Thoughts from a discount store slipper chair

The other day I went shopping, specifically to buy more underwear for my husband. We're leaving on vacation next week. He needed a few more pairs, and I needed a very direct task, something to get me off the chair and out of the house. I had shopping of my own to do, but things I needed were very vague to me, in part because my body has changed so much over these months, but honestly, mostly because shopping just didn't seem fun to me anymore.

Shopping isn't fun for everyone, I get that, but for me it used to be a huge thrill. I come from a long line of Filene's Basement and Loehmann's shoppers. Big family stories take place there, like the one where my Nana, at the news that my sister had been born, the first female grandchild after several boys, screamed at the top of her lungs to my aunt who was clear across the pantyhose bins, "Ruthie! We have a girl!" The thrill of the hunt, the dig for the deal, these were in my DNA. Once.

Despite my expert skills, I could not find the right underwear. I scoured the entire area twice. I was getting hot, in part because I was still wearing the aforementioned husband's climbing beanie when it was 80 degrees outside, and in part because of -- yes, that's right, the menopausal hot flash. Technically I'm old enough to be in menopause anyway, but at the time of my diagnosis, I was technically not in menopause. But a total abdominal hysterectomy and bilateral salpingo oopherectomy will do that to a person. It's one of those things that come with the ovarian cancer territory--the more physical instantaneous life change.

So I was hot and sweaty and I was limping around the store. In trying to get back to some sense of physical fitness these days, my arthritic hip has been acting up. All my core muscles are trying to figure out how to be strong again, and newsflash-to-me-- that can take a while.

Sweating, limping and running out of energy, I sought refuge in the off-price store's furniture area. There a light gray slipper chair called out to me, and I pushed my cart over, sat down, and took off my climbing beanie practically daring other shoppers to look. I swear steam came off my head. My back eased into the chair. Sweet relief.

I took some time to people watch and a kind of sadness came over me --- for the shopper I used to be: highly energetic, going for hours at a time, fueled on by caffeine and adrenalin, speeding through departments and aisles with precision. But also for who I was pre-cancer -- shopping for the fun of it, the frivolity, the fact that it was Fall and time for new boots and sweaters. It sounds weird, I think, but I think I was mourning a kind of innocence, or lightheartedness that I definitely do not have anymore. There's nothing I do right now that is completely untainted with the seriousness of this disease.

I suspect that with hard work and determination, I will get my physical fitness back. Maybe I'll get a cortisone shot for my arthritic hip. Hell, even my hair will grow back eventually. But that carefree approach to the world, the waking up and living without thinking about not living, well --- I don't know. I wonder if that will ever go away now. This isn't a ploy for pity--- it's more that I'm trying to come to terms with this thing and the truth is, there are losses I never imagined.

Positively not entirely positive

I've written a few drafts between now and the last entry, and deemed the drafts not good enough, but really, I think it was my mood coloring those decisions. I'm a lifelong cynic trying to do an about face and focus on all the positives in a situation where sometimes it's hard to find positives. I can't lie; it's not going all that well. If it weren't for some amazing people lifting me up on a daily basis, I wouldn't be able to... well, I just wouldn't be able.

Here is something good that happened: I was able to walk 4 out of 5Ks at the NOCC (National Ovarian Cancer Coalition) Massachusetts event in Boston. I paid for it dearly afterward with my dumb arthritic hip, and my lackluster muscle tone, but still I did it. It was hard in new ways, wearing a "survivor" sash, for example, but it was good.

I also officially signed on this week for an optional clinical trial that will be considered my "maintenance" phase (the time after "frontline" treatment, which is your initial chemo and surgery phase). I don't have to do this. Many people opt to do the standard "watch and wait," which is exactly what it sounds like: you go back to living your (shellshocked) life, and get checked every 3 months to see if your bloodwork indicates a possible recurrence.

It wasn't an easy decision. A significant part of me is craving a break from having cancer at the forefront of my life, undergoing procedures, worrying about side effects, etc. But given my penchant for chronic obsession over basically everything, I thought that waiting and watching might not be the healthiest approach. Neither felt 100% right. 

The way I'm feeling is nervous and untethered, wanting to put creative energy into something new, something that requires I use some of my dormant skill and intellect, something that will be of service, but not knowing at all what that might be, or where to begin to find it. My previous life-acquired wisdom, whatever I thought that might be, isn't helping. I'm lost.

So I'll focus for the time being on my vacation, trying to get away before the trial starts. We'll be in Chicago for a few days, on a sleeper train headed out west (!) and then in Portland, Oregon for a few days. Big changes of scenery that will hopefully clear out my spiderwebbing head. Amazing food that I can enjoy now that my appetite is truly back (hello, Voodoo Donuts!). We don't leave for a couple of weeks, but until I can successfully turn my head to focus on all things positive, I'll look forward to that. 

A place at the table

Last night, I went out to an ovarian cancer fundraiser by myself, not knowing anyone there. If you know me even a little, that sentence might turn on your lie detector. If you don't know me at all, just trust that I am a proud introvert and generally "do not go gentle" into any good night of strangers. Back when I used to drink alcoholic beverages, though? Nope, not even then.

Anyway, as so often happens when one puts oneself out of one's comfort zone, something very cool happened. I was met and welcomed by so many lovely people. I was given genuine smiles and hugs and I did not dismiss them, nor did I retreat to my comfy inner cave of snark. I did not hide in the bathroom (except for one time when it was really too loud in the room). I let them in. This alone is progress. 

One of the aforementioned lovely people told me her own story, the struggle when one of her children was diagnosed with cancer. She said that one of the doctors told her, you have to set a place for cancer at your table. Cancer doesn't have to speak, it can be quiet and in the background and all that, but you do need to make space for it. Because it's here now, and it's not going away. 

I kept thinking about that, all last night and all morning today. As in, HELLNO, I'm not making a place at my table for that. Have you seen my table? It's filled with piles of old mail, books, barrettes and hair clips (now quaintly referred to as "goals"), and boxes of medical supplies for my incision that stubbornly refuses to completely heal. There's barely room for a fork, and there's definitely not going to be room for THAT THING. 

I get it, it's a figure of speech. But I think that even after all this time of absolutely living with it, part of my brain still does not accept that cancer is firmly part of my life now, that it's here and not going away. I guess that's been part of survival mode. But now of course I'm out of that mode at present and easing into acceptance. Not easing. But trying to come to some kind of terms with the fusillade of the last 6 months. I'm not denying that it happened or that it has transformed me and may continue to do so--but a place at my proverbial or literal table? I just can't.