Reconstruct This...

10 Years Later...

2017-05-27T22:02:00.000-07:00

This is for Kate because she told me she still reads this blog and I want to make this worth her while, poor kid. So I've been perseverating on a topic. Here are the front runners: 1. The importance of a good vocabulary / writing skills in life 2. Books you must read now and why 3. The life-changing benefits of meditation 4. The life-changing magic of tidying up (thanks Marie Kondo) 5. Why the reintroduction of wolves into Yellowstone fixed the whole ecosystem of the region 6. The power of delayed gratification 7. How the Kardashians created the maddening vocal fry syndrome and made a whole generation of young women sound like raging, witless idiots I'm sure she's running for the hills, or a boba tea, about now. So, I'll ask her directly. What would you like to read about Birdy?

Still Here

2016-03-11T22:52:00.000-08:00

I haven't posted in five years, but I am still here!

Birdy

2011-03-27T21:45:00.001-07:00

I love my daughter.

Last night we went to Cheesecake Factory in Palo Alto and sat at usual table by the window. We ordered our usual stuff and did our usual thing: which is to make each other laugh.

Katie downloaded the "Fatbooth" App to my iPhone and took a picture of herself that she then "fatified." Then she texted it to my fiance, Kevin, who was down in Anaheim with his son. "Look who's excited to be at Cheesecake Factory!" she wrote underneath her morbidly obese photo.

I laughed until I cried.

I have always loved Katie. I loved her when she was little: From the second she opened her newborn blue eyes and excitedly took in the world around her, to watching her drive her Smurf car--naked--in a continual loop around the kitchen and family room, to pedaling her in a Burley at Sun River Oregon, to holding her in a backpack at Costco while she whacked my head, to watching her wrap her "abba" or blanket around her neck at Tahoe to stay warm.

And I love her now that she's a teenager. I love her wicked sense of humor, the way she sucks in her bottom lip when she's tired, the way she reinvented herself from middle school to high school, the fact that she has a whole range of emotions--shy/outgoing, unsure/brave, doubting/self-confident, moody/stable, indifferent/completely engaged.

And I love that she sometimes likes to drive around in the car, listening to music, looking in at the warm lights of other people's houses, talking about life, and laughing.

At the end of my life, which I hope is many years from now, I will count as one of my greatest joys having a daughter that I not only loved fiercely, but liked as a friend.

I love you Bird.

JoAnn

2011-02-12T19:49:00.001-08:00

"It is my o-pinion..."

I heard those words hundreds of times in the 18 years I knew JoAnn Costello, my therapist. And I was always grateful to hear them, because they usually preceeded some general truth about life, some specific advice based on her own personal experience, or some intuition (which was always right).

JoAnn died of cancer on Dec. 30, 2011.

I will miss her spirit, her spunk, her smile, her intelligence, her humor, her turquoise eyes (as described by a friend at her memorial today), and her hip Italian shoes, but mostly I will miss JoAnn's influence in my life.

When I first went to JoAnn in 1993, I felt paper-thin. I was sensitive, supremely self-conscious, and doubted my own thinking and abilities. Every nerve felt raw and exposed to the world. JoAnn heard my story and said, "Of course you feel that way. It makes total sense to me."

As healing as those words were, JoAnn was not one to simply shine you on. She was not warm & fuzzy. But you knew that she saw something that you didn't see in yourself; something good and strong and original. And it was your job, with her help, to find out what it was.

At her memorial today at the Swedenborgian Church in San Francisco, I heard things about JoAnn that I didn't know. That she was adopted. That she'd had a difficult childhood. That she went to UC Berkeley and graduated with a 4.0. That she liked tequila. That she often sent back food. That she treated her son Jesse like a prince, which was not encouraged in her parenting circle. I was not surprised, however, at the depth of love and admiration that was expressed in that intimate, little, candlelit church.

Afterward, while standing out on the church courtyard lawn while Randy, JoAnn's husband, and her friends danced to the Bourbon Kings Brass Band, two of us "group" members were marveling at our amazing good fortune at having found this woman--out of the thousands of therapists in San Francisco (many of them fantastic)--to give us her o-pinion on life and how to live it.

I will miss you, JoAnn. But I will forever thank my lucky stars for leading me to your little cottage in the Castro and later up the steep stairs of your house in Glen Park. And I'll forever thank you.

With deepest love and gratitude.

It Can Happen to You

2011-02-04T06:55:00.000-08:00

My dog Sophie sat under the kitchen table for years, with great, unflagging optimism. I would marvel at her evergreen hopefulness, as she would lie belly-down on the hardwood floor, looking up with patient brown eyes at the underside of the table on which that night's dinner lay. Years of evidence to the contrary, she would wait perfectly still for that magical moment when the pork chops would levitate from the table, hang in the air for a few seconds, then drop to the floor with a juicy thud. Sophie's eyes said it all: "It could happen."

Then one day, it did happen.

My mom had come to San Francisco and wanted to go shopping at Union Square. She put a pot roast in the oven, turned the heat to low, and said it would be fine for a couple hours. Long story short, we spent more time than planned downtown. When we got back to my flat on Cesar Chavez street, I ran up the stairs to try on my new shoes while Mom ran up to check on her pot roast, which by now had been roasting for six hours.

"I think it'll be ok," she said, placing her smoking, ruined dinner on the table. Sophie took her position underneath and waited.

As Mom muscled through the hard crust of what now looked like a hockey puck, the entire "roast" flew off the serving platter. Sophie sprang. In what seemed like a slow motion slam dunk, she caught the "roast" in her jaws before it even hit the floor.

Victory comes to dogs who wait. Not often, but it is a possibility.

Which, finally, leads me to a point. And that point is that you can go through a mastectomy, chemotherapy, radiation and reconstruction and still find love. I know because it happened to me.

I had a very supportive boyfriend through it all. He waited for two years for the glorious outcome of my reconstruction. But unlike Sophie's prize pot roast, the outcome wasn't so good, so he split. "What a dog," my friends exclaimed. Not so. I got a lot out of that relationship, and it slowly and painfully led me to my current one.

