Life As Art

I recently posted on my facebook wall that I was headed home from the hospital as my favorite form of balance: asymmetry. I had to have my left breast removed almost a year to the day I was diagnosed with cancer. All went well, the doctor was confident he got it all. I am now lop-sided and healing well.

The day of surgery, November 29, 2010, I fell apart in the pre-op room. My poor Superman did not know what to do with me, my surgeon walked in on breakdown number three and inquired as to what was wrong. A question I thought to be rhetorical but managed to choke out I was scared after his look of concern lingered. So much for thinking I was strong…honestly I just really hate blood and guts and hospitals.

It is said that life imitates art and vice versus. A year ago I was not willing to except life as a uni-boob, but my path has become an odyssey…

However passionately I feel about a subject, especially the subject I am about to detail. I try to be open-minded. So here is my confession:

Words I thought I would never utter (or type): I have a tattoo. But alas I can say I have two! Now as an artist people often are surprised on my regards of tattoos (and that I didn’t have one afore the prior admission.) Being artsy, yes I can appreciate the artwork and freedom of expression that details a tat. I have many a dear friend and family member that adorn these permanent works of art. But those that know me are aware of my aversion to these marks on my person. My reasons for not (on my own fruition) getting a tattoo are few:

1) I am needle phobic and this past year of constant stabbing has not cured me. Each time the needle neared I would look away and I would hear the mantra of the little clown fish dad from Finding Nemo exclaim, “Find your happy place, find your happy place, find your happy place…”

2) I seriously think of hepatitis when ever I see one.

3) I don’t like pain. Although I have a rather high threshold for pain I would never coherently and willing cross that line.

4) I can’t be stuck with artwork I can’t tweak. I like change or honestly I change my mind a lot. I periodically rearrange my furniture for need of a new scene or because I feel I have found a better use of the space. I constantly think of new ways of doing mundane jobs. I just could not be content with the same marking or I would have tattooers remorse.

Now here is how it happened:

I went to my first radiologist appointment on December 28, 2010. I met my doctor. He thoroughly examined me, described my treatments and the prior to radiation prep (or so I thought.) Then I went from the examining room to the CT machine.

I am lying on the CT table after I had my scan so the radiologist could tailor my treatment to fit my anatomy. The nurse asks if they told me about the tattoo. I give her a sheer, dumbfounded look and stammered a soft “n-noo.” She explains it or so I thought she had because what I comprehended and what happened were on the extreme chasms of each other! I am thinking dots with the sharpie marker as she pulls out this vial of black and dabs a bit on my sternum area. I off-handedly ask if it is henna. She tells me no and says actually it is India ink which I remark on using with some of my life-drawing, wire sketches in college. But as I am in mid recall I feel this sharp prick in the area of the dab. I kept my thought of, "OH shit I really just got a tattoo!", to myself and grimaced in anticipation with the now-full-knowledge of pain with dot two.

The fun part of getting my two little (and I mean minute, tiny) black dots on either side of my mastectomy scar was telling my oldest child about it. The subject (or infatuation) of tattoos started when she was all of three. I have no idea why. I have tried not to scar my kids with tyranny of my own convictions. I try the approach my kid’s curiosities (like their fortified wills) by guiding them, not conforming them. I want them to be aware of their world so when they are old enough to make there own choices they will be informed decisions. So, with the topic of tattoos I have allowed: tattoo-sque markers, stickers that transfer with a damp cloth and pressure for 30 seconds and the occasional whimsy at the tourist-trap-henna kiosks. All this done in hopes their affinity may fade or at least they will weigh their decisions at length.

Another way in which I feel, as of late, that my life reflects art is with literature. My blog is, of course, a crude form of literature for my trek. But assessing my missing body parts, the scars left behind and now going five days a week to lie on a table/bed that is lifted, many feet off the floor to have a high-frequency beam directed at my heart with this huge, bulky piece of equipment; I seem like a science experiment. I feel I am the subject of the infamous Mary Shelley novel. Just call me Frank-n-boobless.

On a more inner-probing note, I have taken up painting again as I have mentioned in previous blogs.

