Two stories in the news have captured the attention of this neophyte blogger. They touch on important issues of privacy vs. the right to tell all. I think that as long as writers are clear and aren't hurting anyone, it's their prerogative to do either, or both, at any time.
First, fine writer and memoirist Dani Shapiro wrote a wise, on-target open letter to "a dear disillusioned reader who contacted me on Facebook" that touched me so personally, I had to comment like this: "Thank you, Dani Shapiro. It's good to know I'm on the right track and shouldn't be cowed by those who want 'more.'" It's not that I need the justification, it's just always nice to have backup, for what is this blog but personal memoir?
Shapiro starts by clarifying this important distinction: memoir is not autobiography. Amen. "When a writer sits down to write memoir, she is not sharing her diary," she writes. "She is not confessing. She is not doing some sort of public striptease. Her whole entire life is not up for grabs. Can I tell you how many times I have been the recipient of precisely the gotcha! moment you so furiously leveled at me on Facebook? I’ve had readers angry with me for not writing about certain members of my family. Other readers have been angry that I’ve written too much about certain members of my family. I’ve had readers inquire as to why I haven’t written much about my husband. Or my ex-husband. Or my other ex-husband. (What can I say? Memoirists! We have complicated lives!) Then, I’ve had readers approach me with tears in their eyes, telling me that we are soul sisters. Separated at birth. You told my story, they sometimes say."
She continues that those who write, and read, memoirs, are "looking to make music" out of the "random, merciless jumble" of our lives: "The memoirist looks through a single window in a house full of windows. After all, we can’t look out of all the windows at once, can we? We choose a view. We pick a story to tell. We shift through the ever-changing sands of memory, and in so doing create something hopefully beautiful, by which I mean universal. We try to tell the truth – by which I do not mean the facts."
Shapiro is describing exactly what I hope to do, in at least some small measure, with my blog. I stated early on that I've avoided writing one until now because I am a private person. Now that I am doing one, I have chosen to focus mostly on myself, for better or for worse–my experiences, past and present–leaving my family out of it much of the time. In the past, editors and other writers have questioned my choice of not focusing more on my son and marriage, but I've always had a gut feeling I didn't want to do that.
Perhaps my motivation has something to do with my experience with out domestic open adoption. From the get-go, the agency impressed upon us that the story is our son, M's, to tell, if and when he's ready. (He's 10 now.) So when someone would ask a seemingly innocent question about him like "who are the birth parents?" I had my pat answer ready: "That's not my story to tell. M will share, or not share, what he wants to when the time comes." I'm sure some people were taken aback but I couldn't worry about it.
I also don't post recent photos of M on Facebook, for reasons that go well beyond the latest warning that our images may be co-opted by advertisers and whoever else feels like it.
Back when I first got active in social media, I proudly made my profile picture a shot of my then 4-year-old, Botticelli-beautiful boy (someone else's words, not mine) with brown cascading curls and almond eyes.
We were on vacation and he was wearing swim trunks. The photo stopped at his soft shoulders, but it was enough exposure for my sister-in-law, D, to warn me to take it down right away. She felt it could be used for online kiddie porn, something she knows about due to her work with a foster care agency. Part of me thought "rubbish, she's far too paranoid," but there was a little voice that said, "What if she's right?" And so down it went.
While I do not judge what others choose to reveal on social media, I remain strongly protective of what I share, both in terms of words and images. I have been warned that by not doing that "striptease," it will hurt my readership. If that's the case, I can only hope that as I try to make sense of the jumble, at least a few people along for the ride will recognize something from their lives, too. There are universal truths, happy and sad, about love and life, loss and death, after all.
Which brings me to the strange, disturbing case of Lisa Boncheck Adams, who has chosen to tweet and blog about her battle with Stage IV breast cancer. Columns by married writers Emma Gilbey Keller of The Guardian and Bill Keller of The New York Times have fired unseemly rounds at Adams for sharing what they see as misguided (at best) details she should have kept to herself. Keller's take: As the ultimate act, Adams should go softly into this good night, something his father-in-law did under palliative care in England. (The Guardian has since taken down its post.)
Only Adams has three children she wants to stick around for, and I daresay she's years younger than Keller's wife's dad was. Writing as a cancer survivor, I say she's doing a service by exposing the realities of cancer and cancer treatment, minus the pink ribbons. Adams is not the first and she certainly won't be the last to share her cancer journey; in fact, the Times ran an acclaimed series titled "Life, Interrupted" about a young woman battling cancer. But most importantly, it's her business.
When I went through my treatments some 14 years ago, there was no such thing as social media as we now know it. Were I to have a recurrence or some other health crisis, you better believe I'd consider strongly sharing it in some way or another.
