We told the Oldest about a week ago. Maybe two. I have slipped into a vortex of time and space that seems to transcend any type of normalcy. I rarely know exactly what day of the week it is and I definitely don’t know what date is on the calendar. But really, I can’t blame cancer for that. I blame my free spirit and the fact that I refuse to switch all of my planner items over to the computer. And I rarely remember to tote my planner along anywhere. So, the days are sort of a blur right now.
What I do know about telling him is that it went wildly better than I’d anticipated. The kid is smart, people. And yes, I am very aware that everyone thinks their kid is smart. But I’m not saying Barrett is wicked smaht like Good Will Hunting. I’m saying he’s book smart. Like, literally. He’s reading at a voracious level for his age and this means that while he has the emotional intelligence of a 6 year old, he has the questions, sometimes, of a ten year old. So I was concerned. A bit. Nervous.
The hubs did the talking. He told him, we wanted to talk to you… mommy has cancer… cancer is when the normal cells in the body start acting abnormally and you have to get rid of the cells. It went well. Remarkably so. He asked for wii and a snack. And he’s not ended up in our bed in the middle of the night at any point since so I think we kept his fears at bay. Which is exactly what I’d hoped for. And in some strange twist, him having less fears made for me having less fears.
Abnormal cells. That’s what it is. That’s the fact of the matter.
When I talked with my general physician a week ago, she told me, “You are having normal fears. Normal reactions. But I need you to start to act abnormally. Your body will heal better”. She was spot on. The anxiety I was harboring was creating more issues than I needed to bring on and it was time for me to move on from diagnosis to getting it done. Getting through it.
Abnormal behavior. That’s what I needed.
I have always been abnormal. Ask any one of my high school classmates and I think they’d agree… I have always been quirky… different… abnormal. But I like to think I’ve always sort of embraced it. In my family, I was never going to vie for the title of the smartest or the most successful or the most talented… but myself, I could be. And so, I think, as a collegiate, I started embracing it… my abnormalness. I quit worrying about what I wasn’t and started embracing what I was… me.
I tell you this because I want you to know that I may, to you, handle this cancer situation abnormally. I am going to make jokes about how my boobs are the worst and about bad traffic being better than cancer. I am going to probably go without a wig sometimes when people are thinking my word, where is her hair? I am going to post pictures of me dancing in the kitchen with my husband during times when it seems like we shouldn’t be dancing because… cancer. I am going to try to do everything with my kiddos that I did before this little situation landed on our doorstep. It might seem abnormal. But really… I’ve already learned… just like every little and big thing we do in our lives, each of us gets to choose how we take on a situation. And cancer is no different. I don’t think there is a right or wrong way — to share about your health or to not is completely a personal decision. But here’s why I’m sharing… I’m 33 years old. Thirty-three.
I have smoked less than 10 cigarettes in my life {oh, college…}
I have breast fed all my babes.
I have no family history of breast cancer.
I am 33.
And there will be others like me. Because I have friends and friends of friends who were 34… or 35… or 42… or 55. Plenty of people, all under the median age of a breast cancer patient, which, fwiw, is 60 who are going to get a diagnosis. And so, I’m just gonna share.
So today, I wanted to now tell you about the wildebeest under my arm. Because wildebeest is a word that I feel I will rarely get to use around these parts and it is perfectly suited for this occasion.
I had my first round of chemo on Friday. Man oh man, chemo is a good time, people. Actually, chemo itself is a non-event. I mean, you sit in a chair, they infuse you with all the finest juices and berries toxins and chemicals, and you pretty much sit there, looking fabulous in your Wonder Woman outfit, and then you take your ball and go home. I was more nervous than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs prior to Friday’s appointment and I now know that really, chemo itself, a walk in the park. Following treatment, I was tired out from sitting all morning and did try to sneak in laying around a bit. And then, we went to dinner.
By Saturday night, the wildebeest appeared. Okay. Not the wildebeest but the wilda, at least {the hairy beest had not yet taken up habitance}. The area where they did my sentinel node biopsy, which is directly under my bad boob arm, puffed up and looked akin to me having shoved a golf ball under my pit. It was a little tender. But mostly just fluid-like. We called. They noted it. They told us that if there’s no redness and no pus than no worries, no fuss. So, we proceeded.
It continued to be puffy. I continued to note that I look like a cyborg. And today, I called the nurse to check in on some other things and once again, made note of the apparent seroma that has taken up residency under my arm. We chatted about it. And I told her, “The one issue. Is the shaving. I haven’t shaved it because I am so afraid of cutting something open. I don’t want to risk the infection. So instead, I am growing a wildabeast under my arm”. And she assured me, shave the wildebeest, sweetie.
So I very very carefully, with much good measure and lack of wine, tackled the wildebeest, and it is now just another run of the mill bald seroma hanging out under my arm. Because that is totally normal.
There have been highs and lows throughout the last few days. But I’ve been reminding myself daily to behave abnormally. Be abnormal. And shave the wildebeest. Soon enough, I can throw my razor away but for now, I am happy to be cleanly shorn, freshly chemo’d, and hopefully kicking cancer’s ass, one abnormal thought at a time.
We told the oldest. We’ve told the world. I’ve tamed the beast. And now, on to being abnormally me. All day long.
