Till We Have Faces (Warning, this one is religious)

Today I was mistaken for a man. A man knitting a tiny little purple-and-pink child's hat.

I was in the waiting-room of my doctor's office, waiting to see the nurse practitioner who administers my Neulasta shot. The room was crowded with folks waiting for flu shots. One of the ladies sitting by my had Down's Syndrome, and as such people often are, she was quite friendly. We got to talking about this and that, and then an older, rather pleasant-seeming gentleman sat down across from me, and said (but entirely without offensiveness), "Well that's great, a man who knits!"

He was so pleased, I was sorry to disabuse him.

And you know, I really was not offended. Because I am post-menopausal, my face has started to lose its female specificity, and is now, as Ursula K. LeGuin puts it in Left Hand of Darkness a human face, neither male nor female. And with my bulk and no hair, I really could be either, until you see me smile.

And I remember a tiny little Baptist church I visited once in Georgia because it was the closest church to my temporary home. I was the youngest person there by far, and I never went back -- it was one of those places where men and women pray separately because otherwise a man might end up being instructed by a woman's prayer, and that would Never Do. But I clearly remember all the very elderly women, and their deeply kind faces that, other than their hair and earrings, were neither male nor female -- just the face of people who have loved Christ and lived Christ all their lives, to the best of their knowledge.

My knowledge of Christ is very different from that which shaped those lives, but I hope that as I age, I show His face in mine that clearly. And since in Christ there is neither male nor female, why should someone's mistake about which I am matter? And besides, how cool would it be to be a man not embarassed to knit a tiny little purple-and-pink child's hat in public?

Anxiety anxiety.

So compazine is an anti-psychotic. I'm not too worried about it, as it's anti-nausea propreties are also well known. It makes you hella sleepy, but that's all to the good, really.

No, the one I'm worried about, ironically, is the ativan. Also know as lorazepam, it doesn't really do anything for nausea. It makes you forget that you were nauseated,or that you were worries about it.

I have a bad history with such drugs. Back when I was young, poor, and a new mommy, a doctor gave me a similar drug to treat back spasms. (And probably also because he thought I was anxious. I was, but for entirely justifiable reasons. We will save the rant about not drugging people who are responding normally to bad situations for another time.)

It took two days on Valium for me to start talking about suicide, a development that surprised even me. It is an experience I'd very much like to not repeat, and thinking abut it is making me feel anxious and slightly nauseated.

Which is funny, in a sick way. I plan to talk to the doctors about it.

(Please note that I may be nauseated, but I hope never to be nauseous. If I am, pipe up and say something. Maybe I can take a breath mint or hide under the blankets or something.)

An image I won't forget.

When they wheeled me into the OR I naturally took a look around. There were people burbling about everywhere, two clocks on the wall(one with the time, one to time the surgery), a lot of impressive white machinery around the very narrow operating table, and a large black screen on the wall.

The anesthesiologist began running through the Checklist (this is Atul Gwande's hospital and they use it rigorously), and I replied "That is correct!" to my name, birthdate, and procedure description. Then the surgeon breezed up and held a geiger-counter to my left armpit, and I heard my signal lymph node signalling. "Good," she said, "No blue dye needed."

And then she swept over to the large black screen, waved her hand (no unsanitary buttons here!) and the screen came alive with various images of my breast.

And she froze before them in absolute concentration.

It was tremendously reassuring to have that be the last thing I really saw other than the oxygen mask.

I can get behind these. Figuratively speaking, of course!

Warning: This entry can only be described as crass and goofy.

Today we took a jaunt over to our old haunts (Brookline, MA, where we lived for 13 years) to visit a local and well-known vendor of ladies' intimates. I now own support bras. They are less uncomfortable than I thought they'd be, and make me look a little bit like this lady.

 (That's a Giant Robot named Aphrodite A, from a Japanese anime called Manzinger Z (also known as Trantor Z). Yes, her breasts are missiles. Yes, her pilot is a teenage girl. Yes, she only has the two weapons, and once they are fired she is weakened and helpless. Yes, the Manzinger Giant Robot has a lot more weapons, is piloted by a teenage boy, and always has to resue poor Aphrodite. Yes, there are bad guys and a mad scientist. Very silly, I know, but you'll never, ever forget Aphrodite A, will you?)