For an observer to feel she has the right to grill someone for not sharing enough, or sharing too much when it's about something as personal as how one chooses to deal with one's cancer, is wrong, plain and simple. Privacy vs. exposure: I say it's a question of choice. The writer's choice.
And in this space, my choice.
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Sunday, December 29, 2013
Turning Lemons Into Lemon Drops
I'm always trying to teach my son to be flexible. This Christmas break, I had my own crash course in going with the flow, and it was harder than I might have expected.
I was all set to take my M to visit family in St. Louis the Thursday after Christmas. But there was a major plot twist the Sunday before, when I turned my ankle and came down hard on it.
I figured it was a sprain. But it was so puffed and painful by Monday, I decided I'd better pay a visit to my friendly podiatrist, Dr. S, who I'd already seen too much in 2013. Of course, I'd hurt my right ankle, so there was no thought of driving. Instead, I had to call a car service.
Several X-rays later and voila!, lucky me, it was broken. Equipped with an air cast, aka Das Boot, I attempted to hail a car service. Dr. S was sending me to an orthopedist in case I needed a partial or full cast.
But in a scene straight out of an old black-and-white melodrama, it was raining and there was no car to be had for 45 minutes. Meanwhile, given the timing--it was the day before Christmas Eve--I had to get to the orthopedist before he took off within the next hour. Despairing that I'd never make it, I began to cry the ugly cry.
Finally, I went back into the office and told them of my plight, pleading with the receptionist, asking if I was close enough to walk to the orthopedist's. The receptionist, noting how distraught I was, asked Dr. S, who upon seeing me told me it was doable.
And so I set out limping and pitiful in Das Boot, tears streaming down my face even as the rain streamed over my uncovered head. Normally, the few blocks' walk through Brooklyn Heights from Remsen to Amity is a picturesque one, thanks to the gracious old New York brownstones and gaslights. But I was oblivious to them that day. I was, to quote my son, a hot mess.
I finally stopped crying when I landed in the orthopedist's office, despite the fact that it was situated in Long Island College Hospital and featured the word "surgery" on the door.
When Dr. C finally saw me after examining my emailed X-ray, I was relieved to hear that I could continue in the walking cast. However, I would have to have X-rays repeated in three weeks, would probably be in Das Boot for six, and would need a cane for the inevitable slippery January days. (When my concerned podiatrist checked in with his broke-down patient later, he was more conservative, urging me to "baby" my ankle with crutches.)
But I had other things to do first. When I wasn't icing my elevated ankle that Tuesday--Christmas Eve--I was soldiering on, planning a new line of attack on the St. Louis front. I called Delta and arranged for bulkhead seats and a wheelchair at the airport.
Then my Uncle J started calling. He and my Aunt F, both well into their 70s, were concerned about me coming with the boy in tow when I was in such a sorry state. I finally relented. I had to admit it: I had a bag full of lemons in my hands. Time for Plan B, aka Operation Lemon Drop.
I had feared how M might take news of the cancellation, but he was quickly appeased by Plan B. Now I just had to make sure it happened.
After postponing the flight without a penalty--the folks at Delta couldn't have been nicer--I recalled that M is still at the stage where a hotel with a free breakfast and pool makes him feel like he's king of the world. (If there's a hot tub, he's even more jazzed.) And so I began my within-cab-fare Brooklyn-Queens hotel search, not an easy endeavor within a two-day window and on a scant budget. (Much of the St. Louis trip had been arranged with frequent flyer miles.)
I scoured the discount sites for hours. Yelp reviews warned of bedbugs in one place, rude staff in another, and most New York hotels under $250 a night lacked pools. Finally, I found something.
Sure, it was near LaGuardia, where I had to brace for noise. But it looked nice enough. And not only was there the holy grail, a pool, there was breakfast (I would later find out it wasn't free but cost $10 per room per day, one of the many add-ons I would run across in a tourist hotel) and that piece de resistance, a hot tub. Also, remember: I was desperate.
With one room in my price range left, I booked a three-night stay.
Good omen No. 1 came when I called the hotel that Friday after Christmas and learned we could check in early. By 2 p.m., the boy was soaking in the hot tub along with three local men over the age of 80 who belonged to the hotel's health club. It looked like something out of Cocoon, save for my energetic 10-year-old. He was soon schmoozing away, beguiling the old-timers.
Before too long, he had ingratiated himself with one man and his caretaker, even helping with the man's walker and calling the caretaker his "babysitter." (Not that far off the mark, I'm afraid.) The caretaker offered M popcorn and then pizza delivered poolside, cementing the newfound friendship. I often worry that M attaches to strangers too hard and fast, but I agree with her--he made her charge's day.