I won't detail all the bad Match.com dates that came between the two. That's for another post. What I will detail is that during that time I waited with great hope and optimism for that one man who would see beyond my physical and emotional scars and see something else. Fear, sometimes. Resilience, maybe. Unflagging optimism, for sure.

That relentless optimism and a wholesome faith in my God, led me to my man. A list of adjectives cannot begin to describe his goodness, but I can't resist: Bighearted, honest, compassionate, generous, patient, understanding, forgiving, funny, uncomplicated, complicated, deep, basic, true. We got engaged in Kauai on January 12. He just wags my tail.

For all you girls out there wondering how you're gonna find love after cancer, remember this: It does happen. And it can happen to you.

The Party Dress

2010-12-13T22:42:00.000-08:00

Phone call with my friend Sharon last Friday at work:

Sharon: "What are you doing this weekend?"

Me: "Um. Let's see...Tonight I have a Christmas Party. My neighbor and her "original founder of Yahoo" boyfriend are throwing a big holiday event in Cupertino. I'm going to go home and shoehorn myself into my outlet center sparkly party dress that makes my ass look like a bag of hammers, drive down to Cupertino in my 2000 Toyota Sienna, then load up on baked brie en croute while making small talk with 48-year-old women who look like Victoria's Secret models. What are you doing?

Sharon: "Nothing that fun..."

While driving home from work, I prayed. "Help me to be less jealous. More grateful. Less fearful. More accepting. Less judgemental. More loving."

I angsted about that party all week. Perseverated, really. I had vividly imagined two hours of feeling undereducated, underyoga-ed and underdressed in my On Fifth frock. Instead? I had a lovely night. The invitees and the host/hostess were interesting, interested, gracious, kind.

The next day, Saturday, I was at a church (listening to the SF Boys Choir), and pulled the hymnal from the pew pocket to see if I remembered any hymns from my youth. Being the true adolescent I am, I asked God to give me a message. Then I randomly cracked open the book. Landed on Psalm 51.

Cleanse me with hyssop, that I may be pure; wash me, make me whiter than snow.

Let me hear sounds of joy and gladness; let the bones you have crushed rejoice.

Turn away your face from my sins; blot out all my guilt.

A clean heart create for me, God; renew in me a steadfast spirit.

Do not drive me from your presence, nor take from me your holy spirit.

Restore my joy in your salvation; sustain in me a willing spirit.

I will teach the wicked your ways, that sinners may return to you.

Rescue me from death, God, my saving God, that my tongue may praise your healing power.

Lord, open my lips; my mouth will proclaim your praise.

For you do not desire sacrifice; a burnt offering you would not accept.

My sacrifice, God, is a broken spirit; God, do not spurn a broken, humbled heart.

Not sure what hyssop is, but the rest really resonates. In the five years since my mastectomy and resulting hysterectomy, I've gained 25 pounds. This fact has filled me with self-pity, anger, jealousy and, ok, hatred.

But a simple prayer twice released me, if only momentarily, from these unattractive character traits. The goal? It no longer is to get thinner, prettier, fitter, smarter, wittier, although I would not turn those things down if given. The goal is gratitude and acceptance in the face of imperfection.

Obon for Mrs. Edwards

2010-12-08T14:52:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting here in my cubicle, watching the cars drive by; watching our IT manager brave the rain in a noble attempt to get some winter exercise.

And I marvel at the ordinariness of their driving and walking. I wonder how, knowing that Elizabeth Edwards died from breast cancer yesterday and that millions of women will die from the same disease, they can drive and walk with what seems like pure oblivion.

I wondered the same thing, when as a mom who had just returned to full-time work two months prior, I listened on the phone at work to my radiologist gently tell me that my ultrasound/biopsy revealed the fact that I had 10 lumps in my right breast. "Infiltrating lobular cancer," she said. Not, "Infiltrating lobular carcinoma." I listened as I stood in the corner of the stairwell by the elevator. I listened as I watched someone drop a pat of butter on the carpeted floor as they walked back to their cubicle with their lunch. I listened as I watched the receptionist answer the phone and route calls. I listened as I heard my own terrified voice ask Dr. Borofsky questions.

When I walked back to my desk, I wondered how everyone else could go on with their lives with this devastating news hanging in the air.

Two months later, I had a bi-lateral mastectomy, followed by chemo and radiation.

It is now almost five years since my surgery.

What I've discovered in that time is that there are people feeling with the same depth of concern, compassion and sadness that I am feeling. The world may look normal, even oblivious, but there is a community of women who have experienced what I have experienced; who know what it feels like to have had and to live with cancer; who understand that terror management and practicality and faith is what keeps us looking normal while we learn a new job in a swingy brunette wig with a chest as flat as a prairie under our prosthetic breasts; who understand that every new milestone of our children's lives (the braces coming off, the first day of college) fills us with inexplicable joy and gratitude.

As I drove in the rain to work today, I listened to the radio with a heavy heart as Elizabeth Edwards voice filled my 2000 Toyota Sienna. It was an interview in which she talked about the lasting impression of seeing an Obon ritual in Japan where little boats with lighted candles in them float down a river, symbolizing the souls of the dead finding their way to "the other side of the river." It was a stunningly beautiful image. Tears welled in my eyes. And no one in the cars around me noticed. I wiped my eyes and smiled. Because I knew there were people on I-280 south who were listening to the same radio interview, who had a mother or a sister or a daughter or a wife or a friend who had had breast cancer. Who themselves had or have breast cancer. And I knew, as they drove looking straight ahead, that they were feeling what I was feeling.

Coming, all is clear, no doubt about it. Going, all is clear, without a doubt.

What, then, is all?--Hosshin, 13th Century

Mothers and Daughters (and oil and water, and Israel and Palestine, and...)

