The Stories We Tell Ourselves

This past weekend my daughter's friend cancelled two playdates in a row. I suspect she made the dates in the first place without consulting her mother about the family's plans, but still. The end result was that my daughter was crushed. She would not allow herself to be consoled by the prospect of making brownies, or playing a board game, or any of the other things dorky moms try to do to cheer up their glum children. Her weekend was ruined. Her LIFE was ruined. She had no friends, and obviously would not ever have friends. There was clearly little point in going on.

I tried to walk her back by reminding her that we only knew one thing: that Malia was not able to come over to play. Everything else was a spindly castle of doom she had constructed on that one small point of fact.  The castle of doom was the story she had chosen to tell herself. I argued that she was free to tell herself many other stories, all equally true--such as that Malia wasn't coming over because she impulsively made plans without checking with her mom first, that she really wanted to come over, and would come over at the first opportunity. I told my kid that the longer we sit inside the stories we tell ourselves, the more true they become for us, until we're no longer able to see the truth of other possible stories, and we are trapped.

My wisdom would be a lot more impressive if I listened to it myself. Yesterday I went to Duke Cancer Center to meet my oncologist. Not my ocular oncologist, but my regular oncologist, the one I will work with on an ongoing basis, because I am a Person With Cancer. I hadn't been thinking about that too much because I was too busy packing lunches and walking dogs and leaving the laundry in the dryer to wrinkle folding laundry, but there, in the Duke Cancer Center waiting area, it was indisputable: I was a Person With Cancer. Furthermore, so were most of the other people sitting there, and there were a lot of them. It was a perfectly attractive waiting room, with nicely upholstered chairs and couches, and tables with magazines. Apparently, I alone could see the slimy dripping stalactites and the bubbling pools of tar that indicated that we were in the anteroom to Hades, that we were citizens of the Valley of the Damned. Everyone else sat around nicely, chatting with their companions and eating the complimentary snacks.

I held it together until a nurse ushered me into an exam room, but when she shut the door I lost it, I absolutely LOST it, because I was sitting in a cancer center, and I was obviously there to die painfully and alone while horrible people like Wayne LaPierre and certain of my ex-boyfriends were bounding about out in the sunshine, perfectly healthy and probably immortal. I wept bitterly.

All of which is to say: I had worked myself into a bit of a state.

The lovely physician's assistant discovered me in this condition, patted my hand and told me what I was feeling was totally normal and quite okay, but also that there was an overwhelming likelihood that I would walk out of the office under my own steam that day. She promised to send the clinic's wonderful
counselor to say hello if he wasn't too busy. He was, but he stopped by anyway and acted as if I was the only person in the clinic that day, and also as if he didn't believe that I belonged in either the morgue or the state hospital.

The person who really snapped me out of my carefully-crafted castle of doom was the doctor, who very calmly looked at pitiful, soggy me, and said, "You know, there's about an 80% chance that you will never need any more treatment for this cancer."

Oh.

I still hate being a Person With Cancer, I hate that I have to think about it at all, ever. I hate that there are other people who have to think about it a lot more, a lot more often. But I think the story I have to tell myself is that 80%. I think I just have to forget about cancer as much as it will let me, which mercifully is most of the time. I have to focus on other stories.

The Dog Ate My Blog

So...how is that "writing every day" thing working out for you?

The truth is, I have not written anything longer than a status update since January 3. Part of it has been the mistake of thinking that inspiration needs to precede action. Part of it has been the unwillingness to be bossed around, even by myself. Probably the biggest part has been that I've just been very depressed.

And then there's the dog.

On January 6, we adopted the lovely Juno Xenia from our local shelter. She's a black lab mix, lean and elegant and glossy, something like a canine Audrey Hepburn. If Audrey Hepburn wanted constant belly rubs, had massive separation anxiety, and was afraid to pee in the yard (thank you, electric fence).

I knew having a dog was going to be a lot of work. We'd been thinking about it for a year. We read, talked, and studied about it beforehand (although apparently not enough). I had a rosy vision--we would whisk our raggedy pup away from the gloom of the dog version of a Dickensian orphanage. She would be our pet therapy, entree into society (everybody stops to talk to you when you're walking a dog) and beloved baby. I had ulterior motives: I figured if something happened to me, she would either stick around to comfort the family, or race through the Pearly Gates first to greet me on the other side. That happens more often than you think.