Day 2, my friend S came over with her two kids, making a full day of it at the pool. There were some rough patches when my boy wouldn't stop splashing and jumping in a "no jumping" zone, but by the end he and my friend's little girl were swimming underwater like "dolphins" together.
Still, I needed to remember that lemon drops are sour as well as sweet. If I wanted to pick the hotel apart, I could complain about the scalding shower, the spotty internet connection, the TV charges, even the occasional, if expected, jet plane noise.
But balancing it out were the lovely staff including J, the bartender who brought up our dinner despite the lack of room service; the man running the cereal-and-muffins breakfast buffet, who allowed M to take eggs from the section reserved for the spiffily dressed Korean Air flight crew; and the obliging dad from Albany who tossed my child in the water, making him squeal with delight (after said dad got my OK, of course).
Meanwhile, the sound of the jets took me back to one of the highlights of my childhood in St. Louis, when my mom and dad packed my two older brothers and me into the VW wagon and took off for Lambert Field, now St. Louis International Airport.
This was a era when cars didn't have seat belts and they'd still let you throw a blanket down on the other side of the landing strip fence and watch the planes whoosh right overhead as they took off and landed. I can't say I grew up in a happy family--what was it Tolstoy said? But these are my own lemon-drop memories, and now I was making them for my kid...right near an airport.
This break, both my son and I had to become as flexible as Olympic gymnasts. To my mind, we each scored a perfect 10.
To celebrate, I think I'll order up a Lemon Drop tonight, our last at the hotel--the kind with the vodka mixed in.
I was all set to take my M to visit family in St. Louis the Thursday after Christmas. But there was a major plot twist the Sunday before, when I turned my ankle and came down hard on it.
I figured it was a sprain. But it was so puffed and painful by Monday, I decided I'd better pay a visit to my friendly podiatrist, Dr. S, who I'd already seen too much in 2013. Of course, I'd hurt my right ankle, so there was no thought of driving. Instead, I had to call a car service.
Several X-rays later and voila!, lucky me, it was broken. Equipped with an air cast, aka Das Boot, I attempted to hail a car service. Dr. S was sending me to an orthopedist in case I needed a partial or full cast.
But in a scene straight out of an old black-and-white melodrama, it was raining and there was no car to be had for 45 minutes. Meanwhile, given the timing--it was the day before Christmas Eve--I had to get to the orthopedist before he took off within the next hour. Despairing that I'd never make it, I began to cry the ugly cry.
Finally, I went back into the office and told them of my plight, pleading with the receptionist, asking if I was close enough to walk to the orthopedist's. The receptionist, noting how distraught I was, asked Dr. S, who upon seeing me told me it was doable.
And so I set out limping and pitiful in Das Boot, tears streaming down my face even as the rain streamed over my uncovered head. Normally, the few blocks' walk through Brooklyn Heights from Remsen to Amity is a picturesque one, thanks to the gracious old New York brownstones and gaslights. But I was oblivious to them that day. I was, to quote my son, a hot mess.
I finally stopped crying when I landed in the orthopedist's office, despite the fact that it was situated in Long Island College Hospital and featured the word "surgery" on the door.
When Dr. C finally saw me after examining my emailed X-ray, I was relieved to hear that I could continue in the walking cast. However, I would have to have X-rays repeated in three weeks, would probably be in Das Boot for six, and would need a cane for the inevitable slippery January days. (When my concerned podiatrist checked in with his broke-down patient later, he was more conservative, urging me to "baby" my ankle with crutches.)
But I had other things to do first. When I wasn't icing my elevated ankle that Tuesday--Christmas Eve--I was soldiering on, planning a new line of attack on the St. Louis front. I called Delta and arranged for bulkhead seats and a wheelchair at the airport.
Then my Uncle J started calling. He and my Aunt F, both well into their 70s, were concerned about me coming with the boy in tow when I was in such a sorry state. I finally relented. I had to admit it: I had a bag full of lemons in my hands. Time for Plan B, aka Operation Lemon Drop.
I had feared how M might take news of the cancellation, but he was quickly appeased by Plan B. Now I just had to make sure it happened.
After postponing the flight without a penalty--the folks at Delta couldn't have been nicer--I recalled that M is still at the stage where a hotel with a free breakfast and pool makes him feel like he's king of the world. (If there's a hot tub, he's even more jazzed.) And so I began my within-cab-fare Brooklyn-Queens hotel search, not an easy endeavor within a two-day window and on a scant budget. (Much of the St. Louis trip had been arranged with frequent flyer miles.)
I scoured the discount sites for hours. Yelp reviews warned of bedbugs in one place, rude staff in another, and most New York hotels under $250 a night lacked pools. Finally, I found something.
