Three Ectomies

This blogging thing is completely new to me, so if I come across as complaining or whiney, that is not my intention. Nor is it my intention to appear negative about my Life or the lives of others.




I received an email comment about my last blog. It came from, of all people, my mother. She felt compelled to write to me and tell me that I am not a loser or an underachiever. Gotta love your mom, right? I do love her and I thought long and hard about some of the things she pointed out to me.



Today was a weird day. It started out raining and then just tapered off to cool. I went to Wal-mart with my hubby and my youngest. When we walked in, it was like a chilly fall day. When we left, there was snow and ice blowing sideways. I was immediately baffled because I could have sworn the weather forecast was the 60’s for most of this week. Just goes to show you, Mother Nature has her own agenda.



So this evening, as the snow began to subside, I was left with this wintry doldrumy kind of feeling and really wasn’t even in the mood to write. But I thought about a comment my eleven year-old made to me yesterday. I was looking something up online and he walked into my office and stood behind me for a second before asking, “What’s a hysterectomy?” I tried my best to explain it in a way that wouldn’t emotionally scar him for Life. Then he replied “You’ve had all these ‘ectomies’… that’s weird” before leaving the room. I just sat there and thought about it. Then I thought about what my mother had written to me.



I guess when listing my accomplishments, I neglected to add one thing. I had cancer. There. I said it. It really sucked. I know there are a lot of words in the English language I could choose to describe it, and some people might say I’m being lazy to pick such a menial sort of phrase, but really – it just sucked.



I felt a lump in my chest around April. It was in a strange spot, nestled in the inner quadrant of my left breast, but almost appearing to be on the chest bone. It was just to the left of the center of my chest. It wasn’t huge, but it wasn’t small, either. It felt hard, like a golf ball. I imagine it had been there for some time and I had felt over the course of the previous months, but because of the location, I must have reconciled that it was part of my chest bone, until it started to grow and made it’s presence known. I went to the doctor, who told me she did not think it was cancer because cancer usually doesn’t start there or look like that. I felt reassured but decided it must come out because whatever it was – it was an intruder and not welcome. I had a mammogram and an ultrasound on both breasts. ‘Ectomy #1’ – the lumpectomy.



I got the results on May 13, 2009. It was cancer and it was in both breasts. Driving home from the doctor, all I could think of was “I’m going to die. I’m going to die and my boys won’t remember me after a few years. Henry might because he’s older, but George is only three and he won’t remember me. All the time I’ve spent with him, all the times I’ve fed him and changed him and bathed him and he’s going to forget me because I’m going to die” I was shocked and pissed and sad and angry. I didn’t know exactly what to do, but I knew that I would figure it out. I had to.



I immediately ran to my computer, which had always been a great source of information. Under the comfort of anonymity, I surfed every site dedicated to cancer, trying to figure out what the hell to do. I read posts from survivors; I read posts from the terminal. I read pages on curing cancer naturally. I read those from traditional schools of treatment. There was so much information out there that most nights I went to bed with my head spinning. And I would cry almost every night because I didn’t know what to do and was scared.



After meeting with doctors and researching my options, I decided to remove the breasts and opted for immediate reconstruction. ‘Ectomy #2’ – the mastectomy. June 26, 2009.



Silly me. I thought removing what the cancer was in was going to be enough. I had been diagnosed as Stage 1 with no lymph node involvement. Never did I realize the breast tissue that had been removed could come back with ‘positive margins’, but it can. My doctors told me I should now do chemo and radiation. What? (Actually I think my reaction was more like “What the f%#@?!!!” They couldn’t be serious. At that point I had enough of the mammograms, ultrasounds, cat scans, MRI’s, blood tests and pathology. I didn’t care if I had positive margins for DCIS, I wasn’t going to put poison and radiation into my body. I refused any further treatment and decided I would take matters into my own hands through supplements and PH balancing.



Just when I thought I was in the clear, I get a letter from my oncologist telling me to come in for a follow-up. I knew what she wanted. She wanted me to subscribe to five years of a drug called Tamoxifen. This because my cancer had been estrogen-driven. “Absolutely not.” I told her. “I haven’t read anything good about that and I haven’t spoken with anyone who had a good experience with it.” What are my options? Take out the ovaries and eliminate 90% of the estrogen in my body. ‘Ectomy #3 – the hysterectomy. March 8, 2010. I did the whole kit and caboodle to eliminate cervical and uterine cancers in the future.



So where I had been critical of my accomplishments, my mother had praised me for getting through this past year. But I didn’t see the whole ‘cancer’ thing as cause for praise. It was merely self-preservation to the highest degree. Did I feel as though I faced down my own mortality? You bet your ass. Until you are sitting in a doctor’s office and here the words “You have cancer”, you’ll never know real fear. Fear of the unknown, fear that you haven’t done what you wanted in your Life, fear you’ll never see your kids grow up, fear you haven’t made your mark…



I could post a pink ribbon on my blog and link it to a thousand sites related to breast cancer. But I won’t. I could call myself a survivor, but I’d rather say I’m just happy to be alive – for now, anyway.

