October 31st. A year ago today I shaved off my hair.
Last Friday, we had a Halloween party at school. I love Halloween and usually – with the exception of last year – I dress as a witch; however, my witch costume wasn’t in the Halloween boxes. And a half hour before we had to leave, I decided that I HAD to dress up. Saying, “Oh, I’ll give it a miss this year” wasn’t cutting it. So I dug through the breast cancer corner in our bedroom and found the spiky pink wig… and the sparkly tiara. I put on my bright rainbow tie-dyed shirt, and thought I would stop there. I didn’t know what I was because the jeans and shoes still just looked like a Mom.
I’ve never gone out on Halloween half made up.
In the closet, I saw my white pj bottoms, covered in a bright red strawberry and green leaf print, and added them to the collection – thinking I looked like a teenager dressing during Homecoming week: Clash Day. Then I added dangly orange rain-forest frog earrings that Bill had brought back from Costa Rica. I saw a bold reddish-pink lipstick in my drawer and put some on. As I smacked my lips, I knew what I was becoming. I put on my brown-framed glasses. I dug through my jewelry and found the charm bracelet that draws strange wondrous powers from women in the Midwest. I dug to the bottom of my purse and found my prayer bracelet. I added those to the Italian charm bracelet I wear every day on my left wrist with my “no needles in this arm Lymphedema” alert. I put on my slippers and I looked complete.
I could not verbally explain this to anyone, so I created a fictional character: a pink punk rocker princess in pajamas. But she was really a strange looking character forged from Chemo Camouflage, PJ Clash, Hair Liberation, and Power and Prayer. A woman going through chemo. A Warrior Princess. However named, the costume felt honest and strangely comfortable.
If you’ve been keeping up with this blog and all the old writing on www.stayingstrong-linda.blogspot.com, you’ll see a void since mid-October. I had been merrily skipping along, editing and publishing a couple blogs a week. Then along came Power and Prayer, the skipping stopped. Time for writing evaporated. Editing these pieces and plunking them onto a blog wasn’t as simple as I had anticipated. I love copy editing, but…
Subconsciously, I consciously started focusing more on life around me, plunged into volunteering, left Power and Prayer hanging on a hook. But the last 48 hours, I’ve been taking inventory, re-accessing, and role-playing with my sister: “Repeat after me: ‘I am over-committed right now. I’m sorry I can’t take this on.’ So I can focus on my main jobs as a wife, a mother, a daughter, a granddaughter, a sister, a cousin, an aunt, a niece, a god-parent, a guardian, a friend, and now a writer. So I can get back to that Linda Malcolm who could fill your ears for days on paper. So I can tackle a big copy editing job.
My son Liam also took inventory Friday night. Looking at my highly-beaded and charmed wrist, he picked out the four biggest bluey-green beads nestled right next to each other on my prayer bracelet. “Look Mom, it’s Mommy, Daddy, Will, and Liam.”
And now on to editing Power and Prayer with :”) and a bracelet back in my pocket.
Staying strong,
Linda
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Breaching
Laughing alone in the kitchen this morning with a slow-motion video running through my head, it was continually replaying a scene from the water park yesterday.
Bill was at work and I was at an indoor water park with the Will and Liam. Relaxed in a plastic chair and thinking how nice it is to watch them. No longer needing to hold their hands, protect their faces from the water, protect them from the big kids, or remind them of the safety rules. I watched and worked on extracting pure joy from their faces and pulling it into my reserves. Their smiles filled me up.
As the Dip In Theater for younger kids became more crowded in the early afternoon, there were tons of people to watch. Right in front of me was a family of four. Mom and Dad were sitting in the shallow water as their toddlers maneuvered the slide and splashed around next to them. The parents had very serious faces and looked like they were fulfilling their duty: protecting their children from the big kids and reminding them of the water rules. I didn’t see them smile. Were they worried about their kids? Was this their first visit? Were they in shock over the chaos and noise?
With more people, the area at the bottom of the slides was a bit crazier than in the morning. Will and Liam careened down the slides then rode the gush of water at the bottom where the slide spilled out. Then a boy, not mine, created a new trick: jumping in front of the slide as the kids came down. Then the kids at the top weren’t waiting for the bottom to clear. Then the ones that flew down were congregating at the bottom as the next child burst down and took them out. And suddenly Liam was standing at the bottom of the slide, splashing and giggling. I had been relaxed all day, but this new chaos was interrupting the natural rhythm. I decided to go in and remind Liam to step back before someone took him out.