Sure, it was near LaGuardia, where I had to brace for noise. But it looked nice enough. And not only was there the holy grail, a pool, there was breakfast (I would later find out it wasn't free but cost $10 per room per day, one of the many add-ons I would run across in a tourist hotel) and that piece de resistance, a hot tub. Also, remember: I was desperate.
With one room in my price range left, I booked a three-night stay.
Good omen No. 1 came when I called the hotel that Friday after Christmas and learned we could check in early. By 2 p.m., the boy was soaking in the hot tub along with three local men over the age of 80 who belonged to the hotel's health club. It looked like something out of Cocoon, save for my energetic 10-year-old. He was soon schmoozing away, beguiling the old-timers.
Before too long, he had ingratiated himself with one man and his caretaker, even helping with the man's walker and calling the caretaker his "babysitter." (Not that far off the mark, I'm afraid.) The caretaker offered M popcorn and then pizza delivered poolside, cementing the newfound friendship. I often worry that M attaches to strangers too hard and fast, but I agree with her--he made her charge's day.
Day 2, my friend S came over with her two kids, making a full day of it at the pool. There were some rough patches when my boy wouldn't stop splashing and jumping in a "no jumping" zone, but by the end he and my friend's little girl were swimming underwater like "dolphins" together.
Still, I needed to remember that lemon drops are sour as well as sweet. If I wanted to pick the hotel apart, I could complain about the scalding shower, the spotty internet connection, the TV charges, even the occasional, if expected, jet plane noise.
But balancing it out were the lovely staff including J, the bartender who brought up our dinner despite the lack of room service; the man running the cereal-and-muffins breakfast buffet, who allowed M to take eggs from the section reserved for the spiffily dressed Korean Air flight crew; and the obliging dad from Albany who tossed my child in the water, making him squeal with delight (after said dad got my OK, of course).
Meanwhile, the sound of the jets took me back to one of the highlights of my childhood in St. Louis, when my mom and dad packed my two older brothers and me into the VW wagon and took off for Lambert Field, now St. Louis International Airport.
This was a era when cars didn't have seat belts and they'd still let you throw a blanket down on the other side of the landing strip fence and watch the planes whoosh right overhead as they took off and landed. I can't say I grew up in a happy family--what was it Tolstoy said? But these are my own lemon-drop memories, and now I was making them for my kid...right near an airport.
This break, both my son and I had to become as flexible as Olympic gymnasts. To my mind, we each scored a perfect 10.
To celebrate, I think I'll order up a Lemon Drop tonight, our last at the hotel--the kind with the vodka mixed in.
Saturday, December 14, 2013
My Body, Myself, Part 2
First, the good news: I don't have a double chin.
Now, the not-so-great news: I have an enlarged thyroid gland, aka a goiter. A goiter! Isn't that something people had in the Middle Ages? No, wait. That's gout. I don't have gout. Whew.
But a goiter? That still sounds so...ancient. I know, I know, I'm 53, in the midst of my own middle ages. Maybe I'm in denial; I don't feel that old, certainly not as old as my mom and her friends seemed to me when they were 53.
How did this happen? Who's responsible? I want names.
Anyway, I digress. As some of you may know, in my last installment, I wrote that a blood test had shown no markers for BRCA1 and BRCA2 genetic mutations linked to breast cancer. I was shocked; given that I was diagnosed at 39 and my paternal grandmother died of the disease at 48, I'd expected very different news. Instead, I had major reason to celebrate, but the festivities were cut short by some less positive news: my insulin level was sky high.
I knew that I'd had something to eat before the test, so I had reason to hope that had skewed the numbers. But given that I've had a dramatic weight gain over the past several years and my father had adult-onset diabetes and then a deadly heart attack when he was 56--a mere three years older than I am now--I got pretty scared.
I did my best to remain calm as my gynecologist, who had ordered the bloods, sent me packing to the endocrinologist. It's a good thing she did. After I had donated about 10 vials of blood and collected two days' worth of pee in huge orange jugs--what can I say, I write what I know--my kindly new doctor called me back into her office to share some utterly confusing news.
First, more good news: I don't have diabetes. (Collective sigh of relief.)
But she did have some confounding news. I have some pretty funky thyroid issues going down. I have two sets of antibodies waging war inside my body. One causes hypothyroidism--Hashimoto's disease--while the other brings on hyperthyroidism--Graves' disease). My doctor says the hyperthyroidism/Graves is winning out.
Her immediate response: Along with ordering a two-day scan that involved me ingesting a radioactive pill to show my thyroid function and another round of bloods, she put me on megadoses of vitamins D3 and B12--apparently, I was seriously deficient--and ordered up a gluten-free diet, saying it makes a lot of people feel better.