2010-07-25T09:52:00.001-07:00

One day while driving home from work, I called my friend Kyle in tears.

"My daughter hates me."

"If it makes you feel any better," she said, "I have two daughters. Double the hate. In fact, I made [honey] kosher chicken noodle soup last weekend and she gave me shit about it."

"?"

"We're Jewish, but [honey] is orthodox. She only eats kosher. And she has to have her kosher food made in separate pots and pans and served on separate dinnerware. I make [honey] kosher chicken noodle soup every Friday night to make sure she'll have something kosher to eat for the weekend."

"Wow. That's really nice of you."

"Except for the fact that I was chopping the carrots and celery with my bare hands, which made [honey] wretch and gag and proclaim me disgusting."

"You asshole!"

"I know! I feel horrible!"

A couple of days later, I was telling my boyfriend about an incident with my daughter. "You know," I said, "this sounds like hyperbole, but going through cancer was easier than living with a teenage girl who absolutely hates me. No matter what I do, it's wrong. And not only is it wrong, I am wrong. Everything about me is disgusting, including my voice, my appearance, my beliefs, my approach to life, my relationships, my job, everthing. When I was in treatment, I may have been scared to death and tired, but my own sense of self-worth actually increased."

"When you had cancer, you probably thought, there's an end to this," he said. "With daughters, it can feel interminable. You lose them for about four years, and it's an agonizing four years."

I don't know when this tumultous mother/daughter relationship will resolve itself, and sometimes in the moment it feels impossible to repair. But the one thing I do know is that all I have is this day, this moment in time when I have the absolute luxury and honor of angsting about my relationship with my daughter instead of worrying about my post-op drain. Or my sore post-chemo arm. Or my post-radiation narcolepsy. But this morning as I sit at my kitchen table wearing embarrassingly old pajamas with unhighlighted hair and unmanicured nails, drinking coffee out of the mug my daughter gave me "just because" when she was nine, I am beyond grateful.

ps: feet belong to another, hipper, mom and her daughter

What Matters

2010-07-18T09:49:00.000-07:00

I know. I take off an entire year, now I just can't stop writing. So much to document. The Walk. The Man. The Kids. Of course, people used to read this blog. Now, it's just me. No worries. I have reached that point in my life where I understand what's truly important. Who'd have ever thought that an angst-ridden, self-conscious chick like me would get to the point where other people's opinions don't matter? Or, truth be told, matter less?

True story: My brother, his wife, me and my kids were in my brother's Honda Pilot last Christmas, going to Stanford to return Christmas presents. My brother and I share a love of Alison Krauss and Shawn Colvin. But lately, my brother's taste in music has devolved, as evidenced by the Glee soundtrack streaming from the Pilot's speakers that day.

Mike: "Uncle Dennis, your music sucks ass."

Uncle Dennis: "You know what's great about being middle-aged, Mike? You don't give a shit what other people think. And you're going to love the Michael Buble CD I got coming up next."

I turned 50 in May. I no longer care that I can't fit into a size 8. I no longer care that I don't fit into your group. I no longer care that there are tumbleweeds of dog hair drifting around my unpolished hardwood floors. I no longer care that I drive a 2000 Toyota Sienna mini-van that needs bodywork and smells like wet dog. I no longer care that I have a radically altered body. Why? It took me 50 years, but I have finally realized what matters in life. Here's what matters:

The Man

2010-07-17T12:19:00.000-07:00

When I was 10, shopping at Sears Roebuck with my mom, I would wander around the men's section and pretend I was a grown woman, shopping for her man. I would ruffle through the rugged red and black plaid shirts, looking for that rare extra extra large. My man was very big and outdoorsy. A guy's guy, but bighearted and true. I'd find jeans, socks, underwear and undershirts, and maybe a surprise: socket wrenches from the tool department.

Later, while setting the table for dinner, I'd lift the lid on the big pot on the stove and stir, letting the steam from Mom's vegetable soup fill the kitchen. How homey I make my home, our home, for my man. I lay out the Parmesan cheese. Salt and pepper. Saltines. Big blue and white bowls. Big spoons. Glasses for milk. Cloth napkins.

I ladle the soup into the bowls and anticipate my man's appreciation. Hi smiles at me and tells me he loves me. And my soup.

It's been almost 11 months since I met Kevin. When he reads this, I'm sure he'll have a big laugh. A big extra extra large laugh. But he might see in himself that man I had created in the Sears Roebuck men's section when I was a little girl. He's a big, outdoorsy guy. Knows how to use a chainsaw, fish, fix a car. He's bighearted and true. Kind, genuine, honest and protective. And, while this didn't enter into the story back then, he's wicked smart and funny.

Dating post-cancer, post double-mastectomy, post reconstruction is a tricky thing. But God smiled on me when I met Kevin last September 1. I'm filled with gratitude.

Avon Toe-Day Walk

2010-07-17T09:35:00.000-07:00

You can get blisters between your toes. Bet you didn't know that...

I didn't know that, but I found out last weekend when I did the Avon Two-Day Walk in San Francisco with my friend, Sophie.

Highlights of the event:

1)Sophie. She had me laughing from Mile 1 to Mile 44 (I know they said it was 39 miles, but the GPS said otherwise).

2)Kevin. My last post was in September of 2009. On September 1, 2009, I met Kevin. Since then, I've been showered with love, acceptance, generosity and patience. Kevin got to Sausalito at 8:00, waiting for me and Sophie to walk by and cheer us on. We didn't get there until 10. He had a big smile for us and big kiss for me :)

3)San Jose Cops. They were our mountain bike escorts. Great guys. Ridiculous calves.

4)Rest Station Nurses. Saved my feet, actually. And, later, my knees.

5)Wellness Village dinner. Big, piping hot plate of spaghetti and meatballs. Rivals dinner in Rome, Italy, as my best meal, ever.

6)"Freelance" roadside well-wishers. Ok, a couple of them gave us incorrect ETAs (only one mile to go!), but they were great support.