While there, I spotted a calendar put out by a group called All4One, which is four charities who do stuff for people with breast cancer. Most importantly, they provide free post-surgical bras and prostheses to underserved (read: poor) women. And every year they ask BRAtistes (sorry) and celeBRAties (sorry, sorry) to create art objects shaped vaguely like bras, make them up as a calendar, and auction them off at a gala Event.

See the galleries here.

Some of the bras are really art; others, even when they don't somehow have the Art vibe, are quite witty. I bought the calendar, and will investigate the charities involved further. If they deserve support -- and certainly their goal is small enough and worthy enough to be achievable and valuable -- I will let you know.

I did take mild issue with a quote from one of the artists. She made a bustier mosaic out of broken china, garnet rough, and other things. She is a breast cancer survivor herself, and wrote about how her life was "shattered" by breast cancer, and the broken pieces in the mosaic symbolize her broken, pieced-together life.

That's certainly one way to look at it. And maybe, if I was facing mastectomy, I'd feel the same. But right this instant minute I do not feel like my life is shattered, or is going to be shattered. I'm going to have surgery, and my left breast may come out of that surgery looking like it's been munched by weasels. Call me vain, but I'm more distressed by the thought of losing my hair as I pass through chemo and radiation.

I guess this falls into the category of, "It takes all kinds." The lady's art is quite good, and I don't need to share her emotions in order to empathize with their expression.

Speaking of which, a good friend has taken a bunch of pictures of me and will share them as jpegs. So I should soon be able to show you my pre-chemo hair in all its multi-hued glory.

You wouldn't think it would be this difficult

I have a sister who's two years younger than me. Back in our childhood, there was sometimes friction between us. I knew she finally forgave me for being oldest when she allowed me to recommend a pediatrician.

That was more than 20 years ago.

She was offering to drive us, and to be with Bravest, and he was being all, "I don't want this to be about me," so (being my sister) she took matters into her own hands. Despite a ferociously busy schedule, she cleared her calendar and then told us she was going to be at the hospital. When I called her, the conversation went something like this:

"Bravest doesn't want this to be about him. So... do you want to be there because you're worried about your sister? Or because your sister would like to have you there?"

A pause.

"All of that."

And why is it so hard to say to the person I used to bathe with every night 53 years ago or so, "It would be a great comfort to have you there. Please come." Or for her to say, "I love you and I want to know what's happening to you."

I don't know why it's hard.

Bravest was laughing at me as I described this conversation, and so I asked him, "Would it be hard for you to say, "I love you and I want to be there for you," to your brothers?

"Well... yes."

Humans. Silly creatures indeed.

There are going to be lots of days like this

Today was a waiting day. Waiting for the genetics results, waiting for the procedure I'm having tomorrow. Waiting for a surgery date to be set. Waiting.

In the meantime, I did a bit of housework, and Bravest and I went to a local furniture emporium and bought me a reclining armchair, since I've been instructed to sit around with my legs up as much as possible. I also contacted Bose customer service about getting our old and semi-functional home theater system replaced. Those people are amazing-- they're giving us a new system to replace one bought in 2004, for about a third of its retail cost.

So I will have a reclining chair and something that can play DVDs on our big TV, AND make great sounds for Bravest (who deserves great sounds as much as I deserve to see cute Japanese schoolgirls beat up space aliens while operating giant robots).

And I contacted a landscaper about doing some of the work that I won't be doing this summer, like mowing and hacking down the thicket behind the garage.

But all of this has a very "meantime" feeling about it. It needs to get done, it will conduce to my comfort and recovery, etc. Still, I feel like life is a waiting room where no one's updated the magazines in a while.

And speaking of waiting rooms, Monday I had an echocardiogram. (Clearly, I don't have heart disease or they would have called me by now.) For this, I went to the Carl and Ruth Shapiro Center for Cardiovascular Care, a huge new building across from Brigham & Women's Hospital in Boston.

