Category Archives: After treatment

The Haunting

Posted in After treatment, Bumpboobs by

It’s pretty late and I’m upstairs in Zsolt’s childhood (teenage-hood) bedroom alone with the computer. Today I reckoned it’s been about a year since my mastectomy. So one year past diagnosis, and now one year post surgery. It’s funny, and it sucks, (so funny, like strange – not ha, ha, ha funny) how I am associating big dates with fucking cancer.

Today Zsolt’s family celebrated a collaborative birthday between Zsolt and I. He just turned thirty, and next week I’ll hit twenty nine. We were given some wonderful gifts (flowers, lottery cards, chocolate, a trip to the bath, clothing) but to knock everything out of the park, we were given an incredible painting which Zsolt and I had spotted several weeks ago, and Anna and Laszlo were kind enough to sneak out to buy. It’s now on Zsolt’s bedroom wall, and I think it’s grade-A beautiful – an abstract watercolour that reminds me of wind, and dust, and far off trees, with a field of dry grass and a storm rolling in . . . mind you, the painting is called, ‘island’ so I’m likely off the mark, but who cares? The great thing about this painting is that it is unique to everyone.

So today brought some lovely things, and, of course, lovely company. But in the midst of rapid Hungarian conversation (of which I understand very, very little) my mind began to drift . . . drift, drift, drift – and where does it go? Where it always goes. One year back, one year back, one year back . . . my mind always drifts, and it always goes there. I can’t even help myself – suddenly I’m lying in bed recovering from surgery, or I’m trying to walk following days off my feet, or my mom is urging me to eat, or I’m back in the chemo room getting a drip – and then *snap* Zsolt asks what I’m thinking about.

“Nothing.”

I think about it so often, it might as well be nothing.

Anyhow, birthdays now remind me of mastectomies. Maybe not forever. In time, everything will fade; this will be like the time I got a boil on my knee and had to stay inside for an afternoon . . . not a great day (I was like five back then), but just a memory – not an emotion, not an immersion. Will my thoughts ever stop taking me back there so vividly? I hope, at least, the sensation wears away. (except for the good stuff, I’d like to keep all that – there’s so much good stuff too . . . friends, family, jokes, crushes, meetings, marriages – so many better places my mind could wander, and yet it keeps returning to cancer like there’s some stupid magnet on the memory.)

Katie at The Daily Breast talks about this constant hum of cancer that haunts her. And I read her post today, nodding along, and thinking ‘how appropriate – this is exactly how I feel’ . . . because it is exactly how I feel.

Yes, I know that things need to move forward. And if I could disconnect this entire past year (if I could erase what has happened, with the promise that it will never happen again) maybe I would. Not sure. On one hand it has shaped me. On the other, it has also scarred me.

What about you? Would you remove a past pain, if you could be promised it’d never, ever, ever return? I guess a brave person would say no. But it’s tempting (as if this option actually existed), it’s tempting . . .

I love who I am, and I accept that cancer was once part of my life – but seriously, this habit needs to change. I guess there’s still much work to do, and much healing required. Time will tell. I’m counting on time.  

Introducing Narrative Nipple

Posted in After treatment, Writing by

Good morning!

I ought to be writing a post about re-focusing, re-centring, and re-re-relaxing . . . because that’s what this week has been about. Slowing down (to the point of 8.30pm bedtimes, but I think I was drunk on too much corn that night).  But alternatively, this week has also be about readdressing my goals . . . and because, much like my Dad, I can’t contain myself when I get excited over something – here is a project I’ve been tinkering with:

She’s called “Narrative Nipple” and she’s an online literary e-zine that associates itself with the ups, downs, lights, darks (and colours) of breast cancer. Basically, it’s a mini stage online for people who have been touched by BC, and have sought refuge through creativity.  At the moment I’m trying to collect material for its launch issue. Which is why I could use your help.

Have anything to share? Know anyone who might? Please, please (please?) pass on the website and encourage people to submit.  I’m not amazing at online marketing, but am about to give it my best – so hopefully by the end of this summer there will be a shiny new website chalk full of dynamic ideas and right-to-the-core honest expressions, stories, pictures, etc.

I think, if done right, this will be a very good thing. We’ll see.

In any case, do check out the website and give it a browse. It’s rather K-I-S-S*, but who cares! It’s a great start.

www.NarrativeNipple.com

 

 

*Keep it simple, stupid

Another kind of healing

Posted in After treatment, Bumpboobs, Life, Love by

The sun is setting and there’s a three hour train ride to Pecs, Zsolt’s home town, on the horizon. But a sunset train ride is certainly the way to go, if you’ve got to go anywhere, and I’ve got that last burst of dusk to enjoy before twilight settles (and the vampires come out . . . we are close to Transylvania after all, and Bela Lugosi was the vampire of vampires, and a Hungarian to boot.)

Today Zsolt and I were alone – just the two of us. That hasn’t happened in a long, long time. I love (LOVE) the company of friends and family, but this morning Zsolt suggested we stay in bed and just hang out, something that hasn’t been done in months, and without any obligations to meet or people to host, it sounded like a fine idea to me.

For some reason (menopause, worries, allergies, etc) my ‘nerves’ have been on edge lately. Any little thing is enough to get me cranky, and poor Zsolt is the receiver of my outbursts. Just yesterday I kicked up a fuss (i.e. got angry) because Zsolt thought it was a stupid idea to raise my bike seat . . . okay, the seat is already very high, I guess that’s reasonable, but I simply didn’t like my idea being rejected so outright, particularly since it’s my seat. Anyhow – cue my hissy fit, followed by day-long discomfort between the two of us. All over a stupid bike seat.

Never – ever, ever, ever – would I get so bent out of shape with friends, or co-workers, or even (probably) family over a bike seat . . . but Zsolt is my Zsolt, meaning for better and worse, we get the honest raw truth of one another.  

There are some things I don’t often talk about in my blog, for instance: sex, grudges, and arguments. Doesn’t mean they aren’t vitally important, doesn’t mean they don’t play key roles in my life, doesn’t mean I’m disinterested in the subjects – actually, I’m  a fan of chatting about one’s sex life with the right group of friends, but my grandmother reads this blog, so this has got to be the wrong arena for a frank conversation about s-e-x).

But occasionally, I do allude to the tension. For all the amazing things Zsolt and I have become with each challenge, each move, each triumph and each hurdle,  I’d be a blatant liar to pretend that the past year hasn’t caused a strain in our relationship. Don’t get me wrong – I in no way doubt my love for Zsolt, nor his love for me, and I in no way doubt that he’s my moon and stars and turquoise Mediterranean sea (or my wide, blue Balaton with the grass beaches and twenty year old bicycles, or my Canadian maple under which I read ) – he’s all those things and more. But it’s just damn hard to go through a year of cancer battling and not have things change, not have that tension.

I think we need to heal in a way that doesn’t get mentioned in the online forums or how-to cancer booklets. And this morning was an excellent step toward recovery. We were alone. We were together. We talked about our feelings. It was restorative, and ought to be done more often.

So today has been lovely. Today I’ve tried to worry less and relax more. 

And tomorrow is Zsolt’s birthday. He’s turning 30. Thirty years, and going strong – that’s my man. I love him to bits – bits and pieces and scoops and dollops. Meeting him was the best thing I’ve ever done. Marrying him was the best decision I’ve ever made. Being with him is the best medicine I could ever take. And all the while, he’s just trucking along – being Zsolt. Turning thirty isn’t a bad thing, not in the least. It’s a gift of time, and hopefully, hopefully hopefully hopefully, we’ve got plenty of time ahead. Plenty of time, and a few good slices of birthday cake too.