But it's been more of an adjustment than any of us anticipated, and by "any of us," I mean, "me." Her separation anxiety makes it hard to leave her. She won't go into a crate, at least not willingly, and she will not stay there. She has her comfy bed, her food bowls, and a full length mirror in our master bath, so that is where we imprison leave her when we do go out. But it's an increasing pain in the ass to get her in there, because she now knows what it means.

Then there's the whole pee in the yard thing. She got zapped by the electric fence and now she will barely go in the yard, much less do her business there. I suppose if I got a shock when I sat down on the can, I'd be a little reluctant to go there, too. Fortunately, she knows that when we go through the garage, get into the car, and pull out on the street, she has made it safely across the barrier and can pee and poop with abandon. So every time I want to get her to go, or even just to exercise her, it's like smuggling the damn Von Trapp family across the border into Switzerland. If the Von Trapps had muddy paws and liked shitting on their neighbor's lawn. Which, if their neighbors were Nazis, I couldn't blame them for. But I digress.

So it has been a little bit of an adjustment here. Juno is 90% delightful, but the other 10% is kicking my ass. I am trying to remember when my son was three weeks old, and I was trying to nurse him. He chomped down on his food source, which happened to be attached to me, from the corner of his mouth. Picture Popeye with his pipe. Then he swung his head back and forth. Picture a dog trying to rip open the corner of a garbage bag. It hurt. I looked down at that tiny, precious being, and hissed, "Why do you hate me?"

Of course, he didn't. And things got better--he now eats much more tidily and efficiently, although I literally no longer have skin in the game. I can only hope things will get better with Juno, too.

Eye Survived 2012!

Happy New Year, everyone! Did you enjoy all the brilliant, witty, incisive posts I wrote over the holidays? No? That is because I wrote them all in my head, and only the people who live in there got to see them, but they would like to assure you that they were fabulous. Oh, and also to ask you to send a care package of Xanax.

Anyhow. I'm back. I have two New Year's resolutions. The first is to live, in both the strict literal sense, but also the more enthusiastic sense. To go out when I could have stayed in. To take the call instead of screening it, or make the call instead of putting it off. To reach out more, even when I'm not sure of a good reception. To stand out when it would be safer to blend in. I will not be attempting to skydive or ride a rodeo bull. Or ski. I will, however, eat potato chips more, and with french onion dip, the real kind, not the kind made with organic dried minced onions and Greek yogurt. I will not pass up dessert.

The other resolution is to write every single day. Even Sundays, even vacations, even when I have a streaming cold. Even if it's just a paragraph, even if it's just a blog post.

Aren't you all lucky.

One of the blog posts I wrote in my head was the other day while I was out doing some post-Christmas shopping. I'm not a big shopper, because I'm not good at fashion and also because I have almost everything I need. But I was shopping, because my husband had done some of his Christmas shopping at a store that offers "Cash" as a bonus for making purchases. His annual shopping done, my husband handed over his store cash to me, and I noticed it had to be spent between Christmas and New Year's. So off I went.

It was my intention to buy either black pants or black shoes. With the exception of jeans and underwear, almost everything I wear below the waist is black. Because it matches everything, and because they don't make Garanimals for adults. Like I said: I'm not good at fashion.

I learned a few things. First, even if a pair of pants looks like black jeans, if the tag describes them as leggings, you should believe the tag. The second is that Jennifer Lopez does not have my picture pinned to the bulletin board above her desk as inspiration when she is designing clothes.

So, I did not find pants. I meandered over to the shoe section, which, like much of the store, was teeming with shoppers and looked like zombies had torn through it on their way to an apocalypse party. The clearance section was curiously untouched, and I am cheap a frugal shopper, so I headed over there.