7) Co-walkers. The spirit of the event was one of mutual support and camaraderie. I felt part of a big, loving community.

8)The gals who put up our tent. Thank you! Sophie and I, dog tired, got in our tent and fell asleep unshowered in our walking clothes by 8 p.m.

9)Sophie laughing at me as I made it, sobbing, down the steep hill into the Wellness Village. I had done serious damage to my knees and almost couldn't walk. Thank God for a friend who can laugh with me at my stunning stupidity. PS, don't train for a 40mile walk on a mountain bike. I thought that because I could ride my bike up Mt. Montara two times in one morning, that I was a total stud. You actually have to train as a walker. And you have to get good shoes, not your old lawn-mowing shoes.

10)Finishing. Walking up the hill to Fort Mason, my relief at having made it was huge. One for the bucket list. And Sophie making me laugh until I wet my pants. No worries. I was still in yesterday's clothes.

11) Purpose. At Rest Stop 5 on Day 2, I was interviewed by a Canadian documentary crew, who asked me this question: Why are you doing this? My answer: I got health insurance two months before my diagnosis, and I received excellent care by the best medical team I could find. Going through breast cancer treatment is hugely stressful (to say the least). No one should have to go through it and have to worry about how they’re going to pay for it or how to get the care they need. More importantly, even though I had 10 tumors in my right breast, I found my cancer early. Walks like these raise funds for research and prevention, the best reason of all to participate.

Juno's Dad Sums Up Love

2009-09-28T21:57:00.000-07:00

"Look, in my opinion the best thing you can do is find a person who loves you for exactly what you are. Good mood, bad mood, ugly, pretty, handsome, what-have-you. The right person is still going to think the sun shines out of your ass. That's the kind of person that's worth sticking with."__Juno's dad, Mr. MacGuff

Changed

2009-08-22T23:09:00.001-07:00

It's been a year since my last post.

Lots of change.

Ocho and I broke up last August. The breakup actually started the prior summer in 2007, a month after my first reconstruction. I was headed to the beach with the kids and called Ocho to see if he wanted to go surfing with us. He couldn't as his old girlfriend was coming over. They were hoping to find closure... It took me 12 more months to realize that his feelings for me had changed and that he didn't know how to end the relationship. We broke up in August 2008.

I miss Ocho. He was there for me in a significant way during my cancer year, for which I'll always be grateful. It was actually a magnificent year. Life was magnified; rich with meaning and full of love. Ocho would tell me over eggs and toast on foggy Saturday mornings why he loved me.

I had my second reconstruction in October 2008. The day after I got fired from my job. The reconstruction, done by a great surgeon in San Francisco, Loren Eskenazi, looks amazing. But the right side developed a low-grade infection that caused the stitches to pop open four separate times, requiring four mini-surgeries. In January of this year, my surgeon decided to redo the right side. It's been good since.

One last surgery: hysterectomy this past July, due to some funky side effeccts of Tamoxifen. That surgery was a piece of cake. Great surgeon from Portola Valley. I had a total laproscopic hysterectomy on a Tuesday. By Sunday I was digging up a tree root in my front yard.

2009 has also been full of good change.

I landed a new job in February, and I love it. The work is meaningful, the people are genuine, the atmosphere is fun, and my boss makes me feel valued. I feel blessed.

I've also immersed myself in AA: discovering the power of prayer and service. I'm still the same girl, full of the same fears and character flaws, but I have a new peace.

Love? I am happy to hold out for that person who just totally wags my tail. I've come close. But I want closer.

The past 12 months, I've hurt, I've healed, I've learned. Have I changed? Yes and no, but the point no longer is to become something different. The point is to go down the road with as much hope and grace and love as I can hold.

My love goes out to Jenni Ballantyne at www.thecomfyplace.blogspot.com. She recently entered hospice. And she still sees the good in the world.

Send Miss Katie, aka KT from www.ktscoop.blogspot.com, your e-love. She, too, is in hospice and loves connecting with friends. She is one totally good egg.

change

2008-07-04T08:59:00.000-07:00

Ocho's out surfing.

I'm on his soft couch, my smelly dog by my side, looking at the fog.

This is beginning to sound like a haiku.

So, its July 4th, and I have the day off work. But instead of feeling a sense of freedom, I'm feeling a sense of ennui creep in. Like the heavy fog. Falling on wet leaves. Sitting there. Blankly.

Christ. I need a change.

Which was one of the topics of the political discussion I had last night with my brother and his wife, my Mom and my Dad: change.

My Dad an I often disagree on political topics. But on this topic, we are united: Change for change's sake is meaningless unless you know what it is you want to change, why you want to change it, how you're going to change it, and if the change makes sense.

So, for me to just say I need a change means nothing. What do I want to change, and why and how?

I love my life, actually. I have great kids. I have a partner who loves. me. I have friends who make me laugh and think. I have challenging, meaningful work. I have my evolving, growing faith. I'm happy. So why do I feel this new heaviness inside?

I think it's because I am weary. Weary of cancer. Weary of constantly thinking about it and its effects. So while I am honored to support my friends who have or who had cancer, and while I will continue to need their support in return, I need to redefine myself as something other than a previous cancer patient.

I was talking about this to my friend, Church. And she gave me some wise advice. I don't have her email available, so I won't be able to quote her directly, but she essentially told me that it's ok to move on from the healing part of my life and to move into the living part of my life. I'll never be who I was before cancer, and cancer will continue to change me in unexpected ways..

The title of this blog is "Reconstruct This..." But I'd like to think that at two years post-diagnosis that I've been reconstructed enough. Externally and internally.

So, I've decided that I'll continue to focus on cancer on Reconstruct This... until November. Then, if I decide it makes sense to continue the blog, I'll rename it and write about the whole of my life. That is, if the whole of my life proves to be interesting enough to share with the world. And if you've been reading for the past year, you know that my life's plenty titillating. That is if you like reading about the purple mums I planted or the purple fleece cancer hat I lost in Santa Cruz.