Well, for the fund-raiser my most wondrous friends arranged for me, there was an auction as part of the benefit. I offered to donate a painting that had stemmed from a study of my initial dusting-off of the art supplies. I had gotten a bit of a “painters block” and thought that a deadline would give me some motivation. The friend who was the task-master of the event, forgot about my suggestion until 3 weeks to go. (I just didn’t mention it afterwards because I thought she thought is was a bad idea.) However, she called and asked me about it. I said sure I still wanted to donate it. Now I had to finish it.

So, I got to work. I would paint and look and muse and squint and step back for awhile then paint again. These proceedings repeated, a lot. Finally, I liked it. Just liked it, that’s all. I walked to the other side of my studio (AKA the garage) and inspected it. Since I started this piece, which was of a woman sitting nude looking over her back, I wondered why all of my female subjects (that I draw without an actual physical reference) always seem to have a Nefertiti-like facial features. This particular day I am mulling over this detail again when an epiphany occurs. My “aha” moment was not about Nefertiti but about the woman’s pose. She was looking over her LEFT shoulder. My left breast was the location of the cancer. I had unconsciously made my art reflect me!

I mentioned in the KISS (Keep-It-Simple-Stupid) blog of December that I wanted to give pointers or suggestions in facing or preventing cancer. This blog of the new year I will start with an insight:

Like the paint makes it to the surface of the canvas; it seems our souls have a way of reaching out and touching our hearts too.

A simple reflection.

I have had a busy and enjoyable holiday season (even through dealing with the boob removal.) The December blog is going to be simple and short. I will just tell you I am going to continue the new year blogging with, of course, some humorous outlooks on my cancer-ridding journey. But I am going to add some advice or pointers of changes I have made that may help those reading to veer from the cancer path.

Now on with my simple insight over the past month.

This is what I know. I will be done with this phase of my life – just not as soon as I would like. I realize a lot of things have not gone according to my expectations over the past year. I have gained unwanted weight during my chemo, partly due to comfort-food consumption and that I had a steroid as part of my chemo cocktail. I have unwillingly lost body parts and had most of my body in need of Rogaine. I know don’t need guilt anymore. My life has to be true only to its Maker, no one else.

I have and am processing my plight. I still get angry. I still have ambition. I still have to take moments and put things in perspective. But most of all I still love and have love.

As you all bring in your new year, please, Live long and prosper!

The Upside of Chemo

In all my complaints of chemotherapy, I have a few pros I should share.

In the beginning, just before my chemo, a lovely oncology nurse gave me a folder filled with printouts of all the things that would be pumped into my body. She told me I may want to read them to be aware of the side effects. Now as a person, who prior to this, was rarely sick and when side effects were mentioned; I inwardly scoffed. My scoffing days over, the chemo gods laughed at me. Within two weeks of my first treatment I realized I had been thoroughly…side-effected.

One may not know that there are different kinds of chemo. The variation's range like the myriad of liqueurs. (However liqueur feels better once ingested unless one overdoes it.) My specific brew of poison (literally) caused hair loss. But while I was Mr. Clean’s look-alike I also did not have to shave my pits for four months. Some hair remained on my legs, although what was left behind was very thin and grew at an old, very old, snails pace. All in all, I had to shave about 3 times during my ordeal. My eyebrows almost became non-existent, the few that were left hung on as if they were stalactites. Thus, plucking eyebrows (or any other pesky stray hair) was crossed off the to do list. Showering became a breeze. I could even bathe, and for a bit the only stubble floating the tub was from my shedding, shaved head. So, we were able to pinch some pennies with shampoo and conditioner; soap worked just fine on my shiny, bald nugget. My head just became apart of my facial moisturizing regimen. Side effect one: Groom with ease.

As a woman, like pregnancy, chemo may offer you a token of reprieve. Even though I did endure a urinary tract infection (something I have had only once in my early teens), my monthly visitor went on safari. My ovaries were “tinged” (the moniker my oncologist named it). This tinging ended my period like a sentence and sent me into a mini-menopause. At 36, I was experiencing a heat that would start in the very core of my being, a heat that would make the sun blush. The heat wicking almost immediately to my head (which most of the time was bare) and I would have a moist sheen on top. So as instant as my head was wet …and hot, being exposed it would counter with a coolness from the surrounding air. It was so odd. This anomaly amused my mother, who I have picked on for years and now whose common predicament I share. Side effect two: We kicked Aunt Flo out but we relocated to the Sahara to be rid of her.