I saw the “1 foot” sign at the shallow pool’s edge, so I took an athletic, giant stride, leading with my right foot, over the edge. The confusing part was not feeling the bottom of the pool at what should have been the “1-foot” point. And the looks on the serious parents’ faces were full of concern as I nearly landed on their family of four. Think of an orca breaching then falling into the water sideways. I did the latter part of that move. The mom and dad, probably after confirming none of their young were under me, immediately asked if I was OK. I looked from Dad’s tattooed arm three inches from my face to their wide eyes. “Oh, I am fine” – as if I fly through the air like this daily, unharmed. I somehow stood up, which may have been a funnier feat to watch than the actual fall. Trying to disguise a hobble with speed, I continued on course to move Liam away from harm’s way.
Duty done, I gently walked back to the water’s edge. Aha, the water is only a foot deep, but add the wall height and the total step-off was a solid two feet minimum. Back in the viewing arena, I plunked down in my chair, where I took inventory. Grazed right knee. Funny pain in my right toe – it probably took the whole weight of my botched launch/landing.
Quietly trying to control the reddening of my cheeks, I smiled at my boys and made eye contact with no one. Simply sat there repeating the line that has gotten me through many plane rides by myself with Will and Liam crying and screaming, so often right behind the first-class cabin: “I will never see any of these people again.”
Still laughing with a purple toe,
Linda
Bill was at work and I was at an indoor water park with the Will and Liam. Relaxed in a plastic chair and thinking how nice it is to watch them. No longer needing to hold their hands, protect their faces from the water, protect them from the big kids, or remind them of the safety rules. I watched and worked on extracting pure joy from their faces and pulling it into my reserves. Their smiles filled me up.
As the Dip In Theater for younger kids became more crowded in the early afternoon, there were tons of people to watch. Right in front of me was a family of four. Mom and Dad were sitting in the shallow water as their toddlers maneuvered the slide and splashed around next to them. The parents had very serious faces and looked like they were fulfilling their duty: protecting their children from the big kids and reminding them of the water rules. I didn’t see them smile. Were they worried about their kids? Was this their first visit? Were they in shock over the chaos and noise?
With more people, the area at the bottom of the slides was a bit crazier than in the morning. Will and Liam careened down the slides then rode the gush of water at the bottom where the slide spilled out. Then a boy, not mine, created a new trick: jumping in front of the slide as the kids came down. Then the kids at the top weren’t waiting for the bottom to clear. Then the ones that flew down were congregating at the bottom as the next child burst down and took them out. And suddenly Liam was standing at the bottom of the slide, splashing and giggling. I had been relaxed all day, but this new chaos was interrupting the natural rhythm. I decided to go in and remind Liam to step back before someone took him out.
I saw the “1 foot” sign at the shallow pool’s edge, so I took an athletic, giant stride, leading with my right foot, over the edge. The confusing part was not feeling the bottom of the pool at what should have been the “1-foot” point. And the looks on the serious parents’ faces were full of concern as I nearly landed on their family of four. Think of an orca breaching then falling into the water sideways. I did the latter part of that move. The mom and dad, probably after confirming none of their young were under me, immediately asked if I was OK. I looked from Dad’s tattooed arm three inches from my face to their wide eyes. “Oh, I am fine” – as if I fly through the air like this daily, unharmed. I somehow stood up, which may have been a funnier feat to watch than the actual fall. Trying to disguise a hobble with speed, I continued on course to move Liam away from harm’s way.
Duty done, I gently walked back to the water’s edge. Aha, the water is only a foot deep, but add the wall height and the total step-off was a solid two feet minimum. Back in the viewing arena, I plunked down in my chair, where I took inventory. Grazed right knee. Funny pain in my right toe – it probably took the whole weight of my botched launch/landing.
Quietly trying to control the reddening of my cheeks, I smiled at my boys and made eye contact with no one. Simply sat there repeating the line that has gotten me through many plane rides by myself with Will and Liam crying and screaming, so often right behind the first-class cabin: “I will never see any of these people again.”
Still laughing with a purple toe,
Linda
Saturday, October 9, 2010
“How are you?”
Considering that October 16, 2009 I started chemo, today… I am great. My life is back into full swing with volunteering at two schools, play dates, fall travel plans – most things that I wasn’t doing last year at this time, I am back to doing.
However… my inner self has surpassed the exterior boundaries of my body.
In other words: I’m still carrying 30 pounds of extra weight, gained over three long winter months of chemo. I get bruises walking through the house and bumping into things, forgetting my body extends out farther now. That, together with my tight curls… I don’t feel like the old me. My hair is as long as my middle finger but lies in tight boingy curls close to my scalp in the morning. It gradually expands to ¾ the length of my middle finger by the end of the day. Recently, the weight of longer curls has made it noticeably looser every week.
