease. I'm hoping we can find some middle-ground.

***

In the meantime, I'm going in for more cookies. I don't know why, but they help.