I had the fortunate coinciding of my chemo with the Halloween season. Normally, I am not really all that into Halloween. Even as a kid I never was very excited about it. But there was something liberating about the fact that I was free of hair; a trait not all are willing to “bare” (could not resist that pun) in the name of a great Halloween costume–mostly from a female standpoint. The characters of bald are quite a few: G.I. Jane, Mr. Clean, Kojak, Professor Xavier, that blue guy from the Watchmen and my chosen look-alike, The Last Airbender. I figured the kids needed to get some entertainment value out of this tribulation. Side effect three: Halloween takes on broader possibilities.

Lastly, my chemo ordained me, at time, with some enzymatic-action-in-the-stomach finickiness. When I did want to eat, I had the need for comfort food. As my treatments progressed, my appetite actually increased. My recipe of chemo, included a steroid, that kept me away from nausea, it also fatten me a wee bit. It took about 3 doses, but I finally just ate to feel better. I learned to be happy I was not feeling the need to vomit, but instead desiring chocolate cake! In the supposed words of Queen Marie Antoinette, I ate cake. Side effect four: Enjoy your lot, and your cake too!

It seems I should have a fifth item to tout, as if I were the fifth element, an end to the digits on one hand. But a new outlook would be the only thing I could share. I have lost my hair, which was a thick source of pride. I am about to loose half of nice rack. I have experienced strength I did not know was in me (not for me but more for those I cannot imagine life without.) If perk No.5 is anything it is of grace, it is of power, it is of knowing there is more than I have in my life, that I refuse to give up. Side effect five: A supernatural knowing that I will live longer than those feeling sorry for me. So…don’t feel sorry–feel strong!

Patient patient.

This is a not a path I wanted (or would ever wish on anyone) but it one I have to finish, I will finish. And when I finish, my new journey will begin. But waiting for this journey to end, for this chapter of my life to end with that last period pounded into place; is trying my patience.

I started life as a patient individual. I was often praised for my patience. Then somewhere in my trek to self-awareness I began to feel that my patience was a cover for not being as assertive as I needed to be in areas of my life. It soon developed into being impatient with myself and with each new endeavor. Higher education, seemed too long of a wait, so far down the road when I was sick of school by graduation. I wanted to explore life outside what I was familiar with, an adventure! Each adventure just whetted my appetite for the next. I wanted to hurry to the next step because it never came soon enough. My frustration with obtaining a degree was the time line and deciding a major that would please my family. The oddity was it took me nine years, yep nine years to hone in on the BA. I went from taking a year off after high school to travel to the Dominican Republic, as a tutor for a missionary family. I returned home (spiritually stunned) and enrolled in college first as an undecided, then to pre-pharmacy, moved to Michigan (to screw my head and heart back on) there I started working for a chiropractor and trashed my faith in traditional medicine, so I started training to be a youth pastor. When the time for me to take my year as a youth pastor underling-in-training, I knew I had become what I said I would never be: self-righteous. So, I moved back home, decided that I was paying for the next stab at a degree; the choice I had wanted it to be in the first place, Art. I added my soul mate into the equation by my second semester. I received my degree in two and a half years, impatiently tackling new challenges that would enhance my resumé (and skipping some of the enlightening endeavors that may have been more fruitful.) I became impatient with the process of each adventure. I envisioned each and every goal and I wanted to get there as soon as possible. I became the embodiment of far-from-patient.

At age 9, I decided I wanted a non-boring life, I wanted adventure. I am ever reminded of constantly achieving this desire. Whether it be the excitement of my handsome, adoring, high-strung, never-met-a-stranger (or stops talking to that stranger) hubby; or watching my three children discovering the world each in there own individual interpretations; or handling some emergency (work, home or personal) that became so because of poor-planning on my part or some one else’s. I became impatient with a lot of this process. A process that I should have been drinking in and enjoying moment by moment.

Even now with my current predicament I find my self wanting to walk into the Bed, Bath and Beyond, where I happen upon a creepy Christopher Walken with his secret lair containing a remote for my life. I have so wanted to have it and fast-forward past the chemo, impending surgery and my newest discovery that I will have to be an uno-boob chic for a year! Really. Really…Great something else I have to break to my precious girls. The hair loss was easy, now I have to explain removing half my chest! Those words coming out of my surgeons mouth stunned me. I felt my heart and/or head plummet. I had to fight to keep my composer. Where is that damn remote? I want this over. Now.