When Ocho and I first started dating, I sent him a text. He responded about half an hour later with this: Change is good... Change is good...

Change--moving from healing into living--sounds liberating to me on this foggy Fourth of July.

Chemo Curls

2008-06-28T17:00:00.000-07:00

Enough said. Actually, if you have a minute, I have a short story (honest) about my hair.

Ocho, I, my brother and his cute wife went to the Robert Plant/Alison Krauss concert at the Greek Theatre in Berkeley last night. We had to park far away, and the air was smoky (from all the NorCal fires) and foggy. So foggy, in fact, that it was misting. After about three minutes, you could see my hair curling. Like slow-motion photography of a tender little shoot pushing through the earth and growing into a plant. Only faster. And curlier. By the time we got to the Greek, I was Linc (see Totally Mod).

Fortunately, Ocho thought it was cute. Yet another reason to love him.

The concert last night was stunningly beautiful. As I sat there in the dense fog, listening to the improbable but perfect duo of Alison Krauss and Robert Plant, feeling my hair curling and twisting, I felt a peace settle on me and sink into my soul.

PS: To my big sis: Jannie, doesn't my hair like this remind you of when I was in sixth grade--minus the wire-rimmed John Denver glasses?

Mothers with Cancer

2008-06-27T14:59:00.000-07:00

I recently was asked to be part of a new blog called Mothers with Cancer. These women know how to deal with adversity with that perfect blend of intelligence, compassion, spunk and bite that just wags my tail!

Go read what these 17 women have to say, including the creator of the site, the brilliant Susan (really, she's a NASA scientist), who also blogs at Toddler Planet.

Another of the 17 is Andrea of Punk Rock Mommy. This articulate, feisty mom of six was diagnosed with inflammatory breast cancer the day after she got her college degree. She's fighting the good fight, but she needs love and prayers now. Send yours her way, if you would.

Also read Jenni Ballantyne of The Comfy Place. She's just gorgeous. Inside and out.

Heck, take the rest of the day off and read them all. They're all truly amazing.

Love to you.

Succulent

2008-06-14T23:17:00.000-07:00

Ocho and I drove to the City this afternoon, hoping to get into the Dale Chihuly exhibit at the De Young. It was sold out. So instead we ambled through Golden Gate Park and into the botanical garden cactus sale, where Ocho bought seven vibrant green succulents.

The stress of selecting only seven of those luscious plants must have exhausted the guy, because it’s 9 o’clock on a Saturday night and Ocho’s in bed sleeping like a rugby player.

No worries. That means I can stay up late and write about a topic that is difficult to write about—my changing body.

I was extraordinarily proud of myself after going through chemo without gaining a pound. In fact, looking back, that was a sweet time. I was flat, and I was bald. But I was loved. And I knew I wasn’t always going to be flat and bald. Those were temporary experiences.

Then I went through 28 sessions of radiation. I would arrive at the Dorothy B. Schneider Cancer Center at 8 a.m., have Tony or Wayne radiate me, apply anti-burn gel to my radiated side, and go to work. Other than getting a rockin’ good burn, the whole thing was not horrible, just fatiguing. About halfway through, I found myself falling asleep at 8 p.m. every night after work.

In the six months between radiation and reconstruction I gained 18 pounds.

I quit drinking. I buy healthy, organic foods. I eat more vegetables and fiber. I avoid the Red Vines at work. I go to 5:30 a.m. spin classes. I ride my mountain bike up, well, mountains. I do my own yard work and home repairs. One would think I would have lost those 18 pounds. The digital scale says I’ve lost three.

I put on a pair of pants for work the other day. The black capris, to my horror, looked like leggings. So, I took off the leggings and put on a skirt, the one that used to ride loosely on my hips and that now cuts deeply into my gut.

Nora Ephron wrote a great book, called “I Feel Bad about My Neck: And Other Thoughts on Being a Woman.” It helped. But only a little. It may have helped more if the title had been, "I Feel Bad about My Gut: And Other Thoughts on Being a Woman."

Here’s what—finally—has helped me: a sentence in an article on post-chemo weight gain on the American Cancer Society website.

Dr. Wendy Demark-Wahnefried, RD, an associate research professor at Duke University Medical Center said, “It’s not necessarily the weight gain, but the change in body composition that is worrisome.” The change in body composition is characteristic of the normal aging process. “If you look at these women in the year after diagnosis, the chemotherapy patient ages 10 years over the course of a year. Although you might think a change in body fat of 2% is not much, indeed it is. The time clock is sped up.”

Finally. Validation.

I thought it was the Tamoxifen, but my oncologist and others say that Tamoxifen does not cause weight gain. That made me a little crazy. And a little pissed off. It helps to know that chemo and chemo-induced menopause can cause dramatic changes in your body. It helps to know that chemo takes the pause out of menopause. This was no gradual menopause; this was the entire process, which usually takes 10 years, in one year.

So here’s the new plan, and it’s a simple one: I’m going to work out more and eat less. I’m going to give losing this 15 pounds extraordinary effort. And in the meantime, I’m going to try to love this new, succulent body.

Here.

2008-05-21T23:50:00.000-07:00

I’ve been gone. I took a break from my blog to tend to my kids, my job, my man, my house, my health, my spirit.

I’ve also been tending to my sobriety.

I quit drinking five months ago. Not a long time in recovery circles, but long enough to know that this has been a life-changing decision for me.

On December 23, I came home from work. I opened a bottle of chardonnay and poured a glass while I cooked dinner. Such a civil way to end the day, to take the edge off. I stirred the spaghetti sauce and poured another glass.

An hour later, I went out to the garage to put the empty green wine bottle in the recycling bin with the other empty green wine bottles.

There have been times in my life when I took my recycling down to The Recyclery so that my empty green wine bottles wouldn’t be exposed out there in the bin on the curb, clearly visible to my neighbors. Fourteen wine bottles in the recycling bin looks like you had a party. Unless you have fourteen wine bottles in your recycling bin every two weeks.

