Posts Tagged ‘hanging on by our fingernails’

I Can Breathe Again

Dear ones –

Yesterday was emotionally taxing, as well as physically draining. Not totally surprising.

Les and I got up at 4:15 a.m. (four hours earlier than usual, I’m embarrassed to say, but we are old) and readied ourselves for the trip to the hospital.

The registration and prep time seemed very much like same old, same old of prior excursions.

The surgical waiting room seemed same old, same old, too. I worked a Jumble, a Sudoku, and five crossword puzzles. Almost two and a half hours passed.

Suddenly the puzzles could no longer distract me. When the familiar fear that perhaps Les would not come out of this surgery jammed itself back into my consciousness, I grew faint and almost threw up. The physical reaction was as unexpected as it was powerful. I began pacing the floor.

Several minutes later, the doctor came out and gave us good news – although it was more difficult than he might have expected, the procedure had gone well.

I exhaled.

I spent the night on a hard chair by Les' bedside overnight and listened to the music of his breath. This afternoon we came home – he with a sore chest and I with a very relieved, but bruised heart.

Only time will tell if this newly-minted biventricular pacemaker disrupts his heart failure sufficiently for him to have a decent quality of life. We are cautiously optimistic.

But I grow ever more aware of mortality – especially his. 

Thank you for your prayers, cards, good thoughts, hugs, and other support. 

Much love, Lois

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poem for My Flat Chest

In keeping with my recent posts on whether or not to reconstruct/replace one's breasts after a mastectomy, I offer one of my poems:

Double Amputee

I have looked this way
before–
flat-chested, pencil-thin

when I was ten

Strange it is to seem
a sexless child
again

(Too bad about
the graying hair
and slightly sagging chin)

(Excerpted from Fine Black LIines (c) 1993, 2003 Lois Tschetter Hjelmstad)

Reconstructed Breasts?

On my birthday last week, Nancy published a guest post that I had written for her. It was an especially nice thing for my birthday. I include an excerpt here:

I missed my left breast mightily. I struggled for days, weeks, months to make my front look okay. I stuffed the empty side of my bra with crumpled paper; my bosom rustled. I stuffed it with socks; they lumped. I tried filling homemade bags with rice; they sagged more than my right breast.

It was a bit easier after my second mastectomy fourteen months later. Whatever I tried, at least the two sides matched. But by then, lymphedema had set into my left arm and torso—wearing a bra was not an option, although I did try. I bought a mastectomy bra and two heavy matching prostheses. I wore them once, but I was so miserable that I donated the whole contraption to another woman.

Besides, something within me rebelled at hanging an uncomfortable harness on my frame—so I could put something uncomfortable in it, so that those around me were not uncomfortable. God forbid they should be reminded of their mortality.

What to do?  

Read the rest of the post here:  Nancy

And how did you handle a breastless chest?

 

Just Stay Positive?

"You will be just fine" has long been a problem for me. No matter what horrendous circumstance one is facing, what one needs is support and validation, not cheer-leading. Discounting a person's feelings and implying that everything can be solved by being positive does a great disservice to the ill or injured or depressed or bereaved.

But at one time or another, I suspect we have all said it. I know I have. Do we say it to reassure others? To reassure ourselves? To deny what's going on?

And beyond that, there is "Just stay positive." Another soul shrinker that:

  • implies you caused your own cancer with your negativity
  • burdens you with being in charge of getting well
  • causes infinite pain if cancer eats at you until you die

I have a poem to share with you:

You Will Be Just Fine

Please do not trivialize
my suffering.

You who are healthy
You whose mortaility is as yet
Only dimly preceived–
Please do not say
"You will be just fine."

I may well be–someday–
But I do not know…
You do not know…

(Excerpted from Fine Black Lines: Reflections on Facing Cancer, Fear and Loneliness, (c) 1993, 2003 Lois Tschetter Hjelmstad. All rights reserved.)

And tell me why you think we keep saying, "You will be just fine."

 

How Can We Be Loyal Friends?

I found a wonderful post about loyalty over at http://pinkunderbelly.com (click on Loyalty on the right side. Nancy talks about feeling the loss of a favorite baseball player being traded and most of us can relate. I certainly can. Just when I get to know a player and develop an attachment to him (because he is a hunk or some other noble reason), he gets traded and the next new best thing comes on board. I wonder if a bit more loyalty from the teams to their players and the fans might be more important than the bottom line. Maybe our loyalty to the players should be considered.  

And in Nancy's post, this brings up loyalty of friends when your like suddenly tanks. Sometimes–just when we really need friends because we have had bad news of one sort or another–some of our friends slip back into the woodwork. I've done it myself when one additional thing seems more than I can handle.

So–how can we be there for another person when our own coping mechanisms are low? How can we extend ourselves when we are hanging on by our fingernails? Can we learn to be empathetic without losing ourselves in the process?