Sunday, October 30, 2011

Now with fewer preservatives!

The deeper I try to get into a chemical-free life, the more disturbed I get by the proliferation of the shite in the products we put on and around our bods. And what's even more crazy-inducing is that not everyone is concerned about this. That whole "they wouldn't lie to us" mentality that drives me around the bend and makes me feel like a grade A conspiracy theorist. Because we know as much today as we did 50 years ago about drugs/chemicals/nutrition, right? No advances there. No tobacco awakening. No sir. The man will take care of us. The thing is, they don't know for sure this shite contributes to disease, but then, given the choice, why not move in a cleaner direction?

Hell, I know it's tiring to have to think of this shit all the time. You think I don't slap myself in the face every time I go into Sephora and visit the three lonely shelves that are chemical-free while weeping over the pretty pretty that in good conscience I can't buy anymore? But it's getting less painful.

Almost 18 months later and I've managed to purge my hut of most things non-organic in the cleaning and beauty product district. I went into the fetal position after throwing away the formaldehyde-laden but perfect shade of black mascara I've been using for years to move my love over to the new Tarte Amazonian Clay mascara that truthfully, kicks the ass of any mascara I've ever owned. And I know it's a fucking pretentious name. I'm sure there are virgin tears and baby sweat on my lashes now, and I welcome it all.

I still have a handful of products I'm too attached to to give up yet - mostly lead-laden lipsticks - but I'm getting there. I'm aiming to be chemical-free by the end of year, which seems bloody first-world and privileged as shit, but I have to do something while the man figures out whether putting preservatives on my pits is having any effect at all.

All I ask is that the next time you read in a magazine that "you can rest easy, because there have been no conclusive tests to show the link between parabens and cancer", be worried that the question was ever there in the first place and the research is so very young.

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

A new set

I've been pestering my plastic surgeon to meet with me again so we can begin to talk about installing the new set. Dr. T's office finally got back to me today with an appointment date and the surgery already scheduled for November 8.

A bit sooner than I expected, but I'll take it. It's time to make the transition from Barbie to Posh. I'm ready. What I'm not so keen about is having to go under and invite the knife back into my life. I have this fear that they'll stitch me up and there will be a cancer cell or two hanging around the incision, waiting to organize and attack as my healthy cells are busy healing.

I'll get over the angst. Especially now that I know my Frances bean has to get surgery on her neck in a few months. That just opened up a whole new bundle of worry. She has a thyroglossal duct cyst, which is basically this smooth cystic lump on her neck, under her chin. The ear/nose/throat doc said today she was likely born with it, that the ultrasound we had taken last week was inconclusive as to whether the lump was cystic or solid, and that it didn't matter anyhow, cuz it should be removed, along with the tiny bone it sits on, so it doesn't become malignant when she grows up. So tiny Frances has to get her neck sliced open and a cyst removed, staying overnight in the hospital. Ballz. Let me count all the ways that freaks the shit out of me.

But she's a tough bird. She'll take it all in and look up at the doc with her big eyes, all trusting like, and I'll lose it.

So I get new boobs. Frances gets a new neck. We're fallin' apart (or rather being put back together) here, people!

To celebrate this new Frankenstein existence, Pete and I are escaping to Point No Point this weekend for two days of being unplugged on the wild west coast. Bliss.

Saturday, October 8, 2011

No evidence of disease

When I first met my oncologist, Dr. A., I wanted to run screaming from the exam room. She was reserved, a bit awkward, and not at all chit-chatty about the fact that we'd need to become BFFs over the coming months if I was going to trust her judgement. She sat in a chair practically across the room and spoke in hushed tones, rarely a smile. It was all a bit too much for me then, and I asked my surgeon, who I loved, if she could recommend someone else (she had recommended Dr. A. in the first place).

Since that first conversation with my surgeon when she convinced me to stick it out with my new onc., I have heard nothing but respect and love for Dr. A from the other docs and nurses I've met. "She's who I would want", "She's conscientious to a fault", "You could not have been assigned a better oncologist." I believe in all that now.

Yesterday, Dr. A. walked into the room in her usual gangly way and she had a gigantic gummy smile on her face. She had the nerve to ask me about any residual side effects of Tamoxifen, future medication options and about how I was feeling in general. Then she finally unloaded the goods.

"Your CT was all clear. No evidence of disease anywhere."

Um. Does fucking fantastic cover it here?!

Pete grabbed my leg like he did the time I was diagnosed. Relief. Release. Begin again.

We fairly skipped out of the place, which is obnoxious if you've ever been to a cancer clinic. And I felt a giant slap of guilt with the glee, because I thought of friends at different stages and the women who would hear that same day for the first time that they had cancer. But something huge died in me yesterday and I'll take that death as a good one and be over the moon about all this.

This feels new, this existence now. Like I've earned a do-over. It's a bunch of shit, though, from Steve Jobs, to the books I'm reading now, to work, to friends, to disease still surrounding everything. It's not about "getting back to normal" or "returning to my old life". It starts here, baby.

Sunday, October 2, 2011

Waiting for the pink to catch up

So much of having the c-dawg kickin' around is about waiting. For the next set of scan results, for the side effects to take or not take hold, for people to stop telling you stories about the cancer relative who got away. Honestly, I know people die from this shit every day and tell a survivor or survivor-in-training that you know someone who succumbed does not help the waiting. I understand the need to share. I do. But give me more of the triumphs than the tragedies.

I'm also waiting for all the "cancer patient" references to end. When you are one, you don't want to be called one, and when you aren't one, it's like calling somebody's sister ugly. You know she's narsty-looking, but only you can say so, y'all.

It's officially pink month around these parts, and I know a big part of it is fantastic awareness-building, cure-finding, breast feeling-upping, and general boobie-talk that doesn't get discussed at other times of the year. An entire month to dedicate to telling cancer to stfu is a good thing. Sometimes, though, I think all the "we just want to pop a pill and get on with our day!" talk is only moving cancer into the realm of other diseases and giving the power to big pharma and not to women and girls.

Here comes the nutrition and environment smack talk again, right? Do I think I got cancer because I wasn't as fit, well, mindful and conscious about what went into my body as I could have been? Partly. I think I'll never know exactly what it was because it was a big ol' combo of internal and external factors plus something in my body that was hospitable to the environment of disease. What will continue to chap my ass is the generally themed discussion about the inevitabililty of cancer. That it's a natural disease of aging (hello 37! Plus, that's just ballz), or unfortunate happenstance (hello so many women I know in my neck of the woods alone - the numbers tell a different story). That talk gets us all thinking that it's the medical community's job to find us a good ol' fashioned cure and that we're not responsible for taking some control over our own bodies and feeling empowered.

This isn't about blame or karma or bad genes or randomness. It's about taking something from this disease and making good from it. About not just turning the other cheek, but now making every decision about my life like I'm finally in control of something real. And it's not about thinking that if I just become a yoga-obsessed, marathon-running, meditating veg-head,  I'll never get cancer again. It's about not hoping someone will save me. I ain't down with that mindset. And whether I die next week, in five years or in fifty, I will never count on someone else to provide me with that hope.

To Sharon, Ashlyn, Shirley, Trish, Freddy, Kathryn, my mom, my grandmother, and every other woman in my present and future who will get a visit. This whole pink thing is about you and I wish nothing but an end to all the fucking waiting. You've made my life shinier.