I was in the market for some semi-dressy shoes that I could wear with pants or skirts. My (black) pumps gave up the ghost over a year ago, and I've been making do with wearing pants and flats. But I have several (black) skirts that I would like to wear to church, and the church I attend has long services that involve a lot of standing. I don't mind this, but I'm reasonably confident that I would mind it much more in stiletto heels. Jesus did not wear stiletto heels and I don't think he expects me to. So: semi-dressy, not quite flat, but not towering. Not boring, but not overly embellished. This was a challenge: in the clearance section, the cute shoes are all in a size 5, and the shoes that might actually fit you look like they were designed for burly cross-dressers who idolize Liberace.

Yet there, like a beacon shining from the next-to-bottom row, was a pair of Dana Buchman shoes in a size 9. Black patent leather, low wedge heel, criss-cross straps across a peep-toe. Cute. Perfect. And on clearance for just two dollars more than the amount of store-cash I had. I tried them on. They looked darling. They fit. But they weren't totally...comfortable. They fit okay. But not like a dream.

This was when I wrote the blog post in my head. It was about life being too short to wear uncomfortable shoes. No matter how cute, or how low the price. I walked virtuously away from the shoes, ignoring their pitiful, squeaky patent-leather voices crying out to me. I walked around the store some more, looking for something else to blow my bonus cash on. A percolator. A gravy separator. A tabletop foosball game. Anything.

But there was nothing I wanted. I wanted the shoes. The heart wants what it wants, people, even if it's not what the feet want. And even the feet kind of wanted them. I ambled slowly back to the shoe clearance rack. What if they weren't there? What if someone else snatched up what I had failed to appreciate? But as I approached, I saw the zebra striped box sitting demurely, unnoticed, on its low shelf. I grabbed it and sped to the checkout as if my shoes and I were on the lam.

So, what's the lesson in all this? There's supposed to be a lesson. "Life is too short for uncomfortable shoes" is a good lesson, but it no longer applies here, since I bought the shoes. Maybe the lesson is, "Answer the things that call you." Or, "Embrace the things you love, even if they're not perfect." Maybe the lesson is to extract your own lesson, or that reading this post consumed five minutes of your life you'll never get back, and what, exactly, are you going to do about that? I don't know. I hope there is some meaning in this post, and I hope you find it, and then walk away thinking about it. Preferably in adorable shoes that fit you just right--or at least well enough to keep you moving forward.

The Good Kind (Mostly)

Was feeling good this morning, so I ran out to get some Christmas decorations and the makings of Christmas cookies. Aside from the fact that I was wearing my sunglasses, inside and out, on a rainy day, I felt...normal. I pretty much forgot about you-know-what.

Then I came home. The answering machine light was flashing, and caller ID revealed three recent calls, the second of which was from Dr. M. I would like to report at this juncture that my adrenal glands are capable of producing a full complement of adrenaline on demand.

Heart pounding, I listened to the messages. Dr. M, in his lovely way, spoke calmly and clearly and said that he had some information he'd like to discuss with me, and could I please call him back at such-and-such number, which happened to be different from the number on the Caller ID. It was very difficult to hear the number over the pounding of my heart, but he thoughtfully repeated it before the message ended. One gets the sense he's done this before.

I called. The phone rang and rang, and I was sure it was going to voice mail. Then Dr. M. said hello. He must have given me his cell number. Because, in case I haven't mentioned it, he's the kind of doctor who doesn't leave his patients a scary message on Friday afternoon, leaving them to simmer in their own anxieties all weekend.

Remember when I said there were essentially two kinds of ocular melanoma? They're called Class 1 and Class 2. Class 1 is the better kind to have; Class 2 is more likely to metastasize. Turns out Class 1 is subdivided into 1a and 1b. Class 1a is less likely to metastasize than 1b, but 1b is a lot closer to 1a than to Class 2.

I have Class 1b. What that means, as the doctor explained: survival rates at three years out are 93% (vs. 98% for 1a). At five years, survival rates are 79%. Not "there's nothing to worry about," but, as the doctor put it, certainly better than the flip of a coin. And way better than, "You're doomed."

I don't, apparently, have the laziest tumor known to man. But also, I don't have the most aggressive one. To put it in layman's terms, this tumor might be just ambitious enough to think about looking for a job, but it's going to be a job where it wears a plastic apron and a paper hat. A job, in short, that isn't going anywhere.