Of course, all this sent me to everyone's medical bible: the internet. Finally, I may have gotten some answers to much of what's been ailing me, much of which I attributed to stress. According to the Mayo Clinic, Graves' disease symptoms include fatigue--that's been a biggie--anxiety, difficulty sleeping. and even the fine tremor in my hands and fingers.
My luck, the only symptom I don't seem to have is weight loss with no change in diet. Perhaps that's the fault of whatever's going on with the hypothyroid/Hashimoto's antibodies, which may also be causing the fatigue and sluggishness I've been feeling for months, if not years.
I've been overwhelmed by the outpouring of support I've received from Facebook friends on this one, and slightly shocked by the number of women who's shared that they've had Hashimoto's and that they have plenty of tips for me if it turns out to be that. Interestingly, no one has mentioned Graves, but I'm sure there are sufferers out there.
So now I'm in a holding pattern till I get the test results back and see my endocrinologist after the first of the year. I wish I could tell you more; I will as soon as I know.
When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I never had any doubt that I would beat it. I was lucky, for real. It had been caught early and treated aggressively.
But I can no longer be blithe about my health. These thyroid issues have been taking me down, I don't even know for how long now.
One thing's for sure: After a long break, I've strapped the oxygen mask back on.
Now, the not-so-great news: I have an enlarged thyroid gland, aka a goiter. A goiter! Isn't that something people had in the Middle Ages? No, wait. That's gout. I don't have gout. Whew.
But a goiter? That still sounds so...ancient. I know, I know, I'm 53, in the midst of my own middle ages. Maybe I'm in denial; I don't feel that old, certainly not as old as my mom and her friends seemed to me when they were 53.
How did this happen? Who's responsible? I want names.
Anyway, I digress. As some of you may know, in my last installment, I wrote that a blood test had shown no markers for BRCA1 and BRCA2 genetic mutations linked to breast cancer. I was shocked; given that I was diagnosed at 39 and my paternal grandmother died of the disease at 48, I'd expected very different news. Instead, I had major reason to celebrate, but the festivities were cut short by some less positive news: my insulin level was sky high.
I knew that I'd had something to eat before the test, so I had reason to hope that had skewed the numbers. But given that I've had a dramatic weight gain over the past several years and my father had adult-onset diabetes and then a deadly heart attack when he was 56--a mere three years older than I am now--I got pretty scared.
I did my best to remain calm as my gynecologist, who had ordered the bloods, sent me packing to the endocrinologist. It's a good thing she did. After I had donated about 10 vials of blood and collected two days' worth of pee in huge orange jugs--what can I say, I write what I know--my kindly new doctor called me back into her office to share some utterly confusing news.
First, more good news: I don't have diabetes. (Collective sigh of relief.)
But she did have some confounding news. I have some pretty funky thyroid issues going down. I have two sets of antibodies waging war inside my body. One causes hypothyroidism--Hashimoto's disease--while the other brings on hyperthyroidism--Graves' disease). My doctor says the hyperthyroidism/Graves is winning out.
Her immediate response: Along with ordering a two-day scan that involved me ingesting a radioactive pill to show my thyroid function and another round of bloods, she put me on megadoses of vitamins D3 and B12--apparently, I was seriously deficient--and ordered up a gluten-free diet, saying it makes a lot of people feel better.
Of course, all this sent me to everyone's medical bible: the internet. Finally, I may have gotten some answers to much of what's been ailing me, much of which I attributed to stress. According to the Mayo Clinic, Graves' disease symptoms include fatigue--that's been a biggie--anxiety, difficulty sleeping. and even the fine tremor in my hands and fingers.
My luck, the only symptom I don't seem to have is weight loss with no change in diet. Perhaps that's the fault of whatever's going on with the hypothyroid/Hashimoto's antibodies, which may also be causing the fatigue and sluggishness I've been feeling for months, if not years.
I've been overwhelmed by the outpouring of support I've received from Facebook friends on this one, and slightly shocked by the number of women who's shared that they've had Hashimoto's and that they have plenty of tips for me if it turns out to be that. Interestingly, no one has mentioned Graves, but I'm sure there are sufferers out there.
So now I'm in a holding pattern till I get the test results back and see my endocrinologist after the first of the year. I wish I could tell you more; I will as soon as I know.
When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I never had any doubt that I would beat it. I was lucky, for real. It had been caught early and treated aggressively.
But I can no longer be blithe about my health. These thyroid issues have been taking me down, I don't even know for how long now.
One thing's for sure: After a long break, I've strapped the oxygen mask back on.
