Loss of Power

I met with my oncologist in a room that came with an exam table and an actual table. A room where you can receive a breast exam then get dressed and sit down and hear the next set of news while you take notes and make eye contact and try your best to stay focused and address all of your questions.

Dr. Huang was so kind and gentle and smart. She gave Tom and me space, she took her time. She was wearing scary cat earrings for Halloween and I remember thinking that Lauren would approve. She told me that my cancer is Stage 2. She explained that I would need an echocardiogram, baseline blood work, and a port placed before I would start chemo. When everything was explained and all of our questions were answered, I went down the hall for my bloodwork. Then I met Susan, the nurse navigator, who put us right through chemo class. And we sat while she expertly explained all of the possible side effects of chemo, most of which I’d already read about, some that were a surprise. After signing paperwork she showed us where I would be getting my infusions. We left with an order for an echocardiogram and went back home. In the car Tom told me that he felt badly that I was going to have to go through all of this and that made me incredibly sad. There are so many complex layers of emotion that we are experiencing. If someone we love is hurting we want to take care of them. In partnerships we take turns being the one that falls apart or struggles while the other holds things together. But what happens when you are both hurting deeply, and in different ways? I don’t know the answer to that yet.

So instead of demanding to know answers, I will wait with questions and I will fill that wait with gratitude, which is something that I know that I can do. I’m grateful that when Brooke came over she brought salads with smoked chicken and manchego and Marcona almonds. I’m so grateful that she didn’t whisper but asked me questions out loud so that everyone in the house could hear our conversation. I know that when you’re a teenager you don’t want to have a family meeting to find out everything that’s happening. It’s too direct and harsh and there is no room to look away and no place to deflect the shock. Buffering is better. I’m grateful for breakfast with Greta who somehow managed to hold it together while I sat across from her and cried at our booth in the middle of the restaurant. I’m grateful for the strangers that witnessed this and didn’t stare. I’m grateful for the nutritionist that I’ve been meeting with since the Summer and how she helped me get to a better place of wellness. I’m grateful that after our conversation this week we could both acknowledge that I had gotten from her what I needed and it was time to part ways. I’m grateful that I was able to articulate appointment fatigue. I’m grateful that my friend’s Halloween breast surgery went well and that she texted me to say so. I’m grateful for Lori, who walked into my classroom and hugged me and then kissed me on my head. It was such a lavish and unexpected display of love that it took my breath away. I’m grateful for everyone that came into my classroom this week to say that they loved me. Some of them used the words and others said they loved me with perfectly thoughtful gifts like coffee and candles and a cold Spindrift and cute sticker and the (surprise to me) follow up book to one of the best books I’ve ever read. At home I receive a funny t-shirt about cheese and a new water bottle with a straw that will make it easier to sip water when I don’t feel like moving. On my street my neighbors cry with me and hold my hand and tell me that they have had breast cancer, that they are living with MS, that they are surviving and that I will, too. I’m grateful for all of the texts and check-ins. I’m so grateful that when my girls come to hug me they don’t mind me holding on for too long. And God, am I grateful for Jennie, who can deliver information like no one I have ever met. While juggling a new home, a new career, parenting a beautiful and exceptional child and making a salad, she says to me, “Let’s talk about what it feels like when your hair cells die. It’s going to hurt.”

Because no one has told me that it’s going to hurt. 

And I’m sobbing as I type these words, not because I am sad and scared (though I feel both of those things daily) but because I am so fucking fortunate to be surrounded and held by these people. I’m beginning to understand that this strength that everyone speaks of does not, cannot, and should not come solely from within me. It is meant to be given and received as needed, all the time, and without cost. Why has it taken me so long to see this?