I can live with that. At least, dear God, I hope so.

You Get What You Get

The nice thing about self-pity is that it gets boring for the person wallowing in it almost as quickly as for the people who have to listen to it. So, I'm back. I'm sure I'll slide into the Pit O' Self-Pity at some point, especially if I get bad news. But there's no point in wasting today.

As my son's preschool teacher often (oh, so often) said: "You get what you get, and you don't throw a fit." Not everyone can have the blue M&M or the piece of pizza with the most pepperoni. Life throws random stuff our way. Sometimes awesome, sometimes shitty. There's always someone better off and someone worse off. Always. It's not worth pondering for too long. It is what it is. Many people find that an annoying expression, but I find it honest, and useful. It's a polite way of saying, "There are some things you can't change, so don't mindf*ck them to death. Just move on."

So, today I paid some bills, did some laundry, finished stamping and mailing all the Christmas cards. I went shopping and planned a nice dinner featuring one of my favorite entrees, "le poulet rotisserie de Costco." Everything sounds fancier in made-up French. Also, did you hear me? I sent all the Christmas cards. On December 6. Because I am awesome. And also because last week I could do nothing but watch endless reruns of Little House on the Prairie and address Christmas cards. But mostly because of the awesome part.

Yes, I'd say I'm feeling a little more like myself today.

The Dichotomy

I have been a little extra-rattled since I decided to educate myself about the genetic analysis of the type of cancer we're dealing with here.

In a nutshell: if the tumor has both copies of Chromosome 3, it's pretty unlikely to metastasize. This means, with the exception of scans a couple of times a year, life pretty much proceeds as normal. If it has one copy (monosomy 13), it's got about a 66% chance of metastasizing. If it metastasizes, it will kill me. Not may. Will.

That's a pretty stark dichotomy we've got there. It's either really good news, or really bad news. And it's coming.

As an Orthodox Christian, my prayer is, of course, "Thy will be done." But look, God's no dummy. He knows what's in our hearts and minds. He knows how I want this to play out. Heck, you know how I want this to play out, and "all-knowing, all-seeing" isn't even on your resume, am I right?

Hence, the spiritual dilemma: I am trying to accept whatever my fate will be, trusting that it is God's will, that, even if painful or difficult, it will work out for the best. But my heart is screaming and raging: please, God, don't take me away from my family. I want to see my kids grow up, marry, have kids of their own. I want to hold my husband's hand as we grow old together. I'm not ready. I know, even in the worst case scenario, I would probably have a few years left. My heart says that's not enough (is it ever enough?). I don't want to make my kids, as young teenagers, watch me die. I don't want to break my husband's heart and leave him alone. I'm not afraid of where I'm going, but I can't help grieve for what I'd be leaving.

The news is coming. Today, tomorrow, in a week, in two weeks. It will be good, or it will be bad.

If it's bad, how do I make the most of the time I have left?

If it's good, how do I make the most of the time I've been given?

A Little Good News

I went for my one-week follow-up appointment with Dr. M. today. I love Dr. M., in case I have not mentioned that. He's confident, competent, and compassionate, the sort of guy you feel you could trust with your life. Which is excellent, as that's exactly what I have to do.

The appointment went as well as it possibly could. The doctor says the eye is "healing beautifully," and he's also very pleased with my vision. I'm cleared to drive whenever I feel like it, and I'm cleared to return to my normal activities like housework at the end of the week in April, 2036.

We are still waiting on the genetic analysis of the tumor, which will tell us more about how aggressive it is, and thus how likely it is that it would show up somewhere else. That would be very, very bad. So, while rejoicing with me about today's good news, please continue to pray with me that the tumor is lazy and not terribly interested in making anything of itself. Perhaps its mother is calling it from some petri dish somewhere, comparing my tumor unfavorably to the cousin who graduated at the top of  his class and made all the medical journals. I'm hoping my tumor is too lazy to even pick up the phone, and lets its sniping mother fill its answering machine tape. Maybe my tumor is too baked to even care. I hope so.