I’ve played my cancer card exactly once: to get out of a ticket for not wearing a seat belt ("Sorry officer, I just had reconstruction and it hurts," I lied.) But I don’t intend to use it to explain the alarming increase in my alcohol use. Yes, I went through a debilitating depression last Fall after my reconstruction. But my drinking had been progressing way before then.

I quit for these reasons:

I quit because I was drinking too much.

I quit because I discovered that moderation was not an option for me.

I quit because chemo threw me into complete menopause in 12 months, causing me to gain 20 pounds, upon which working out like a triathlete has had little effect.

But the main reason I quit was because of a conversation I had with my 15-year-old son about drinking and driving. “Mom, don’t you think it’s kind of ironic that you’re telling me to not drink and drive when you had two glasses of wine at home, you’re drinking a beer here at Jersey Joe’s, and then you’re going to get in the van and drive us both home?”

At that moment, I knew I was going to quit drinking. It took another couple of weeks. But on Christmas Eve, I walked into my first AA meeting.

It actually feels amazingly good and freeing to not drink. I find that keeping things simple works. I find that a ride on my mountain bike with Ocho works. I find that a steaming bowl of chicken and vegetables over rice works. I find that music works. I find that being here for my kids works. I find that God works. But keeping things simple is not simple for me. I’ve actually had to check out so I could check back in; I’ve had to focus on only the most essential priorities.

So, I’ve been gone. But I’ve been here. Where I intend to stay.

Hair.

2008-04-06T11:11:00.001-07:00

Deena requested a photo of my hair these days. Here ya go, Deena! I am not hating it. In fact, after the hour and a half it takes to get it to look like this, I kinda like it :) More later xo

Nodding Off

2008-03-16T09:28:00.001-07:00

On my current to do list:

1. Figure out new job
2. Finish freelance project for old job
3. Get a chemistry tutor for Mike
4. Do my taxes
5. Lose final 12 pounds
6. Go to 6 a.m. strength training class
7. Walk dog
6. Update blog
7. Help Kate with essay
8. Help Mike get a summer job
9. Maintain yard
10. Pay bills
11. Teach Mike to drive
12. Get oil changed
13. Clean my house
14. Have a garage sale
15. Laundry
16. Get dog to vet
17. Summer camps for Kate
18. Fix home network
19. Laundry
20. Get healthier food in the house
21. Learn to meditate
22. Meditate on the laundry
23. Paint house
24. Figure out house drainage problem
25. Figure out how to pay for house drainage problem
26. Get out on my bike
27. Clean out garage
28. Go through attic
29. Go to Kate's softball games
30. Figure out second reconstructive surgery (who/where/when/how...I know what and why)
31. Doctor's appointments
32. Kids' doctors' appointments
33. Plan Mike's birthday
34. Organize files
35. Read work books
36. Get haircut
37. Change batteries in smoke detectors
38. Wash car
39. Join professional organizations
40. Figure out iPhoto
41. Back up computer
42. Learn InDesign for work
43. Fill propane tank for gas grill
44. Set up compost bin
45. Figure out if I can still afford financial planner
46. Get new sheets
47. Go through file cabinet
48. Finish open enrollment for work benefits
49. Organize work priorities for next three months while my boss is out on maternity leave
50. Put away last of the Christmas decorations

The kids and I for years have held an unofficial contest to see who in our neighborhood keeps their Christmas tree and/or lights up the longest. The longest was April. We would drive by the house, ablaze with colored lights, and laugh. "Ohmigod, can you believe that?" we would gasp. "What slackers!"

Well, it's official: I'm a slacker. While I took down my tree and lights before the new year, the tree globes and lights and glittery kid decorations are still languishing on the window seat. I simply can't make myself put them away.

I think the Christmas decorations have become this symbol for me. I am positively overwhelmed. There is just simply too much to do. I used to pride myself not only on getting things done, but getting them done well. These days? There is so much to do that I sometimes become immobilized.

The obvious omission on the list is my relationships. Nurturing my relationships--with God as I understand Him, with my family, with my significant other, with my friends--is the most important thing in my life. But I didn't give any a line item on the list because they will never be complete; they take ongoing focus and priority. That's another topic, however. For now, I intend to strengthen my commitment to the people in my life.

In focusing on my relationships (and the key items on the to do list), I hope to soothe this anxiety that is bathing my cells with adrenaline and avoid the depression that is encroaching upon my happiness and sense of peace. Life is short. And anxiety and stress shorten it.

So what I've decided to do is to let some things slide. Including my blog. When I can't do my blog well, it makes me anxious. And depressed. I want this to be a place where I can create, express and heal myself. Not a place where I feel pressure. I hope to find the time to check out other people's words in the next few months. I also will be thinking about the words I've already read.

For now, I'm nodding off. And putting away the Christmas decorations.

Maybe.

Much love.

PS: My dog Ruby (aka Rubella), a pit mix who was living her last days at the Milo Foundation animal sanctuary up in Willits, recently died. I can't write about it now. I want to write about it when I can give Bella the tribute she deserves. We love you Bella, baby. You were the best. [postscript: someone asked me if Ruby is dead in this photo. good grief, no, is my answer. she was merely sunning herself in the grass]

Lucy III: Integration

2008-02-19T23:50:00.000-08:00

When I was in kindergarten, my class had a little graduation ceremony in June to commemorate our promotion to 1st grade. I remember this because I fucked it up.

I simply had to walk down an aisle with my partner, who would turn left to proceed up the stairs to the stage, while I, on the other hand, turned right. On graduation day, however, I froze at the end of the aisle. Right? Left? Crap, I don’t know! I don’t remember learning this part!

