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.

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).

Let's Talk About Sex (After a Cancer Diagnosis)

“If you’ve had chemotherapy, your sexual function has been impacted.” -- Dr. Sage Bolte

Most of us are pretty reluctant to talk about sex and intimacy in the wake of a cancer diagnosis. We think we should be focused on getting rid of cancer, or staying alive, so quality of life issues often take a back seat to the urgency we feel to be well. During active cancer treatments especially, sex is probably the last thing on many of our minds.

But at some point, most of us want to touch and be touched again.

I talked to one friend recently, who was diagnosed with breast cancer when she was twenty-five. She is in remission, but takes ovarian suppression medications as well as an aromatase inhibitor. She isn't even thirty and she's in menopause.

She described it as “life-altering,” to go from being a 25-year old with a healthy sex drive to basically not thinking about it for long stretches of time, and then only because she would start to feel twinges of guilt for physically ignoring her live-in boyfriend (whom she describes as a saint).

"It's never addressed," she said. "Oncologists don’t typically bring it up, unless you have the courage to talk about it first, and it’s hardly a comfortable topic. It’s mind-boggling."


Dr. Bolte, who spoke at the conference I attended at AstraZeneca about intimacy issues and about depression and anxiety after cancer, says this hesitance to discuss our sexual selves with our care team is unfortunate, because there are solutions.

One of the primary reasons patients give for not bringing up intimacy with their doctors is they fear there's no way around the loss of it during (and even after) cancer treatments. But sexual dysfunction is one of the top quality of life issues concerning cancer patients. And according to Dr. Bolte, the incidence of altered sexuality can persist for years.

Obviously, my experience is with breast cancer, treatments for which can cause a litany of side effects, including:

• mouth sores
• fatigue
• dry, cracked skin and mucous membranes
• often, loss of or damage to a major sexual organ (breasts) due to surgeries and radiation
• vaginal stenosis (narrowing) due to chemically-induced menopause
• hair loss
• weight gain (or loss)

Other cancers can lead to similar side effects, and my guess is that no one who's been through cancer treatments has been left unscathed.

In addition to debilitating physical effects are the pschyo-social and emotional ones. Partners often take on the role of caregivers, and it can be tough to transition between the caregiver/patient and lover relationships. It can also be tough to maintain a sense of peace about your body when you might feel it betrayed you by "letting" cancer happen. Or you might be self-conscious about a new appearance.

After active treatment ends, for those of us who are lucky enough to be able to move on to targeted therapies, sexual function may lag behind. According to Dr. Bolte, most of us want healthy, active sexual relationships, but many are reluctant to bring up the topic with our healthcare providers. Not helping is that most oncologists are just as reluctant to bring it up with us, their patients. 

So what can you do? What are the solutions?

• Discuss your concerns with your doctor. If not your oncologist, then maybe your gynecologist who may be able to recommend strengthening exercises or non-hormonal lubricants that can help. There is also this, which "can be done in lunchtime." How's that for innuendo?
• Talk to your partner about expectations. Sex during chemo is probably not a priority, but maintaining intimacy should be. Hold hands or cuddle during marathon episodes of Orange is the New Black. Make time for date nights (or afternoons, since us cancer patients are often exhausted by the end of the day.) Dr. Bolte said one couple she knows of started reading erotica to each other and arrived at their next therapy appointment with shit-eating grins on their faces.
• Communicate about desires and needs. This seems so straightforward, but things change so much after a cancer diagnosis. I'm noting it again because it is so true for me: we are often exhausted at the end of the day. Rethink when you might be more willing to connect. And certain areas might be too sensitive or painful to touch. Share these things with your partner before you're fooling around so that feelings don't get hurt if you recoil when your scar tissue accidentally gets grazed. 
• Go back to some of the basics. Make out like you're in your parents' basement in high school. Wear pretty lingerie if that's your thing. Write each other love notes. Take a bath together. The goal doesn't need to be sex as you once knew it. 

For additional resources, Dr. Bolte recommends the following books: Men Cancer Sex, Women Cancer Sex, and Sex Matters for Women: A Complete Guide to Taking Care of Your Sexual Self.

Swimsuit Season

I know, I know--some of you are still wondering whether it's finally, really okay to put the snow shovels away for the season, and here I am about to talk about swimsuits. What am I? Heartless? I can't help it, you guys. It is NINETY-SEVEN DEGREES here today, and that is not a fluke, not a one-day oopsie-daisy. We are this close to triple digits, which means we are also this close to swimming pool weather. Right now, the water is still just a tad too cold because the air still cools down into the 50s/60s at night here. Come August, the pool will feel like a hot tub and I'll be begging Chris for a plane ticket to Seattle.

A couple of years ago, I bought a few bikinis at Target. I didn't give much thought to them because I was just happy to be healthy enough to enjoy the water with Quinn, to vacation in Mexico with him and Chris. I had my expanders in then, and despite their coconuts-on-a-board appearance, I was hardly self-conscious because I was alive. People could think I got a terrible boob job--let them! I thought.

After a couple of years of sun and chlorine and toddler tugging, my Target swimsuits need replacing, and suddenly I am feeling very stuck. I'm self-conscious about the port in my chest (whereas it didn't even cross my mind a couple years ago), so I'm looking at halter styles or a one-shouldered suit that might strategically hide the darn thing. I'm anxious about sun exposure post-radiation, so luckily rash guards are everywhere. I used to gravitate toward string bikinis because you can adjust them so there are no unnecessary lumpy parts, but I'm second-guessing myself with Quinn, who is at perfect string-pulling height.

And then I think: I'm being ridiculous and should just wear whatever stays put best with a toddler climbing on me in the water. Your kids do that too, right? Use your bikini bottoms as a step-stool? 

I picked out a couple of suits at Target last weekend to get me through the first few pool days, but the only one that fit is a total mom suit. "I'm sure you can do better than that," Chris told me. A mom at Quinn's swimming lessons recommended Victoria's Secret, but that seems too...spring-breaky, too young, too sexy for what I've got in mind. I've browsed online at J. Crew, Athleta, and Canvas by Land's End, but nothing is grabbing me, although I've gone back to these ones for a second glance. 

Clockwise from top: 1 2 3 4 5 6

And it is wonderful to occupy my brain with something so trivial as a new swimsuit. I do realize this. Don't fret: I have scans coming up in a couple of weeks, so I'll get back to discussing my anxiety and mortality soon enough. 

But seriously, I'd love your thoughts. Where else do you shop for suits that are reasonably-priced? Do more expensive suits hold up longer? If you've had a mastectomy/reconstruction or a port, does that affect your swimsuit style? Does having kids influence your choice of swimwear? Because I'm thinking I won't be such a jungle gym in a one-piece. And do you hate me for mentioning pool weather this early in the year, after the winter most of you have had?