For those not familiar with the details of the Bernie Madoff scandal, the Shapiros were major investors with Mr. Madoff. A month before the crash, they gave him a huge loan on nothing but his say-so. Their daughter married a fellow who was one of his major "feeders". And the saddest thing is, they used nearly every penny they got from their "investment" with him to build hospitals and laboratories, endow symphonies, help build museum wings, etc.  The Shapiro Center is one of the last things they built. The Madoff Ponzi scheme fell apart while it was under construction. The Shapiro foundation lost more than $150 million, they themselves lost an undisclosed amount, and a trusted friendship of more than 50 years -- a friendship that seemed to be nothing but good -- was shown to have had no real foundation at all.

It feels very odd to be receiving care in this building, to be planning a stay in the Shapiro Pavilion (huge rooms) if there's space available when I have surgery.  And because of the waiting, and because of the places where I seem to be waiting the most, this bit of Psalm 62 seemed particularly appropriate this Sunday.

For God alone my soul in silence waits; *
truly, my hope is in him.

He alone is my rock and my salvation, *
my stronghold, so that I shall not be shaken.

In God is my safety and my honor; *
God is my strong rock and my refuge.

Put your trust in him always, O people, *
pour out your hearts before him, for God is our refuge.

Those of high degree are but a fleeting breath, *
even those of low estate cannot be trusted.

On the scales they are lighter than a breath, *
all of them together.

Put no trust in extortion; in robbery take no empty pride; *
though wealth increase, set not your heart upon it.

God has spoken once, twice have I heard it, *
that power belongs to God.

Steadfast love is yours, O Lord, *
for you repay everyone according to his deeds.

* For those who don't church much, the * marks a long pause when reading or chanting. When reading responsively by half-verses, it marks the changeover from one group to another, or from the leader to the congregation.

I will if I feel like it, dammit!

When people ask me how I'm doing, I sometimes provide a list of things I've been up to. Like discussing my hypothetical funeral with the priest at my church.

And sometimes, this causes a freakout. "YOU'RE NOT DYING!" they nearly shout. "DON'T TALK LIKE THAT!"

Um. Sorry if it bothers you, but I am so dying, and so are you.

Every day I wake up, I'm presented with a fresh set of pleasures, challenges, and opportunities -- and I am also one day closer to my dissolution. I've known this fact for years, and I'm very comfortable with it. Every breath I draw draws me closer to the terminus of life as we know it, and to the point where either I shall find that faith merges into sight, or there will be no "I" to find anything.

This doesn't scare me, and it shouldn't scare anyone else. I am not being "negative" when I plan my funeral, or price cemetery plots, or make a will, or otherwise prepare for The Inevitable. I'm making sure that the mess I leave behind is as small as possible, that the people who love me will have one more chance to understand the things that have been most important to me, and that those who have to carry on without me can do so as far as I am able to help them.

What's morbid, to me, is people who are afraid to think about death, who view her as an enemy instead of our merciful sister.

So please don't tell me I'm not dying. Look to your own life, and make sure that, if you are called to leave it suddenly, you are ready.

If you get to Heaven before I do,
(Comin' for to carry me home!)
Tell all my friends I'm a-comin' too.
(Comin' for to carry me home!)

Swing low, sweet chariot!
Comin' for to carry me home!
Swing low, sweet chariot!
Comin' for to carry me home!

Taking a shower these days is very wierd.

So is watching women in tight wifebeater shirts walk down the street. I've never stared a lot at other women's breasts, nor was I ever envious of people who were, as Louisa May Alcott describes Phoebe in  Rose in Bloom, "of a large and wholesome growth."

But I'm feeling a little envious now!

Well, it's right there.

Today I was driving home from some errands with Bravest, and a thought crossed my mind. I forget exactly what it was, but it was something that we might do next year, or maybe the year after that.

And then I had to think, "If..."

Now, of course the "if" in life was always there. (It starts with the second letter.) But that's not how our minds work. We don't make plans or commitments based on "if". We say, "Until we are parted by death," but we don't mean it until the time comes to do it. This is a mercy; if we knew how tenuous our hold on life really is, we'd be afraid to step out of the house in the morning.

I don't like this enlarged "If" in my life. I want to replace it with the "when" I had before.

But I suppose it's better than the far, far too many "sometime" statements that have taken up space and time in my life, from "Sometime I'll write a book," to "Sometime I'll throw out everything that doesn't fit any more." I can at least work on those while waiting to see if this "if" gets reduced to a more standard size.