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
My Body, Myself, Part 1
I've had some very good health news in the last couple of weeks, followed by some not so great news.
First, the good stuff.
In mid-October, my gynecologist suggested she draw bloods in her office, despite the fact that I'd had coffee with milk and a power bar that morning. I think she knew if she gave me a prescription to take to a lab, I might never get there.
She had good reason to doubt me: I've been letting too many things get in the way of taking care of myself for more than a few years now. (Oxygen mask? What oxygen mask?)
She also brought up the idea, again, of screening me for BRCA1 and BRCA2 gene mutations, which increase the risk of breast cancer. The one caveat: whether insurance would cover the hefty bill.
I was already pretty sure I was a slam dunk for having them. Diagnosed with breast cancer at 39, I'm of Ashkenazi Jewish descent, making me more at risk for said mutations. My paternal grandmother died of breast cancer at 48. My maternal grandmother had it, too, though I've learned that since her main diagnosis was leukemia, her breast cancer "doesn't count" in the genetic Russian roulette.
So I vowed three years that I was finally going to have the testing done. If it turned out I was "a genetically loaded gun" at increased risk for ovarian cancer I would, as I wrote so elegantly, "cut those potential time bombs out of my body."
Instead, it turns out I can be a very big talker. I dawdled. I figured, why find out? Was I really ready to have my predisposition confirmed and then decide whether to have prophylactic surgery--the removal of both breasts and my ovaries? It's something Jewish Israeli women are grappling with right now as leading scientists there push for what may be the first national screening for cancer-causing genetic mutations.
Back in 1999, I had a lumpectomy, followed by chemo and radiation, and have been monitored closely these past 14 years. The one thing that did weigh on me was how much it would help my family to know about our genetics, but to me this vital test became just one more to-do that fell by the wayside in an ultra-stressed life.
But in that moment at the gynecologist's, she tossed out the screening idea so casually, I ditched my clearly genetic predisposition to overthink everything. "What the heck?" I figured.
I'm glad I did. A few weeks later, I was shocked to get a call from her office, saying that I didn't carry either gene mutation. I still need to think about having my ovaries removed per my oncologist--ovarian cancer is much more difficult to detect and therefore more deadly, and as a breast cancer survivor I have a higher risk. But my family is relieved by the news, and I have one less thing to worry about.
Except that the bloods turned up one more thing to worry about. Ah, life is always full of twists and turns, isn't it? ...
And with that cliffhanger, please stay tuned for My Body, Myself, Part 2.
Beth
First, the good stuff.
In mid-October, my gynecologist suggested she draw bloods in her office, despite the fact that I'd had coffee with milk and a power bar that morning. I think she knew if she gave me a prescription to take to a lab, I might never get there.
She had good reason to doubt me: I've been letting too many things get in the way of taking care of myself for more than a few years now. (Oxygen mask? What oxygen mask?)
She also brought up the idea, again, of screening me for BRCA1 and BRCA2 gene mutations, which increase the risk of breast cancer. The one caveat: whether insurance would cover the hefty bill.
I was already pretty sure I was a slam dunk for having them. Diagnosed with breast cancer at 39, I'm of Ashkenazi Jewish descent, making me more at risk for said mutations. My paternal grandmother died of breast cancer at 48. My maternal grandmother had it, too, though I've learned that since her main diagnosis was leukemia, her breast cancer "doesn't count" in the genetic Russian roulette.
So I vowed three years that I was finally going to have the testing done. If it turned out I was "a genetically loaded gun" at increased risk for ovarian cancer I would, as I wrote so elegantly, "cut those potential time bombs out of my body."
Back in 1999, I had a lumpectomy, followed by chemo and radiation, and have been monitored closely these past 14 years. The one thing that did weigh on me was how much it would help my family to know about our genetics, but to me this vital test became just one more to-do that fell by the wayside in an ultra-stressed life.
But in that moment at the gynecologist's, she tossed out the screening idea so casually, I ditched my clearly genetic predisposition to overthink everything. "What the heck?" I figured.
I'm glad I did. A few weeks later, I was shocked to get a call from her office, saying that I didn't carry either gene mutation. I still need to think about having my ovaries removed per my oncologist--ovarian cancer is much more difficult to detect and therefore more deadly, and as a breast cancer survivor I have a higher risk. But my family is relieved by the news, and I have one less thing to worry about.
Except that the bloods turned up one more thing to worry about. Ah, life is always full of twists and turns, isn't it? ...
And with that cliffhanger, please stay tuned for My Body, Myself, Part 2.