I make to the car with only a couple of tears escaping. Once in the car, I unfurled the clouds that pelted my cheeks. I called my husband after I thought I had rid myself of all moisture in my tear ducts. I tell him the news, it was not new news to him. He informs me and reminds me that is what the doctor said on our first meeting. I had not heard it in information-overload mode or I had chosen not to except it. Then the hubby asked the why-does-it-sound-like-you-are-about-to-cry question. Because I was crying…again.

Deep breath. Be patient, patient. Urrrrrrrgh.

Stage IV: I’m only human. But I don’t have to like it.

I am often flabbergasted (but not completely surprised) when people blame God for terrible things that happen. Complete Greek epics justified favor and disfavor from the gods. The Egyptians rulers just declared their own divine nature, taking the praise as well as the blame, I suppose. We, in American culture, tend accept a good just because we deserve it, but evil and bad have to be pawned off on the neglect of a higher being. However, most of the time human folly is the culprit. I don’t blame God for what happened to me or that I am being punished with cancer. Some of my actions were in conscious thought, some out of ignorance, but I know I took a gift, a responsibility given to me, for granted – my own being.

I also wonder how being “humane” is labeled as kindness to animals, not other humans. But then, in turn, being human is a term of frailty. But is that weakness deemed due to kindness to others, our immortality, or often being a myriad of emotions. The human condition: weakness. The superhuman condition: physically or mentally surpassing the human condition perhaps with an odd ability (the X-men type.) Of course, the good superhuman has a weakness (soft spot) for the human condition. I, in my too-human-for-me condition, have found myself surrounded by the superhuman, and they are many! These super beings are people I am privileged to call friends and family members. I would call cancer my Kryptonite but I am not superhuman, yet. Although, I need to fashion a big “S” patch for my hubby to wear on an undershirt! Cancer be damned – these people keep me strong.

These superheroes have showered me with prayers, meals, baby sitting, financial support and now a fund-raising benefit in my honor. I become emotionally tapped when I think how loved I am. That, me, the now frail (something I am far from being accustomed too), bald woman has my own crew of real superheroes! Professor Xaiver has nothing on me (save the shared, shiny head!)

July 21, 2010, I had an appointment with my human condition: My first chemo treatment.

As I arrived to the doctor’s office, I thought that every ill-side effect would manifest as soon as it entered my body. I am not sure why but that was the anticipation I had built in my dread. The treatment is administered in a large room with huge, plush leather-look- alike recliners (I can’t describe them as inviting only because every ounce of me wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else.) I was also a bit too aware that I was the youngest patient in the room (that day.) As I found my recliner and waited to be ”hooked up,” I avoided all eye contact with the surrounding patients. Eye contact would unravel my mangled emotions of not wanting to accept what I tired with all my might to avoid for seven months, this chemotherapy. I went straight for my cryptogram puzzle book, and tuned out.

The first five to six days following the initial dose I had a hard time with the fact that I did not feel like me. I cannot equate the feeling to anything. I was tired, desired scads of ginger ale and graham crackers and just felt out of kilter. I was not me! And I did not like it!

To deal with my preoccupation through out the past few months (even before chemo,) I have been reading a good bit. I like to read biographies. I am not to keen on fiction unless it is an ultra classic, i.e. The Odyssey and The Iliad (both of which I also absorbed recently.) If I am using my time for reading I feel I must gain a sense of knowledge from the time spent. Yet I have no qualms with watching fictional (and as you have gathered the science-fictional) movies! Go figure. But biographies inspire me and I need all I can get these days. Without knowing it I have started with the “A’s”: Alexander the Great, Lance Armstrong and I just finished a bio on Brooke Astor.

The above rabbit trail left behind, I recently read Lance Armstrong’s book, It Is Not About the Bike. He also addressed humanity. In giving the dictionary explanation of the human condition being in comparison and contrast to an animal, a machine and God. I felt a kinship with this man that I didn’t know much about before other than he has won the Tour de France (a lot) and he had cancer. He talked about his diet changes and promises he made to know one in particular if he would/could survive the operations and severe chemo. Then, he mentions how he didn’t quite keep all of them, being human and all. I cried through most of this book. Lance Armstrong’s ordeal was 80 times more brutal than mine and he was only 25! But reading it gave me perspective and a waned sense of guilt for my cravings of chocolate cake and cinnamon toast crunch since starting chemo.

