Posts Tagged ‘essay’
My bloggy friends have really hit some important notes about Angelina Jolie’s prophylactic bilateral mastectomies, a decision she made public in a recent editorial in the New York Times.
Jackie called out those who were judging her decision.
Marie wrote a good explainer about the BRCA gene and why its presence might lead to such a choice.
Nancy took up the issue of gene patenting and how the prohibitive cost of the BRCA test limits women’s choices.
Philippa reminded us of the stark global inequities in breast cancer care, telling some stories from Sri Lanka and Timor.
What could I possibly have to add?
Like my friends, I was asked by many to offer my opinion about Jolie’s choice. (I fully support it.) But since I have been hanging back on blogging, I was delighted to know so many smart and articulate people who cover the big issues when these Cultural Moments in Cancer happen.
Something struck me, though, amidst the media frenzy that has been less central to the ensuing conversation.
Women’s self-hating chatter about a radical surgery.
First there was a BRCA positive celebrity on an entertainment news program who talked about anticipating her prophylactic mastectomies. She told the interviewer laughingly:
It’s like a deluxe boob job!
Here is another exchange from a Facebook thread. Both women are educated –– Woman A is a doctor –– but the attitude is the same:
Each time, my stomach dropped. This trivializes a body-altering operation.
I had a preventive mastectomy. A tumor presented in one breast, but I had to decide about whether to remove the healthy one as well. After genetic counseling, I was tested for the BRCA genes as well as a known mutation prevalent among Ashkenazi Jews. My genetic tests revealed no known genes, but the multifocal presentation of the tumor in my breast, my young age, and my ethnicity led four clinical oncologists to suspect some unknown genetic origin. Although I did not get a definitive risk like Jolie –– 87% is pretty clear cut in the medical world –– all these doctors recommended a prophylactic mastectomy.
I went ahead with the surgery. I got reconstruction, although mine was more complicated than Jolie’s because of the radiation I received as part of my treatment.
I have the new tatas that the women seem to joke about.
And you know what?
I really miss my old ones. We had a history together. I nursed three children with them. They fit my middle aged body. They felt much more than the ones I have now.
As I tend to do when something in CancerLand raises my ire, I posted the following on my Facebook page:
As you can see, this got a lot of “likes.”
On that thread, somebody generously shared the following:
Immediately prior to formal diagnosis (i.e., after the lump was discovered but before the second biopsy), I found the idea of a “deluxe boob job” (and tummy tuck, woo hoo!) to be very comforting. When talking to friends, that’s how I framed it, because breast cancer was much easier to talk about in those terms.
I really appreciated this honesty. It gave me insight into this “boob job” framing.
And here is what it reveals about our culture and breast cancer:
It is more socially acceptable for us to dislike our bodies to the point of wanting to surgically alter them than it is to grieve the loss of identity and sensation that mastectomies require.
I notice that folks are not chatting as playfully about the oopherectomy (ovary removal) that Jolie plans to undergo. There is no soft-pedaling that operation. An oopherectomy means a sudden, surgical menopause. Friends of mine have described it, and it is not pretty. There is no femininity-preserving (or, to hear some women describe it, femininity-improving) reconstruction.
So my question is:
When women with ambiguous cancer risks undergo preventive mastectomies, how much does their own culturally acceptable body-loathing play into that “choice”? Can we call it a choice when there are obviously such strong messages that downplay the loss and pain and overplay the body improvement aspect of this surgery?
For information on genetic risks and breast and ovarian cancer, please visit FORCE: Facing Our Risk of Cancer Empowered.
Tags: appearance, body issues, boobs, cancer culture, courage, essay, identity loss, reconstruction, social media, vanity
Posted in Treatment | 20 Comments »
I have had variations on the following conversation ever since I finished treatment:
I know this does not make me popular. I know some of you reading this find me coarse and unnecessarily harsh.
But you how no idea how much pressure there is to be inspiring after cancer.
Perhaps if my initiation into CancerLand had not involved losing somebody dear to me, I may have taken up this mantle and done my best to own the Heroic Survivor story.
But I came in to my diagnosis with the rawness of losing my brother, lending me a take no prisoners attitude against cancer.
I always wanted to know the goriest details. I had no romance for this experience. My oncologist marveled about me early on in my treatment, “You have no denial mechanism.”