As usual, I had been preoccupied with more important matters. Like wondering why, Melinda Lacey didn’t think the empty Signal toothpaste box I gave her was cool. (Did she not know it was a sexy new brand?) Or why at our recent field trip to the dairy, the cow I was attempting to milk dropped a load on my new pilgrim shoes with the shiny brass buckles—even though I was sending her my most powerfully positive vibes. (Could she not feel my loving kindness?) Or why my mom thought it would be a good idea for me to go to school with a giant, oozing eye infection if I would only wear her Jackie-O sunglasses (and thereby escape everyone’s notice). Or thinking about the tragedy of finally connecting with George Cornelius—making eye contact even—then promptly barfing in my lap from eating too much toothpaste on an empty stomach.

At five years old, I was simply too busy to pay attention to details. Although, I think the truer statement is I was too anxious to let my attention linger longer than briefly on any topic—with the possible exceptions of compelling consumer product packaging and the hidden motivations of dairy heifers.

In later years, this lack of focus caused me to miss a lot of pertinent information. That propensity—coupled with the fact that we moved to a new state every two to three years and that I had to deal with a new neighborhood, new friends, a new school, a new curriculum—kept me in a constant state of panic. Everyone else seemed to have more information than I did; information that is critical to understanding the world, other people and their interconnections, basic mathematics.

And even though I solved part of the problem by getting a degree in communications, which satisfies my extreme need for accurate information, I still sometimes feel like I’m missing key pieces of the puzzle, but the feeling is fleeting.

That’s what this Lucy plate represents for me: feeling integrated. It took years of hard work and gut-level honesty and therapy (and, truth be told, an antidepressant that helped me battle constant anxiety), but I now feel as if I know who I am. I can locate all the pieces to the puzzle. And that helps me focus, which helps me appreciate life—my life—deeply.

I attribute this sense of integration to JoAnne, my therapist for 14 years. Sometimes I see her often; other times, infrequently. She’s been absolutely critical to my self-discovery and my resulting happiness.

Two months after my bilateral mastectomy, JoAnne was diagnosed with Stage III lung cancer. She underwent brutal chemotherapy, which on average works in only10 percent of the people who receive it. She happened to be in that10 percent group, which means her tumor, while not gone, is not growing either. I saw JoAnne last night. She looks beautiful in her short red hair and long earrings. And while she now forgets things—which used to be a rare occurance for JoAnne—she remembers the key elements, the elements that she helped me piece together.

Thank you, JoAnne. For being the corner-piece.

PS: As I reread this post and the story about my mom sending me to kindergarten sick, and how my dad moved us to a new part of the country every two to three years, I had a pang of guilt. I want people to know that my mom and dad are great parents. Unfortunately, the good stories about their parenting aren’t nearly as funny as the ones that are a little more complex. I, too, have sent a child to school sick. Gave her some Tylenol, put a little lipstick on her, and sent her and her shoebox diorama representing the book she read on Rosa Parks to school. And while I haven’t moved my kids, it’s because I haven’t had to. My dad moved us because either his career demanded it, or he wanted to move us to a better environment. I want people to know that my mom and dad did and continue to do a terrific job of parenting their kids.

Lucy II: Imperfection

2008-02-04T23:36:00.000-08:00

In this image, Lucy’s damage is plainly visible. But in spite of the damage she’s suffered, she is still unmistakably Lucy.

I like this image of Lucy because it symbolizes the fact that people can suffer great damage and still retain the essence of who they are.

This idea used to be important to me because for years I felt damaged on the inside and was absolutely certain it was visible from the outside. It’s important to me now because, while I no longer feel damaged on the inside, I am visibly damaged on the outside. And I am still unmistakably me.

My physical damage—the scars that extend across what used to be my breasts—are road maps that indicate where the cancer lay beneath my skin. Sometimes they piss me off. Sometimes they make me sad. In more lucid moments, they make me grateful and happy beyond expression. I now look different. I now feel different. I now am different. But I am not less; I am more. I am more me. With everything that was taken away from me--my breasts, my youth, my vanity, my peace of mind--I have gained strange and beautiful blessings.

When I was a kid, I would put records on my little turntable and change the outfits on my Barbie. "If you are really there God," I would challenge, "you'll make my Barbie talk." Then I would hold my Barbie at arms' length and stare at her, unblinking, while Badfinger played on my record player. Of course, nothing ever happened in those four minutes. (Although, I can probably attribute my 20/300 vision to the Barbie tests). Forty years later, God still hasn't proven His presence to me. And He didn't protect me from breast cancer. But I now believe He is there, in some form. The series of events that began two months before my diagnosis and that still continue make it difficult for me to believe that they were simply random.

When my son was in elementary school, he and his buddies would take the camcorder and record the Legos on the carpet, the dog sleeping in the sun, the grass growing. They called their films "Random Shit Productions." I thought it was brilliant, their videos about nothing. I now look at the random shit in my life as brilliant. It's all coming together in such a lovely way.

(And I'd love to write about it, but I'll have to continue this weekend. I just started a new job today, so my posts will be infrequent and brief. Be patient with me...)

Wag My Tail

2008-01-21T16:59:00.000-08:00

Here’s what really wags my tail: nice people. There is just nothing on this planet like being in the company of people who make it their business to make you feel good.

Jena at Bullseye, Baby! is one of those people. Ms. Feral at Gone Feral is another. (Warning: If you like your language clean and your thoughts pure, don’t check out Gone Feral. Mom and Dad, that means you…)

Jena and I connected a few months ago. When I found her blog in November/December, I knew I’d found a new landing pad. Jena’s blog visually reminds me of Apple’s packaging: the gorgeously minimal design, the simple instructions, the tightly constructed copy. Like Jena’s blog. I like everything she writes, but here's one that hit the mark: Letting Go of My Russian. Jena is smart, funny, wry, compassionate, genuine and creative. And check out her poetry. (Crimony! as my grandma used to say. It's that good.) I love reading Jena's posts. She’s one of my daily reads. So, I was beyond honored when she emailed me “The Daily Dose” award. Thank you, Jena!