The identity of “Linda” is still lost somewhere in the strange image reflected in mirrors. Some days, stranger than being bald. Bald was temporary, to be expected given the situation. When my hair grew back and when treatment was complete, I expected to see me. Immediately. To walk away from the year unscathed. Completely me. A couple days ago, I was laughing alone in our bedroom as I got dressed when Bill walked in. “I so don’t look like me. I feel like me, but I definitely don’t look like me.” And his reply was something like, “You have had cancer and chemo, you know.” Ah, yes. And I do look spectacular considering that little hiccup of last year. And I am thankful.
Most days I’m operationally myself. I still have a strange sensation at the back of my upper arm and some tenderness to the touch, especially after seeing my doctors and having them perform their dutiful pokes and prods. Which coincidentally, I’ve had my year checks: clear mammogram and passing grades from my breast surgeon and my chemo doctor. :) I’ll have an MRI in November as my standard preventative care is alternating mammograms and MRI’s every six months.
Generally, I can lift, turn, spin, pirouette… I have much less tingling in my arms, especially at night, thanks to Gabapentin/Neurontin (sp?). Things that are achy – hips, knees, and feet – I imagine will be better without the weight.
The retelling of a story about two farmers and a dog: One day, George visited his neighbor Fred. Standing in the barnyard, George couldn’t help but notice Fred’s dog howling. “What’s wrong with him?” George asked. Fred explained, “He’s sitting on a nail.” George was perplexed, “Well, why doesn’t he move?” Fred shrugged, “I guess it doesn’t hurt enough yet.”
In hindsight – in case you are reading this for foresight – I would do two things differently throughout treatment – chemo and radiation: Exercise, even taking short walks daily, and not treat myself with Oreos and milk at 9 p.m. to congratulate myself on being alive. After a candid conversation with my breast surgeon, I picked up the book Women Food and God. She said if she could, she would give every woman that came into her office a copy of it. My curiosity is piqued…
Staying strong, having recently buttoned my capris – which meant removing the hair band that had been bridging the gap between my button and button-hole all summer,
Linda
However… my inner self has surpassed the exterior boundaries of my body.
In other words: I’m still carrying 30 pounds of extra weight, gained over three long winter months of chemo. I get bruises walking through the house and bumping into things, forgetting my body extends out farther now. That, together with my tight curls… I don’t feel like the old me. My hair is as long as my middle finger but lies in tight boingy curls close to my scalp in the morning. It gradually expands to ¾ the length of my middle finger by the end of the day. Recently, the weight of longer curls has made it noticeably looser every week.
The identity of “Linda” is still lost somewhere in the strange image reflected in mirrors. Some days, stranger than being bald. Bald was temporary, to be expected given the situation. When my hair grew back and when treatment was complete, I expected to see me. Immediately. To walk away from the year unscathed. Completely me. A couple days ago, I was laughing alone in our bedroom as I got dressed when Bill walked in. “I so don’t look like me. I feel like me, but I definitely don’t look like me.” And his reply was something like, “You have had cancer and chemo, you know.” Ah, yes. And I do look spectacular considering that little hiccup of last year. And I am thankful.
Most days I’m operationally myself. I still have a strange sensation at the back of my upper arm and some tenderness to the touch, especially after seeing my doctors and having them perform their dutiful pokes and prods. Which coincidentally, I’ve had my year checks: clear mammogram and passing grades from my breast surgeon and my chemo doctor. :) I’ll have an MRI in November as my standard preventative care is alternating mammograms and MRI’s every six months.
Generally, I can lift, turn, spin, pirouette… I have much less tingling in my arms, especially at night, thanks to Gabapentin/Neurontin (sp?). Things that are achy – hips, knees, and feet – I imagine will be better without the weight.
The retelling of a story about two farmers and a dog: One day, George visited his neighbor Fred. Standing in the barnyard, George couldn’t help but notice Fred’s dog howling. “What’s wrong with him?” George asked. Fred explained, “He’s sitting on a nail.” George was perplexed, “Well, why doesn’t he move?” Fred shrugged, “I guess it doesn’t hurt enough yet.”
In hindsight – in case you are reading this for foresight – I would do two things differently throughout treatment – chemo and radiation: Exercise, even taking short walks daily, and not treat myself with Oreos and milk at 9 p.m. to congratulate myself on being alive. After a candid conversation with my breast surgeon, I picked up the book Women Food and God. She said if she could, she would give every woman that came into her office a copy of it. My curiosity is piqued…
Staying strong, having recently buttoned my capris – which meant removing the hair band that had been bridging the gap between my button and button-hole all summer,
Linda
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