Beth
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
Que Sera, Sera
When I was just a little girl, my mother loved to sing Doris Day's "Que Sera, Sera" to me. By then, Day had made her Oscar-winning song from the 1956 Hitchcock thriller The Man Who Knew Too Much her own theme.
The song progresses from the perspective of a child to that of a parent, but of course I only remembered the first verse:
"When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother
What will I be?
Will I be pretty?
Will I be rich?
Here's what she said to me,
"Que sera, sera,
Whatever will be will be,
The future's not ours to see,
Que sera, sera."
My mother's habit of singing to me was one of the many things, big and small, that cemented our bond. In fact, it's a tradition I've carried on with my own son. At the time, the song seemed lighthearted and lovely, the implication being that everything was going to turn out fine.
But today, the lyrics are bittersweet. Not knowing what the future holds can also be a very scary thing.
My mother lived to see me marry at 33 but died four years later. I never saw it coming. I think I was in shock for more than a year.
Yet even then I managed to maintain the laid-back "que sera, sera" philosophy. I had my health, a steady job and confidence in the future. But that was before I had breast cancer at 39 and lost my job at 46 when my industry–print journalism–imploded.
Now, as the 53-year-old mother of a 10-year-old son and a freelance writer, I can no longer sit back and trust the idea that "whatever will be, will be."
I want to know that everything will be all right–for him, for me–even though I'm old enough to have learned that life is about change, be it wonderful or awful. Just yesterday, my husband's employer laid off dozens of people. These are uncertain times.
Lately, the song playing in my head isn't "Que Sera, Sera" but the Roches' "Mr. Sellack":
"O Mr. Sellack,
Can I have my job back?
I've run out of money again.
Last time I saw ya,
I was singing Hallelujah,
I'm so glad to be leavin' this restaurant.
"Now the only thing I want,
Is to have my old job back again.
I clean the tables, I'll do the creams,
I'll get down on my knees
And scrub behind the steam table."
When I was younger and everything felt possible, I moved solo, without a care, to Colorado, then New York. I guess I didn't know any better; the economy was also a whole lot healthier. Now, the prospect would keep me up nights.
Apparently, mentally strong people don't shy away from change. The only thing we can control is how we react to the ever-shifting ground on which we stand.
These days, as I struggle to keep my balance, I sometimes wish I were a girl again, with my mother singing "Que Sera, Sera"–and making me believe everything is going to be all right.
The song progresses from the perspective of a child to that of a parent, but of course I only remembered the first verse:
"When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother
What will I be?
Will I be pretty?
Will I be rich?
Here's what she said to me,
"Que sera, sera,
Whatever will be will be,
The future's not ours to see,
Que sera, sera."
My mother's habit of singing to me was one of the many things, big and small, that cemented our bond. In fact, it's a tradition I've carried on with my own son. At the time, the song seemed lighthearted and lovely, the implication being that everything was going to turn out fine.
But today, the lyrics are bittersweet. Not knowing what the future holds can also be a very scary thing.
My mother lived to see me marry at 33 but died four years later. I never saw it coming. I think I was in shock for more than a year.
Yet even then I managed to maintain the laid-back "que sera, sera" philosophy. I had my health, a steady job and confidence in the future. But that was before I had breast cancer at 39 and lost my job at 46 when my industry–print journalism–imploded.
Now, as the 53-year-old mother of a 10-year-old son and a freelance writer, I can no longer sit back and trust the idea that "whatever will be, will be."
I want to know that everything will be all right–for him, for me–even though I'm old enough to have learned that life is about change, be it wonderful or awful. Just yesterday, my husband's employer laid off dozens of people. These are uncertain times.
Lately, the song playing in my head isn't "Que Sera, Sera" but the Roches' "Mr. Sellack":
"O Mr. Sellack,
Can I have my job back?
I've run out of money again.
Last time I saw ya,
I was singing Hallelujah,
I'm so glad to be leavin' this restaurant.
"Now the only thing I want,
Is to have my old job back again.
I clean the tables, I'll do the creams,
I'll get down on my knees
And scrub behind the steam table."
When I was younger and everything felt possible, I moved solo, without a care, to Colorado, then New York. I guess I didn't know any better; the economy was also a whole lot healthier. Now, the prospect would keep me up nights.
Apparently, mentally strong people don't shy away from change. The only thing we can control is how we react to the ever-shifting ground on which we stand.
These days, as I struggle to keep my balance, I sometimes wish I were a girl again, with my mother singing "Que Sera, Sera"–and making me believe everything is going to be all right.
Friday, November 15, 2013
The Blunt Truth
There are some beauty routines on which I will not skimp, highlights being the prime example. My hair is far too fine, as in thin, for me to be messing with bleach out of the box. This is a job for pros. Price is (almost) no object.