So what does all this have to do with two of the most famous cancer patients of our day, Lance Armstrong and Susan Komen?
Like my brother, Susan Komen died at a young age. Her sister Nancy Brinker famously promised™ to help put an end to breast cancer.
I empathize greatly with the young Nancy. I know firsthand the impotence we feel as we watch somebody we love die. I understand the appeal that her organization holds, particularly for those left behind who want to do something in the wake of so much helplessness.
In becoming a legend, Susan Komen ceased to be a full person. Instead she became a symbol for her sister’s wish. Who knows what Susie was really like, since her persona has been carefully crafted by her surviving sister. (Twitter is haunted by a ghost who begs to differ with Nancy’s account of her love of pink and shopping).
Whatever the truth once was, Susan Komen has become the Noble Patient who gave her sister’s life Greater Purpose.
Then there is Lance Armstrong. Like Susan Komen, he was diagnosed with cancer at a young age. Like Susan Komen, he faced Stage 4 cancer. He not only managed to achieve remission, he became a paragon of health, winning the Tour de France an astonishing seven times.
Lance Armstrong became a legend. He beat the unbeatable, the Ultimate Survivor, becoming an inspiration to many who donned yellow bracelets and hoped to be half as lucky as he.
Many of these same people felt betrayed this past week as Lance finally admitted to doping to bolster his performance.
I was not among them.
Personally, I had long seen the limitation in his story as an exemplar: testicular cancer is one of the few cancers that is reversible at Stage 4. But details like that don’t matter in hagiography.
So while I am grateful to Livestrong for drawing attention to survivorship as a phase of cancer with its own needs for medical attention and social support, I am not heartbroken to learn that Lance’s feet are made of clay.
Lance’s legend, like sweet Susie’s, has put undue burden on plain folks like myself whose path to recovery is neither straightforward, triumphant, or full of Hallmark Channel Movie inspiration. (My friend Xeni wryly calls the saccharine survivor genre “cancer porn.”)
Lance, it turns out, is all too real. I am sure Susie was too. Lord knows her sister Nancy is.
So, Well-Meaning People, this is the answer to your question:
My life was rich before cancer took my brother from everyone who loved him.
I had gratitude before I had to go through almost two years of devastating treatments from which I am still experiencing side-effects, social, emotional, financial, and physical.
Am I humbled by my friends’ love for me? Absolutely.
Have I redoubled my commitments to be there for others in their time of need? Undoubtedly.
But, really, Well-Meaning People. This is just a deepening of what already existed for me.
If cancer were eradicated tomorrow, life would still provide plenty of adversity to remind us about what counts.
Tags: advocacy, attitude, changes, coping, daily life, essay, gratitude, healthy people, identity loss, Lance Armstrong, mental health, self-advocacy, straight talk
Posted in Survivorship | 19 Comments »
This is the second of three posts I will share from the time when my stepbrother’s life was coming to a close. (The first is here.) I wrote them for concerned friends via an email list. As I process my own cancer experience, I am struck by how deeply Jeremy’s story has shaped my own. This season brings back many memories from this time, so I am posting them here.
When we were kids, we would sometimes go out exploring in the woods. Jeremy used to always lead the way and had a kind of fearlessness when we were confronted by an obstacle in our path. He’d be the first to find a way to cross a stream, scale a rock, find a route through a canyon when a trail came to an end. We’d stand by and watch, in awe and fear, and then we’d follow.
I am having a bit of that feeling now, as Jeremy blazes the trail toward death, a place we all must eventually go. While before he showed me how to pick out the rocks that made a trail across a stream, now he’s showing me how to end your days with love and courage.
I spoke with my sister today, and she was ending a visit with Jeremy in the hospital. She told me about the way Jer had charmed the nurses to get them agree to an in-hospital visit from his beloved dog, Rusty.
A friend of Jer’s had also treated them to an hour-long cello concert in the room. The best friend with the RV has changed roles, moving from chauffeur to social secretary with aplomb, keeping Jeremy from becoming overwhelmed by the many visitors who want to see him, literally scheduling the visitors in different timeslots.
The Rainforest Action Network, a group Jer has worked with over the years, has a big annual banquet on Thursday, and they are instituting a new award to acknowledge people for their contributions in helping people use forests responsibly. Jeremy will be the first recipient of this award. I’m sure it’s in no small part to his last Greenpeace campaign, with the cheeky slogan Love Your Wood. Jer negotiated with some major manufacturers to get them to use sustainable wood in the creation of their musical instruments.