I was also amazed that I never realized that athletes and artists (like myself) have a common characteristic – passion. This passion Armstrong imparted was something I could pin to the why I fell in love with my husband many eons (almost 13-years) ago. Parts of Armstrong’s journey I have not met yet. I am not in survivorship stage yet. Until then I will face the ultra-weakening part of my path with hope and a big dose of robust and hearty dislike.

Often I pray to become more aware of the divine nature within me. Then I sense how super-human, super-frail I am, far from a superhuman! I envision what I want. Then I grope the limits of this flesh – this flesh that has been stretched and sliced and prodded and stabbed with countless needles. I hate it. I hate feeling sore. I hate being careful how I play and love on my children. I hate having to take it easy. I hate feeling weak. But I have to let it all go, embrace a new path and take a deep breath.

But the breathing part has been causing me some issues.

Breathing…I, in complete reality, keep forgetting to do this. So self-pep talk ensues. I remember why I feel short of breath and tell myself I will be okay, but only if I breathe! I may have to employ stickie notes randomly throughout the house with the words: Inhale…exhale…Inhale…exhale… There’s aromatherapy, physical therapy, then there’s my new remember-to-breathe therapy!

I know I will be okay. And that all of this will be over (not as soon as I would like.) I am learning to know what I want (or more, like, need.) I want to be healthy and strong and content. And it is okay not to like my human weakness, because when I am strong and believe beyond my circumstances I am superhuman. Most humans turned superhero are exposed to some odd element. My genetically-enhanced spider or vat of radioactive serum is chemo, I guess. I am not sure what my super power will be when I am done or what clever name I should have. I will be satisfied to be well again. I can’t say I will be my normal (if I was ever considered normal) self again. I have been altered in some way I guess by chemo and this whole experience. I try and see things as they are, take in each moment with my family and loved ones. And, please, don’t think that I am boasting of my own ability to overcome this obstacle. I am only trying to acquaint with what we all have within us that we bury or disregard due to our own shallow mental powers and perceptions. We are all human but yet I continue to be awed by the people who have rallied around me. I now have a habit of tearing-up at least once a day (if not more) when I think of these superhumans in my life. I know worse things could happen. This is happening to me and it is easy for me to conquer, because I have an odd knowing that death will come perhaps around 105 (this number seems like a good number that entitles me to know my great-grand kids and number my hubby will have to surpass in his competitive nature, while donning his “S” underoo.)

So, for now I feel super…super weak…and pissed. Pissed that I have to be human. But not for long, I plan to join the ranks of my superhuman loved ones that have kept me strong and determined.

Being so keenly enlightened of my own frailty has made me less dependant on my own abilities and strength. My strength is not physical or tangible anymore. It is not my own. Perhaps that is when I sense The Divine is closer than I realize. I feel the push. I hear that still, calm Voice. I am encouraged. The ability to prevail shows up and I know, well, yea, I am human. But I sure as hell do not have to like it!

By the way, I want my cape to be fiery scarlet!

Hair today, gone tomorrow.

It took two weeks for my locks to unlock from my head. The unlocking started some emotional unfurling as well, feeling hair-brained if you will excuse my pun. I had started thinking the hair loss would not happen. Hoping I would be the exception to the rule. I am having a hard time being the rule, not the exception.

I warned my daughters, seven- and three-years of age, before I started Chemo that the medicine that mommy was having to take might make her hair fall out. Two weeks from my initial treatment, after I thought the hair would stay, I started shedding. I have ultra thick hair and I am used to my tresses carpeting the house but it became overly annoying. So I told the girls that I my hair was going away. I have during my whole cancer experience tried my best to protect them and inform them gingerly, in hopes of not to freak them out. But their response to my locks unlocking left me feeling unnerved. They found it funny. They were so intrigued that they would randomly run their sweet, tiny fingers through my hair and announce in an awed and excited tone, “Mommy look how much came out this time!” In my efforts to keep them from freaking out I began to freak out. I finally had to ask them to stop because I did not have my wig yet.

Next we went wig shopping. The whole family. On my 36th birthday.

Yep, THIRTY-SIX, I am displaying it loud and proud. I will forever love my birthdays and the increasing number it brings! Now on with the show, and oh yes what I am about to share with you was quite the show!