I'm passing the Daily Dose on to Sherry. She maintains no less than four blogs, all of which are graphically appealing, insightful and meaningful. One of Sherry's blogs is Sage and Thyme. Go check her out, if you don't already. And while you're there, check out her rockin' hot new cut.

Another of my almost-daily reads is Gone Feral. Four months ago, I was pissed at the world and needed a place outside of a car full of kids to use the filthiest language imaginable in an attempt to offload those negative feelings. So I created this blog.

Having absolutely no experience writing (or reading) a blog, I Googled “best of blogs.” That’s where I found Gone Feral, nominated frequently for Funniest Blog and Best Blog, Period (not the real title, but you get the idea). And for good reason: Ms. Feral is a genius, albeit a totally skanky one (and I say that with all kinds of admiration, Ms. Feral, for both your writing and the tight-writ community you’ve created).

The first post I read by Ms. Feral was Tits Ahoy. Blog brilliance in a B-cup. She did the NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month) thing, posting 30 posts in 30 days in November. So naturally, she took a lot of December and January off. I checked her out yesterday, to find that she had written a sort of recap of 2007 and named several people and posts, giving unofficial “best of” awards. Couldn’t wait to see who she listed so I could find a few new voices. Well, I’ll be damned if she didn’t list Reconstruct This as one of the best new blogs of 2007. Says Feral:

Best New Blog? Well, I'm liking Be the Boy right now, but that is not a new blog, only a blog new to me. So we'll keep it virginal and give the nod to At Home in the Queen City and Reconstruct This. I do not know where the Queen City is (is it kind of like a Twin city, but with bigger beds?) but I know funny and a blog with potential when I read one. As for Reconstruct This...what can I say? I like thoughtful writing as well as lists about pubes and buttholes. It's a funny and touching blog about surviving breast cancer. It has the emotional heft but light prose touch combo that I love about Soul Gardening. Go read 'em! Read 'em now!

Feral is one of those bloggers who is always supporting other bloggers. She constantly calls out other people’s posts. To have my blog’s name mentioned by Feral? Fabulous. Surprising. To have it in a sentence that has the word butthole? To quote my son: hella cool.

Here’s to Jena and Feral. Stellar writers. Just plain nice people. Thanks for making me feel good.

The Lucy Plates

2008-01-15T07:26:00.000-08:00

My answer to the burning house question: I would grab the kids’ art. And, maybe, a couple pair of really cute shoes.

I’m not much of a collector. So I surprised myself when I bought my 2nd Lucy plate. And totally bowled myself over when I realized one day that I had seven Lucy plates. I hung them in a row above the big kitchen window.

They’re not actually called Lucy plates; they’re the Julia series, more than 500 versions of the same woman painted by artist Piero Fornasetti and produced by German china-maker Rosenthal. I call them the Lucy plates, because the woman’s circular, blue eyes remind me of Lucille Ball.

I took the Lucy plates down when I repainted the kitchen Adams Gold, and I let them collect dust on top of the fridge for a couple years after that. Ocho recently helped me put the plates back up. “What made you get these?” he asked me. “What do they mean to you?”

I loved the question. I just love that kind of thing. I love it when someone says, “Tell me something about you I don’t know.” It’s an act of love to want to know another person. Just as it’s an act of love to want to know yourself.

I got those plates as a way to define myself. To provide myself with symbols of who I was and who I wanted to be. Here’s how I described the Lucy plates to Ocho:

Lucy I: Restraint.

Openness and vulnerability are necessary iif you are to know others and to be known by others. But there are times when it makes sense to be self-protective. I’ve learned to know how much of myself to give away; how much to keep private.

Restraint is one of the six humane virtues (courage, fidelity, restraint, generosity, tolerance, forgiveness), described so elegantly in Stephanie Dowrick’s book, “Forgiveness and Other Acts of Love.” It’s one of the most important books I’ve ever read. In fact, I've had it on my nightstand now for 10 years. About restraint, she says:

“Whoever we are, however we live, we need time and internal space to reflect. How else can we learn from our successes as well as from our mistakes? How else can we know what effect events have had on us, or discover how we think we have affected other people?

Reflecting, we may choose not to judge.
Reflecting, we may choose not to speak.
Reflecting, we may deepen our listening.
Reflecting, we may remember how to endure our own uncertainty.
Reflecting, we may choose to speak lovingly, rather than bitterly.
Reflecting, we may remember that not reacting can also be an action.
Reflecting, we allow ourselves to be surprised.

Restraint offers a space between intention and action and the opportunity to protect others from actions or reactions that should exist only in your imagination. The more conscious you are of that space, and the freer you are to occupy it, the more easily you can choose whether and how to act.”

Dowrick’s words teach us to ask, “What is most helpful, in this moment? What is most true, in this moment?”

This is something I’m acutely aware of recently. I made the very conscious decision on Christmas Eve to stop drinking. Naturally, this is a way to practice restraint. But the more important benefit, I think, is that it is allowing me to be totally present in my life. I am not quickly passing through this moment, waiting for the next moment; I am in this moment. And being in this moment, I am able to take a long look around in it. There are things here I would have otherwise missed. The things that make life precious.

To be continued….

I've Got the Power!

2008-01-11T10:50:00.000-08:00

At least that's what Sherry at "Sage and Thyme" and "Journal of the Wandering Muse" thinks! Thank you for the "Roar for Powerful Words," Sherry! I am really honored to have gotten this from you! I'd like to pass it back to you, (especially for the recent True/False post) but I think that's against the "rules."

So, I'm giving it to Jena, Hedge, Katie and Deena (Sherry already honored Bella, who's not only prolific but brilliant, and Jen at Jen's Musings has this one, too.) So, here's to Jena for writing so lucidly and artfully about life's clean and messy topics; Hedge for writing with intelligence, creativity and total fearlessness; Katie for her grace and humor; and Deena for her generosity and openness. All these women have the power! (I'll provide hyperlinks this weekend when I have a little more time.)

I'd also like to mention Church, for our offline talks about life. She's the real deal.

Hope you all have a good weekend!