Jer goes into surgery on Tuesday to remove the tumor on his T9 vertebra that is threatening to paralyze him and to get his intrathecal pump installed. Needless to say, we’re a little concerned about how he will handle the procedure. But it’s his decision and it’s his life, and this is what he wants to do. It’s just for us to stand back, hold our breath, and watch him go forward.
I’m making another batch of what I now think of as Jeremy’s granola. It’s good. Try it if you want.
[This was one of the only things he would eat in his final days, as his appetite was often poor.]
APRICOT AND CARDAMOM GRANOLA BARS (aka Jeremy’s Granola)
2 cups old-fashioned oats
1/2 cup packed chopped dried apricots
1/2 cup pumpkin seeds
1 1/4 teaspoons ground cardamom
6 tablespoons (3/4 stick) unsalted butter
1/3 cup packed dark brown sugar
3 tablespoons honey
Preheat oven to 350°F. Line 9-inch square baking pan with foil,
allowing foil to extend over sides. Butter foil. Mix oats, apricots,
pumpkin seeds and cardamom in bowl. Combine butter, sugar and honey in
medium saucepan. Stir over medium heat until butter melts and mixture
is smooth and begins to boil. Pour butter mixture over oat mixture and
stir until well coated. Transfer to prepared pan. Using spatula, press
mixture evenly into pan.
Bake oat mixture until top is golden brown, about 30 minutes. Transfer
to rack and cool. Using foil as aid, lift out of pan; place on work
surface. Using large sharp knife, cut into 18 bars.
Tags: coping, courage, essay, grief, identity loss, Jeremy
Posted in End of Life | No Comments »
This guest post comes from a friend who lost her mother to ovarian cancer. Jennifer Harbel, a family friend, was full of empathy for what my children might be experiencing as I went through treatment. She wrote me notes of support, expressing her compassion for the children’s experience. Jenn has also been sympathetic to my frustration with Pinktober, and she shares her views in this moving tribute to her mother, who died when Jenn was 16.
The other day I realized it’s Banned Books Week. Which was a relief, since I thought I’d missed it for the first time in my memory. Out with the guilt and on with the celebration!
Because in my family Banned Books Week has always been celebrated. On the last Sunday in September my mom – a librarian, of course – would take my brother and I to the library to pick out seven banned or challenged books, one for each day of BBW. When I was little, we read picture books like Hansel & Gretel and The Lorax. As I got older we read titles like James and the Giant Peach and A Wrinkle in Time. Not only did we read banned books, we also discussed why each book was challenged or outright banned.
My mom was an outspoken advocate for BBW. She would tell the neighbors and our friends’ parents about it, and even offered to take their kids with us to the library. A few of them actually took her up on it, though I sometimes wonder how much choice they were really given.
Mom not only spoke her mind, but she was also what you would call strict. She brooked no nonsense (I’m pretty sure I learned that phrase straight from her) and one didn’t often challenge her authority without dire consequence. Yet, for one week a year we focused on reading books – great, fantastic books – that some people in authority claimed were dangerous.
The books we chose were chosen for that one reason alone; because some people said that we shouldn’t read them. We made a statement by checking those books out. We were saying that they were worth reading. That the ideas in them were worth knowing, that the books were vital and necessary to somebody.
Our act of reading was sedition. It carried with it a sense of duty. It is an act that is both deviant and righteous.
Every year during BBW I visit the library and check out a banned book. I return it late. I pay my fine in person, so that a human has to discover which book it is (computer checkouts are so handy, but so impersonal). And, if the librarian doesn’t remark on the title, I make sure to point it out. Because I want them to know.
This year Banned Books Week extends mostly into October. I have a love/hate relationship with this month. I like it because it’s usually early autumn and the air is crisp and light. The new-schoolbook smell still lingers. A few relatives and friends have birthdays to celebrate. It’s apple and fall squash season.
But, there are things I hate about October, too. Like my mom’s birthday on the 17th. At the beginning of the month I always think my mom would be xx years old this month. I feel a little sad, but not too sad because she wouldn’t be that old just yet. And it wouldn’t have been xx amount of years that we’ve been without her either, because she died in March.