It was not planned, the wig shop just happened to be within walking distant from my birthday-lunch-restaurant choice. Maybe it was a subconscious decision on my part, I am not sure. This event turned out to be one of the strangest and most enlightening experiences in regards to my daughters integral part in my life. Not to down play my precious son’s role, but at 15-months old, I don’t explain the steps of journey, he just gets the shock value of shedding mommy and lots of cuddling. The girls worked that wig shop like they had been there scads of times before! I was quite the opposite. I scanned the small boutique apprehensively, almost afraid to touch the blank-face heads with a potential new “do.” Now, the girls were telling me aloud (very loud, or so it seemed) to try one on. The sales’ lady offers me to sit in front of the mirror and she would “fit” me. Well, this invitation was all the girls needed to hear. Suddenly, half the heads in the shop were bared and a mound of fake hair amassed on the table in front of me. The lady would barely have one on my head before my girls would proclaim their opinion. They held nothing back. Their honesty was so funny and refreshing and unabashed. Little voices ensued, “Mommy, I don’t like that one. Take it off. Mommy, try this one. What about this one? Ohhh, yea get that one, mommy!” And my three-year old could not figure out “why those ladies don’t have their eyes?” But it did not bother her enough to keep her from ripping their hair off!

I left the shop without a wig. I did, however, leave with complete amazement at my girls. Where did these fearless, opinionated, take-it-all-in-stride creatures come from?!

The night before my second treatment, I told my husband when he came home from his moonlight job we would scalp me. Well, I resolved I would just take the “GI Jane” approach. But when the hubby had the clippers in hand I took off my glasses, he told me to close my eyes and the buzzing ensued. The odd coincidence was, [and I swear to you this is true] the movie “GI Jane” was on one of the movie channels the next day (and a few days following)! I remember going to see the movies in theaters a few years back. I have a few favorite parts but not a favorite movie really. Of course I felt drawn to watch it. Her plight much different than mine. But I connected with something familiar with the protagonist (other than the same hair cut) an aura of sheer determination. The shaven head, along with the movie, gave me a new perceptive. I may feel beaten down, but I am not beaten!

Now the next morning, post-shaved head had mixed reviews. Note: I had warned my daughters, as well as my mom and sister, (who were staying with us to help with the kids during my next treatment) the night before they went to bed that mommy might shave her head when daddy came home later that night.

The three-year daughter crawls in our bed in the almost-daybreak hours of the morning, calling my name as she crawled in the bed. I answer her so she can find me. She speaks again, “Mommy, Mom…mie, your hair.” I remind her of me telling her about it last night, just lay down. She seems content to be over the shock as we snuggle back to sleep. The 15-month-old son was the biggest set back, he was not warned. After his usual procedure of alerting us he was awake and ready to exit the crib, my husband gets him and lays him down beside me in the bed. I turn and greet him with my can’t-hold-back-how-much-I-love-you smile. I forget I am sans hair. He looks at me and quickly turns his head and cautiously cuts his eyes back at me. I speak to him and reach for him but he turns and whimpers. Then I laugh as I realize he is not so sure if this is mommy. He warms up after a bit of mommy jabber. The next person to jolt is my mom. I had to wake her to help me with the baby. I started talking to her to rouse her and said, “Mom, don’t be shocked I am…” Her eyes open and she jumps, jumps and gasps! You did it she says amazed and groggily bewildered. All of this is taking place during summer break, so my oldest daughter of seven, emerges much later in the morning. I am at the dining room table feeding the baby, my back to the stairs and my sister (who only replied “Whoa” to the no hair head) tells me to look to see who was up. I turn to see my oldest child is standing, or frozen I should say, in mid-descend of the stairs with her mouth wide open, speechless. I reply, “ I told you I was going to shave it off.” “But, mommy,” she almost whispers. “I didn’t think you would do it.”

I went to get the wig that day. I took the girls and my mom. I went blonde (with roots.) I liked the wig, as having to wear one goes. But I ultimately chose one my girls approved. The 3-year-old, who is blonde and often has the question posed as to where her hair color comes from since daddy and mommy have dark-brown hair; gives the excited approval of telling me, “You look like me, mommy!” The 7-year-old also says she likes it best. And my mom also was a big thumbs up. Out we went from the wig shop, me as a short-haired blonde.