As for haircuts, not so much. I've been to some of the swankiest salons in Manhattan and, try as they might with potions and dryers and sprays (oh my!), my locks remain limp. There's only so much magic in even the trendiest stylist's bag of tricks.
To be blunt, all I need is a straight cut. For that, I can pay $20 at the old-timey local barbershop–the same one where my son lost his luscious first head of curls after I finally relented and agreed to take him at 3. (There are photos of me cringing in the background as his locks hit the floor.)
Which is how I found myself in that testosterone-infused no-woman's land the other day. I watched at the two sixtysomething brothers who own the joint chatted away with their patrons, talkin' guy talk. One prime snippet: "I saw that Miley Cyrus riding a wrecking ball. The only thing real on her was her teeth."
I decided to close my eyes and relax–there was no point in trying to interject my feminist opinion or engage my guy in chit chat. And so I sat quietly...until they cranked up the Lionel Ritchie.
They usually play Frank, and I love me some Frank. But listening to the guys singing "You're once, twice, three times a lady" was too much for me. It was all I could do not to fall out of the chair laughing.
They failed to see what I might find ridiculously funny about one of the schmaltziest wedding tunes of all time. Instead, they launched into whether it wouldn't be better if the woman in the song was "once, twice, three kinds of lady," leaving my barber to quip, "Yeah, a cook, a cleaner..." "and a breadwinner," I finished, ignoring the fact that the guy had scissors to my head.
Did I get a decent cut? Sure. Was the price right? Yep.
Do I care that they may have resented a woman entering their bastion of manhood? Nope. After all, I'm the one who won't hesitate to use the men's room when the line to the women's is winding around the block.
But will I be back?
Given that the last time I was at my salon, my colorist was dishing with me while Donna Summer and Edith Piaf played in the background, I may just have to find out what a junior stylist costs.
As for haircuts, not so much. I've been to some of the swankiest salons in Manhattan and, try as they might with potions and dryers and sprays (oh my!), my locks remain limp. There's only so much magic in even the trendiest stylist's bag of tricks.
To be blunt, all I need is a straight cut. For that, I can pay $20 at the old-timey local barbershop–the same one where my son lost his luscious first head of curls after I finally relented and agreed to take him at 3. (There are photos of me cringing in the background as his locks hit the floor.)
Which is how I found myself in that testosterone-infused no-woman's land the other day. I watched at the two sixtysomething brothers who own the joint chatted away with their patrons, talkin' guy talk. One prime snippet: "I saw that Miley Cyrus riding a wrecking ball. The only thing real on her was her teeth."
I decided to close my eyes and relax–there was no point in trying to interject my feminist opinion or engage my guy in chit chat. And so I sat quietly...until they cranked up the Lionel Ritchie.
They usually play Frank, and I love me some Frank. But listening to the guys singing "You're once, twice, three times a lady" was too much for me. It was all I could do not to fall out of the chair laughing.
They failed to see what I might find ridiculously funny about one of the schmaltziest wedding tunes of all time. Instead, they launched into whether it wouldn't be better if the woman in the song was "once, twice, three kinds of lady," leaving my barber to quip, "Yeah, a cook, a cleaner..." "and a breadwinner," I finished, ignoring the fact that the guy had scissors to my head.
Did I get a decent cut? Sure. Was the price right? Yep.
Do I care that they may have resented a woman entering their bastion of manhood? Nope. After all, I'm the one who won't hesitate to use the men's room when the line to the women's is winding around the block.
But will I be back?
Given that the last time I was at my salon, my colorist was dishing with me while Donna Summer and Edith Piaf played in the background, I may just have to find out what a junior stylist costs.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
And Then This Happened!
Something really exciting happened yesterday, something I couldn't have timed any better.
I've been feeling overwhelmed of late by a new freelance writing assignment, wondering what I've gotten myself into. On top of that, I had just decided to start a blog, of all things!
I know I should be writing every day, or every other day, but I haven't come close. And yet, dear readers, I learned yesterday I was named one of 10 bloggers to love by none other than blogger extraordinaire Katie Allison Granju over at Babble.com. You could have knocked me over with a feather!
I won't deny connections came into play, at least initially. My dear college friend Kimi told her dear friend Katie about "The Water Is Wide." But from there, Kimi assures me, it was all up to Katie. Expanding on my "Water" theme, if she thought I stunk, I would have been sunk.
Be sure to check out Katie's blog; I'm in some pretty awesome company.
And thank you for your support. I'll do my best to write every day. Or every other day. Or something like that.
Be sure to check out Katie's blog; I'm in some pretty awesome company.
And thank you for your support. I'll do my best to write every day. Or every other day. Or something like that.
Beth
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