As each day nears closer to her birthday, I feel like my sadness should exponentially increase. Then life gets in the way and I go to work, birthday parties, meet up with someone for drinks, etc., until I wake up and realize that today would be her birthday and that I should remember to give myself permission to be sad sometime during the day. Or, I remember in the evening that I should have been sadder that day because it was mom’s birthday and she isn’t here to celebrate it. Or, worse – it’s a few days after the 17th and I feel like crap for not feeling like crap on the actual day, that the 17th had been a good day, if not a great day. And then remembering the happiness I felt on her birthday makes me feel even crappier.
I also hate October because it’s Pinktober, or Breast Cancer Awareness Month. And, yes, I feel deviant and righteous about this view. My mom died of cancer. Not the good, hip-to-have kind of cancer. She died of ovarian cancer, with a small ‘o.’ The kind that’s hard to detect and therefore usually too late to cure when it is finally detected. The highest-rate-of-feminine-cancer-mortality kind, a rate that has remained virtually unchanged since 1987 according to the National Cancer Institute (5 yr survival rate = 46%). Not feminine, like girly or sexy, but as in “not male,” therefore not as many research dollars are thrown at ovarian cancer as is prostate cancer. Or, maybe the out-of-sight, out-of-mind rule applies since no man can give one of your ovaries a squeeze unless he’s your OB/GYN and you’ve made an appointment. I realize this makes me sound bitter and I won’t bore you with the details, but I can’t tell you how many times in more than two decades I’ve somehow been pressured to feel guilty for daring to mourn my mom in October – because she didn’t die of the type of cancer we’re supposed to be focusing on this month. I hate the fact that though there are many different types of cancer, over 200 in fact, only one month for one form of cancer garners so much of our attention as a nation. I think that ALL cancer sucks all of the time.
As you may have guessed, I resented October long before it became known among the cancer community as Pinktober. It overshadows the cancer awareness efforts and research for all the other forms of cancer, with the added bonus of guilt thrown in if you don’t buy into the whole cause. Like when purchasing a product in October, you must choose the pink one because hey, you needed it anyway, you like the color pink, and a whole 30¢ goes to “the cure” right? Breast cancer (unlike other cancer?) is like, scary and stuff, and we should do everything we can to raise awareness. As if wearing pink or a pink ribbon some time in the span of 30 days transforms you into a good person. Purchasing something pink doesn’t change you, and it almost certainly doesn’t change a damn thing about cancer.
Let me explain. A few years ago a friend in my community was told by her doctor that she had breast cancer. She told her friends and family about it. Then, she told the world about it through her cancer blog. We who read her blog have followed her long journey to being cancer-free again. Her journey sucked. And what really sucks is that the journey continues. Because the truth is, for everyone who has had cancer and beaten it there is always the fear that the cancer will come back. For cancer survivors and their families the journey evolves into one of vigilance tinged with fear. I pray that one day a cure is really found so that that no one will have to embark on these unwanted and undeserved journeys in the future. Anyway, it was on her blog that I first learned about Pinktober.
The main thing to learn about Pinktober is that Breast Cancer Awareness Month is a really, really sick joke. Whose punchline is so much a travesty that it should be made a crime. False advertising, fraud, coercive monopoly. Because the truth is, less than 20% of money raised for The Cure™ (capital letters and the trademark this time) actually goes towards finding a cure through research. Let me repeat that: less than 20% goes towards an actual cure. The vast majority of profit from your pink purchase goes to the manufacturer of course. What little money is left is divvied up for more unnecessary awareness campaigns (has anyone on the planet not heard of breast cancer yet?), the overhead for running the unnecessary awareness campaigns, a race/walk event, and for increasing net assets. While 17% goes toward treatment and screening, let’s not forget the purpose of this organization is for the trademarked cure. There only one word in my vocabulary that describes it: reprehensible.
If you’ve made it this far in what has turned into a lengthy essay, my sincere congratulations and appreciation. I’m about to check out of this one-sided conversation and I’m writing it.
In conclusion, I’d like you to know:
- I wore a pink t-shirt this past Sunday, September 30 (The beginning of Banned Books Week! Coincidence or my subconscious working, I’m not sure) with the exact forethought of not wearing it again for the next 30 days. Proudly deviant and righteous. If you’re mad at me about it, I suggest that you go back and read the whole essay above so that you can at least try to understand me before you send me an angry email about your views.