I didn’t mean for this blog to be a bummer and I promise my next one will have more humor in it. But I guess I wanted to put this out there so anyone reading this (is anyone reading this other than my mother?) could understand a little more about where I’m coming from. I’m thinking of changing the name of my blog. Not because my mother doesn’t think I’m an underachiever, but maybe because after taking a good look at where I’ve been and what I’ve been through… I don’t see myself as one.



Thanks for reading.



Kim

Help Wanted

Well here I am, at it again.  I read over my last post and realized I asked a critical question, but never really answered it.  My question was "Am I a loser?".  That's a hard one to answer, or, at the very least, an easy one to ignore.  The term 'loser' is used so often these days, and sometimes not always in a fair way.  What constitutes a loser?  We can watch television and see a celebrity do something stupid and comment "What a loser", but in reality, are they?  They appear to have achieved a lot in life - fame, money, success... but then they make one slip up and everyone bombards them with criticism.  Geez... that doesn't leave much hope for the rest of us then, does it? 

I decided to take a condensed, candid look at my life, weighing a couple of my accomplishments over my shortcomings.  I took the step by step approach.  I'll give myself one step forward for each accomplishment and two steps backward for the things I consider 'failures' or, at the very least, pitfalls.  It's my own personal, albeit sad, version of Chutes and Ladders.

I graduated high school.  One step forward.
I graduated college.  One step forward.
I graduated high school in 1983 and finally received my bachelors degree in 1997.   That's a biggie.  Two steps back.  I should have followed through and had my B.A. in 1987.  Instead, I blew ten years of my life doing God knows what.  I can't even remember what had been so important as to trump my college education.  After receiving my college degree, I went on to do absolutely nothing with it.  I didn't pursue a Masters, but instead rested on my laurels and floundered in dead end jobs waiting tables, bartending, cleaning houses, and then fell ass backwards into film and video production.  Hmmmm.....  it's not looking too good for me right now.  But do I consider myself a loser?  Not yet.

I had my first son in 1998.  One step forward.
I had my second son in 2006.  Another step forward.
I had my second son when I was 42.  That's another biggie.  While other women my age were feverishly working on their careers, trying to balance it all, I once again put any semblance of a career on hold to stay home and nurture my newborn.  It was during this period that I realized I really needed a job I could do from home.  After all, I didn't want to put my young son in daycare and have a stranger experience his toddler moments, first step, first word.  In truth, I didn't want anyone bonding with him but me.  Selfish?  Absolutely!  We definitely needed to be a two-income family, but I ignored all the Dr. Phil and Oprah episodes centering on that subject.  Instead I let us sink into debt so I could play "Stay At Home Mommy" no matter what the cost.  So I'll reward my selfish and unproductive last three years with another two steps back.

Looks like I'm neither moving ahead nor falling behind.  Ahhhh - the classic and most comfortable position for an underachiever like me.  Status quo can be quite tempting and quite validating for those of us with no particular place to go and no short term goals begging to be met.

So what is my verdict?  Do I officially consider myself a loser?  Kind of.  Does that count?  I mean I definitely could be farther ahead in my career, but I've also enjoyed my time with my boys.  And it's not like there are a million jobs out there for writers.  A good friend of mine described the current state of online writing jobs as Journacide.  The death of conventional writers.  If you Google 'writing jobs', you'll find thousands of sites dedicated to helping all of us struggling word jockies find work.  The problem is, there are more 'opportunities' than actual, paying jobs out there.  I have spent countless hours investigating site after site only to find many are just preying on our desperation.  And many offer to find you a job - for a fee.

There's a small advertising agency in New Jersey I have done work for.  They call me on occasion to brainstorm and come up with creative ad concepts for a very boring industry - construction equipment.  The advertising in this industry does not conform to any of the usual parameters of advertising.  For instance - 'Sex Sells' does not apply here.  And that knocks out a lot of options in advertising.  Every so often I get called in and get a few hours of work out of them.  And I am grateful for those hours.  It's during these meetings when I actually feel like a grown-up, doing grown up things.  I feel productive.  I feel as though I am contributing.  I feel needed. 

My mom says it's good for me to get out of the house and be in a different environment.  She couldn't be more correct.  Those brief moments of brainstorming over how to make a front loader attachment for a tractor interesting are sometimes the best hours of my week.  I grasp onto them because for a fleeting moment I am not 'Mommy' or "Babe".   For a nanosecond, my responsibilities span beyond the dishes and the laundry and the overflowing cat box.  I get up, I shower, I dig out my best 'officey' clothes, do my makeup, style my hair, and get into my car. 

Gazing up at the house as I back out of the driveway,  I see my little one in the window looking out at me.  Behind him stands my husband with a somewhat forlorn look on his face.  It's as if they both know given the chance, I would skip our exit on my way home and keep driving until I hit Lake Tahoe and disappear into the wonderfulness for about a month.  But I wave to them as I pull away and for a split second, I am sad to be leaving.  But the farther I get from the house, the more excited I get at the thought of being in an environment where my opinion on things other than what's for dinner will actually be appreciated. 

