Aug 29 2011
I’ve been nearly-steadily working on getting my creative well refilled after beating back death (again, from a fiercer battle this year than last), so the good news progress on that front is:
I made it to a few parts of ArmadilloCon this weekend. Friday was a disaster and life lesson two-by-four all in one; I tried to essentially go by myself (with walker strapped to wheelchair), and didn’t realize just how hard it would be to push myself around, especially since the hotel had far more carpet than I’d expected (I’d remembered large expanses of tile, which there were in main areas, but not where the panels were held). I managed to make it through one panel simply due to stubbornness of will, then found a friend who very kindly took me home. At home I cried in frustration and felt nearly sick from the exhaustion, and bitter about not getting to do any of the things I want to do, and upset that my “last hurrah” before surgery was such a bust.
Waking up Saturday in a better mood, I spent most of the day napping and late afternoon my brain kicked in, and we worked out a solution where my helper used the front carrier to strap on Wednesday (who was apparently a big hit at her first con) and go with me to push me to panels. We arrived late enough that I was only able to attend two more panels, but at that point it was the principle of the thing and I saw friends and took notes and went to panels just like a real convention, my first since this time last year. Psychologically it was a big success, and of course I’m exhausted and sore and spent most of the day in bed and will spend most of tomorrow resting (with maybe a bit more movement and PT exercises that I won’t be able to do right after Tuesday) but quite worth the effort and I’m grateful to my Mom for providing the badge fee and my helper and another two friends for providing the rides to get me to and from.
I did a “create first lines” exercise with my writing group that was fun for me and seemed so for the others who participated. I even wrote a couple that tickled the glimmer of possibly an idea for story, maybe, somewhere in there. So that was a success as far as I’m concerned.
One of the next steps as I see it is to get back in the habit of the “send stories out — collect rejections — send them back out” routine I’d been doing so well at last year, so I asked my writing group which stories of mine that I’ve previously submitted for critique came first to mind as ones they’d like to see back out circulating. Two of the ones they suggested are ones that have been out there already for months, so I sent queries out on those two, and at least one of the others they mentioned doesn’t really need further editing at least at the moment, so I am planning to find a market and send it out tonight (unless, of course, I fall asleep over the keyboard first as I sometimes still do).
I may have come to a decision about the novel I’ve been slogging over for years, which I think deserves its own blog post as possibly an interesting writer-process blog entry, and I’ve identified two characters from other stories that I think will be the easiest to start back on trying to write when I finally start generating new creative content. I even have great encouraging words on those from that same writer’s group.
And then the anger and frustration parts:
I’m just now starting to get to where I can do more than one or two things a day without being wiped out. I mean, there’s no way even a couple of weeks ago that I would have been able to try again on the con attendance like I did this Friday and Saturday. I can’t get a straight answer about how my doctor is going to handle my pain med regimen when I go back into the hospital for surgery on Tuesday and it’s been working so I’d really like to not have to go backward on that end of things. I’m angry. I make the joke about having to get three mastectomies for two breasts but it’s not really funny, except in the life irony sort of way, it sucks. I trust my doctors this time but I’m still so scared. So scared. And admitting that in front of the world and everyone is hard, even if it’s a no-brainer, because I’m also the strong, beautiful, determined, fighter, role-model, hero, STILL ALIVE person that people talk about in the comments you leave here and tell me elsewhere.
But this is so hard. So very very hard. And scary, and angry-making, and I don’t want to do it even though it’s right and necessary to do. And I wish I had more time to heal and enjoy the energy to write and help The Teen with his homework and feed Wednesday rice cereal messy-o-meals because on Tuesday I have to slog back from the edge of the abyss AGAIN in order to be able to do those things and I won’t be able to right away, and what if it takes long enough to heal and my baby girl grows fast enough that I’ll never get to safely hold her again because she’ll be too heavy for my arms to safely hold?
And I can heal, and I will, and I’ll even try to write about it so you know what it’s like as best as you can from reading about it. But here I am, bloated enough from bed-rest and long-term steroid meds that I don’t look like me in the mirror anymore, emotionally naked, and the fear is so strong that writing it is the only thing that makes it smaller.
Caging it in words to show for you like a zoo exhibit gives me some iota of illusory control over the process, so here I am, and here it is: I go in for double mastectomies this Tuesday, at 1 pm CDT, surgery expected to last 3 hours. On the right side they will also take several lymph nodes along with the breast, and the remaining cancerous mass that has shrunk through chemotherapy to 2 cm from its previously baseball-sized visible lump under my arm. The left side will be cleaning out the far-too-much breast tissue they left from last year’s mastectomy, though they don’t expect to have to remove any more lymph nodes. They will be removing every bit of breast tissue they can find on both sides. They do not expect to have to remove muscle, so send good energy that way if you have it to spare, as I would be left with lifelong arthritic-like symptoms if they have to take any of the muscle in the area, and the lymphedema brings enough of its own long-term side effects that I’d really prefer no more added to the mix. They expect, given how close this is happening to the recent chemotherapy and other factors, that my healing time will be double the normal expected rate –so at least 12 weeks of active healing — and that doesn’t count the months of PT to get as much back of normal movement and function in the area as possible. And that there will be at least one night spent in the hospital, but possibly more depending on how my body responds; so soon after a 9-week stay in the hospital, that in itself seems discouraging.
I have no idea how much, if any, it will set back the progress I’ve made in getting back my writing creativity, but I expect at least some. I may have a baby 3-pound netbook, but I recall from last year even that was too heavy to manipulate for the first several days after surgery. So expect a pause in blogging, though you might see me update on Facebook since I can do that from my phone. I have a voice recorder I’m going to try to make sure is functional tomorrow as part of packing and prepping for going back in, in case I do manage to snag writing ideas out of this mess.
So the positive thoughts to send my way are: all breast tissue gone, no muscle removed, and speedy healing with no complications. I’d really like some time and space to live this beautiful life with you beautiful people that surround me, and enough pain-less (not naive enough to say painless) functionality to enjoy it as fully as I know how. And that’s pretty damn full — there’s nothing like two fierce battles with death to enhance the joy of living life.