- I may wear a teal shirt on the 17th for Mom’s birthday. As I mentioned somewhere above (in case you skipped it), I’ll likely forget the significance of the day on the day in question, so please don’t email me or ask on Facebook what I’m wearing. On second thought, it will never be a good idea to ask what I’m wearing whether it be on FB, twitter, email, or on the phone. Not. Ever.
- Before you buy pink, think. Do you know if any portion of your purchase goes towards charity? Some companies make a blanket donation then sell pink products to promote their partnership – whether or not you purchase their product. Visit Think Before You Pink for more information.
Tags: advocacy, cancer orphans, co-surviving, coping, courage, daily life, essay, grief, parenting
Posted in End of Life | 6 Comments »
Institutions in this world inadvertently carve out an imagined life of the people they serve. It’s like the negative space in a painting or photograph: what isn’t there can communicate as loudly as what actually is there.
In my non-blogging life, I am an educator. I started my career as a public high school teacher. I quickly saw how events like Back-to-School Night assumed parents had lives that permitted a couple of free hours on a weekday evening, with the transportation, childcare, and schedule that would allow for this to make sense.
I am used to institutions and society making false assumptions about me. Some of my very early awkward moments involved being in the grocery store and having well-meaning adults ask me what Santa was going to bring me for Christmas. (I am Jewish and have never celebrated Christmas.)
This is not an indictment of society. We have to have some baseline assumptions about how the world works in order to function. To do otherwise can be paralyzing as you try to account for every circumstance. When you are a part of a group that represents less than 2% of the population, your experience may not factor in for many folks.
I find myself in a new invisible minority as I am dealing with recovery, one whose reality is not part of the imagined world of many institutions I encounter.
To play on the tagline of my blog, I often feel like hell, but I don’t usually look like it.
It is hard for people to imagine the careful strategizing that goes into allocating my very finite, very uncertain time and energy. I have anywhere from 8 to 12 good hours a day, and in that, I must attend to my health, my family, my job, and hopefully, some of my important relationships.
It’s the usual working parent juggling act, only performed on a tightrope.
As a result, I have learned to say no to things. I have become extremely discriminating about commitments, making sure they serve important goals before agreeing to them.
My work folks mostly seem to understand. My family mostly seems to understand.
The place I have had the hardest time is in parent communities.
Even before I was done with treatment, I was approached by a PTA president asking me to volunteer for something. I responded quite directly (perhaps curtly — I don’t remember — thank you, chemobrain), explaining that this would not be possible right now and most likely not for some time.
The requests do not end, and for the most part, I have gotten over the guilt of having to beg off.
But then today, I ended up in a parent meeting that was really not a good use of my time. I had originally intended to forgo it –– it was a 3 hour meeting –– but had been told directly about its importance. So I skipped my Sunday morning exercise, planned to delay my errands, and made room in my calendar to attend, not entirely certain how everything else was going to get done.
As the content of the meeting and its irrelevance to me became apparent, I felt myself fuming. I tried hard to talk myself down: They have no idea of the energy calculus that goes into every choice. This might actually have a lot of good if you had the time and energy for it.
The best I could do initially to contain the belligerence burbling inside of me was to avoid eye contact, look at my phone, and just kind of shut down. I quickly realized that whatever good this conversation had to offer would be lost on me.
At the most convenient moment, I made my exit.
On the way out, I caught up with one of the organizers. I tried hard to be a mature grown up, but all my buttons about recovery and struggling to keep up, let alone add in a 3 hour parent meeting, had been pushed hard.
With perhaps a little too much desperation, I explained my situation. I explained that my schedule is a zero sum game, that there are no extra hours to be squeezed out of a day by sacrificing sleep. The time I have is the time I have, and its often less than I think. I explained that, in the future, I need to get a full agenda so I can come for the most relevant parts.
I am not upset at the organizers. They did not mean to put me out, and were only kind and compassionate once I explained my limitations. I am not upset at the other parents. I am coming to believe that, no matter how empathetic people are, our imperfect humanity limits our ability to fully imagine other people’s circumstances. In the end, this organization assumes families have healthy parents whose Sunday mornings are free.
And, as of now, that is not my case.
Tags: appearance, changes, coping, daily life, essay, fatigue, healthy people, identity loss, parenting, self-advocacy, straight talk
Posted in Survivorship | 10 Comments »