Stage III: Acceptance and Awareness

I have come to realize I have lived most of my life in theory. Unlike a lot of curious people I always question the traditional, the happen-stance, the why. But I have recently had the epiphany of recalling that early in life I figured out the real and unreal. I guess that is why I cannot be fake or tolerate flakiness. It is why at four-years old, I posed the rhetorical question to my mom that there was no Santa. This truth cost me a few childhood friends or one in particular from second grade, Rhonda. Perhaps the my quest for answers also tends to make me almost over-vigilant in my pursuit, to the degree of not letting it go until I have proven it (right or rarely wrong [ominous laugh inserted].) With Rhonda, I was so baffled that she did not get my logic I was compelled to leave my desk (and school task I was supposed to be doing) to seek the reasonable backup of our teacher’s aide, Ms. Booker. She escorted me back to my desk and told me something along the lines of stop talking about what I did not know and do my work. I was so taken aback. My conclusion to the fiasco was another question, “Did Ms. Booker not know the truth, either?”

I remember having such a hard time with theories of science and different tenets; until inconveniently in my late teens. I realized that most of what I had been taught I could not accept because I was not aware of what it really pertained to – someone trying to prove their truth or idea of it. As children, most of us learn wrong and right, good and evil. We learn it in our own little world, the world we only can accept because it is all we are aware exists at

the time.

Due to my family’s obsession that attractiveness meant skinny (their one shallow point), I was very weight and health aware (as most teens are.) But I had to read theories and research on how foods were digested and chemically broken down. First, I stopped drinking milk when I learned we were the only mammals that drank another animal’s milk after weening. Then I didn’t eat pork when I found out the flesh had some worm/organisms in it. Lastly, when I was required to read The Jungle by Upton Sinclair in tenth grade, which is about exposing the atrocities of work conditions during the industrial revolution. After absorbing it, instead of becoming a human rights activist, I became a vegetarian for the next two and half years.

Oddly, my health issues at present lead me back to the afore mentioned phase I passed off as pure vanity. I ignored my weight and health quite on purpose after having kids. It does not help that I have hubby that has never found me undesirable, no matter my size (a fact that still amazes me.) I also I have made sure my daughters have never heard me say I am fat or on a diet. I wanted my kids to know that beauty and value was from within. But I also told them to take care of their body and it would take care of them. Advice I did not practice thoroughly.

Now, being overweight bothered me, some. But not enough to cease indulgence. I would get back on track for awhile but really had no motivation because I just felt vain. Well the funny thing about avoiding one evil is I accepted another. I thought not being obsessed with health issues meant I would not be faced with them. My theory was to do what I enjoyed when I could because motherhood (among my other jobs) had such high demands. I would be fine no matter how I ate or often I exercised. I swapped vanity for mad neglect. I refused to accept responsibility for what I have been given…life.

So, now I am aware, once again of my health. But for the first time, I am doing it for the right reason. I have to think about death (not dwell on it) if I want to live. I have to think about the life I want, to be able to accept death in eons to come!

I also have recently to accept that my cancer has reoccurred in my breast. I am aware I have to submit to traditional treatment at this point. But I still eat organic as much as I can and make sure my household is as toxin-free as possible on a budget. I have decided that progressive and alternative cannot exist with out reflection on the traditional. I have hated the fact that I had to submit to chemotherapy. But I also know, that my alternative methods kept the rest of me disease-free and gave me an awareness on how all of my life should be; a careful reflection of everything around me. Over the years, I have gone through phases of awareness for different facets of body, mind or spirit. But I have never fused all of them together. This fusion is not without hiccups and growing pains. It is not always fun to critique yourself, honestly. I my case it has become a necessity. I am one of those people that learns things my own way, the hard way.

I still have my theories and doubts. I don’t think I would do it differently (looking back eight months.) Choosing alternative medicine after having a lump removed from my breast was what I was ready to except. I needed the drastic life change. Now that I have started chemotherapy, I realized I needed that time to regain health. Now I in no way like this current scenario, but at this point it is necessary (and what I promised my husband if we had a reoccurrence.) My theory is there has to be a marriage in some way of the alternative and traditional. They each have their place. Once I have all the chemotherapy and probably more surgery, I will return to my Gerson (juice) therapy for a few months to make sure I have thoroughly gotten this crapola kicked in the big rotunda. Then I will maintain a life that is organic, mostly meat-free and sugar-free, with fewer processed foods as well.

Down with cancer, long live me!