I drive along and fantasize about the interesting conversation that lay ahead.  I am already mulling ideas around in my head and practice their presentations outloud in my 2003 Suzuki as I make my way through the Delaware Water Gap and into Jersey.   "This is great!" I say to myself as I pull into the parking lot.  I get out of my car, grab my adult-looking work bag and my bottle of Poland Springs water and check my look in side mirror. 

As I'm walking toward the building, I am suddenly hit by a mini panic attack and overwhelmed by insecurities that were almost non-existent five minutes ago.  What if they hate my ideas?  What if my stomach growls during the meeting?  What if I don't have anything more interesting than what they have come up with between all of them?   Suddenly this doesn't feel fun and  I wonder if I made a mistake.  Maybe I should have researched it more.  Damn it, I should have asked for more time! 

As my hand reaches out for the front door of the building, I am overcome with a burning desire to be back at home, shuffling through the kitchen in my robe and slippers, robbing the coffee maker of the last mouthful of grimy, but still drinkable morning bliss.  At that very moment, I'd give anything to be in my sweats, picking up Lego pieces off the floor.  Then I think "What the hell is wrong with me?"  Here I had been given the opportunity to show people what I've got and before I can even begin, I'm wishing I were done.  Maybe I really am a loser?  Am I a loser? 

Nah...I'm just an underachiever.

My Quagmire

To say I am at a crossroads in my life would be the understatement of the century. A crossroads presents options - four to be exact. You can either turn right or left, move forward, or go back from where you came. My current position would be described more or less like being knee deep in black, oily, thick tar while not only being within site of a busy intersection, but also being forced to watch others, in expensive sports cars, fly by while having interesting conversations, eating the best food, and listening to fresh, inspiring music. They don't even notice me. Instead, I remain there, like a bird on the road with a broken wing, waving in vain, hoping someone will stop and pull me out, but the cars are too fast, the food is too good, and the music is too loud.



I long to be productive. I long to create, to provide a service, to make my mark. I am reminded of a line once spoken by Jessica Lange to Ed Harris in the movie Sweet Dreams, "People in hell want ice water..." Yes, we do - with a little lemon in it please.



Maybe I'm over-reacting and not really in hell. Perhaps the cars don't stop because I'm not really sinking into a pit of black self-loathing goo. Possibly to them, I am just standing there. Would they, for a second, suspend their wealth-building conversations and comment "Why is she just standing there when there are so many great places to go?". Am I really okay, but just imagining I am failing as a human being? If I sit at my desk with a blank piece of white, twenty pound, letter sized copy paper from Staples and a stolen pencil from my twelve year-old and begin to write down my accomplishments, could it be possible I am not the loser I think I am? Hmmmm. Let me see.



I worked for years in film (I'll use that term loosely since it was one independent feature film and they spelled my name wrong on the credits) and video. Started out as a production assistant, which is kind of like a mule, or really, just an ass, on the set. Did that for a while until I could prove to the egotistical, bloated producers I could handle more than laying bags of potato chips on the craft service table and moving the occasional car blocking the shot. I was promoted to production coordinator, which meant I was responsible for covering the producer's butt at all costs without ever considering for a moment I would get any recognition or credit for putting in eighteen hour days. The way I knew I was doing a good job was not because I received praise or a pay raise, but because my phone rang and I got hired for the next job. After six years of stress and feeling under appreciated, I decided to give up all the glamour and excitement to have a baby. That baby is now twelve and thinks I am a total idiot. That was Tulsa.



Now living in Pennsylvania, I have two boys, one twelve and one four. I still apply for production jobs, although I know I don't have the stamina or patience for it anymore. My real dream is to make hundreds of thousands of dollars writing - but I'd settle on $400 a week if the opportunity presented itself. I really just want to be able to write and have some sort of effect on people. Would it matter if I were making them mad or making them laugh? Probably not. As long as I was making them feel something. I prefer humor to cynicism and actually dabbled in stand-up comedy at one point. It was always something I wanted to do and one day, when I was in between marriages, I just did it. I called a local comedy club and asked if I could have five minutes on stage. I wrote some material, practiced it in front of a mirror, and then drove there and got on stage. At first I was really nervous, but then it kind of felt... I don't know... cool. I said things like "Walking behind someone with a fat ass in a crowded mall is like driving behind a mini-van in traffic..." and such. I guess it kind of worked because I was approached later that night by a guy who runs a comedy night at a bar in Newark and he asked me to go down there and perform. I did and I really liked it. But then, as with all the ventures I have ever undertaken, Life got in the way and my dreams of being a stand-up comic drifted out to sea. But to this day, I find myself sneaking off to my computer to type in little things that pop into my head. I'm secretly compiling another volume of jokes and observations.



So now I'm here. Blogging. It's new and strange to me. Even the word "blog" sounds weird and doesn't feel appropriate. It reminds me of the words "snot" and "blob". It doesn't bring creativity to mind, but if that is what this crazy laying down of ideas has been branded, then who am I to criticize. I am just glad to be part of the process.