surgery
The Three Doors
Thursday, July 15th, 2010 | Blogging, Cancer Survivor, Uncategorized | 1 Comment
I am taking a journaling class coordianated by the Shephard Cancer Center here in Washington. It has been an AWESOME experience. We’re a small group that’s grown very close in a short time. Funny how cancer survivors can do that! We’ve had a bit of a hiatus from each other, with our last meeting in May and our next one this week. Our wonderful teacher, leader, and guide gave us a fascinating assignment. We are to draw three doors and write about them. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks and just now written down my thoughts on paper to share. Although I’m unable to show you the doors I’ve drawn, I hope you’ll get an image from reading about them. I was surprised by what I wrote, some of it comfortable, some of it dark and deep, and some of it enlightening. I hope it will do the same for you as you read it.
A prologue:
I find the assignment of drawing and writing about three doors an intriguing one. Often when I was younger I dreamt of being in a long hall full of doors. I would try to open the doors, but often was just left trapped in the hall, with its glossy wooden floors. On rare occasions in my dreams, I could open a door. It would always lead me inside the kitchen of an unknown, yet familiar house. I would go to the cabinet doors and know exactly where the glasses and dishes were kept. It felt eerie, yet comfortable to be there in my dreams.
The first door
The first door is obviously an old one. It’s massive structure acting as a fortress to protect the character and integrity of the old house that lies beyond its entry. It’s the door to the house where I now live. After years of admiring old houses and longing for one, I finally live in one that brings me serenity and complete comfort. I am simply in love with my old house—everything about it! I love the fact that it’s an Arts and Crafts bungalow that was a Sears kit house. I can just see the kit contents arriving on the railroad right beyond my front door. I can see the worker leaving his Prince Albert can of tobacco behind the cedar siding on the south side and boarding it up for us to find later. I feel as if I know the four generations of the Bowen family that built the house and lived in it for almost a three-quarters of a century. Often when I open the front door I can see Mr. Walter’s coat hanging on the coat knob to the right of the entry. I think about Ms. Hilda standing over the old wood fired stove in the kitchen making a batch of her son Bo’s favorite dish, creamed corn. I love the story of when Bo’s new bride tried to make the corn for Bo and Ms. Hilda would not have it! She made a competing batch and that was the last straw that convinced Bo’s wife that it was time to move out from under his mother’s roof. Sometimes things go missing in my kitchen, and are found in the most unlikely of places. I think it’s Ms Hilda just stirring up a little trouble for me in her own kitchen. I think about the old love letter from Mr. Walter to Ms. Hilda that we found at the bottom of the built in chest of drawers as we made room for a utility closet. How serendipitous that the wooden runners of its drawers were the missing boards from the kitchen floor that we needed. The wood grain and lengths matched exactly. As I sit in our front upstairs office that overlooks Havens Garden and the Pamlico River, I know that this was young Bo’s bedroom. I know that Ms. Hilda wanted to have loads of children, but could only have Bo. I know that the “secret” rooms that are unfinished in the four outside corners of the upstairs were planned to be the children’s bedrooms that never came to pass. I adore the tall baseboards and wide craftsman trim around the doors. I could never part with the wavy old glass in the windows despite their winter and summer inefficiency. I sleep well here despite the moans and groans that an old house sighs at night. When I come home and close the front door behind me, I feel totally and completely at peace.
The second door
The second door is actually a set of doors. They swing both ways with directional signs for in and out. They are brushed stainless steel with small portholes near the top of each one. They are cold, clean, and sterile, completely void of fingerprints as if no human interaction exists between the doors and the people that enter them. Perhaps this is due to the gloved hands that push the doors apart and make way for the gurney. It is here at the doors that we always pause and say our goodbyes to our family who will be waiting for us when we wake up from the surgical sleep that is about to be forced upon us. It is here that we be sure to say our “I love you’s” and squeeze each other’s hands. It is here that uncertainty hangs heavy in the air. Here all moments in the past are clearly defined and the here and now seems fuzzy. The future teeters on the outcome of the procedures that occur behind the doors. And yet somehow I always wake up knowing what has transpired. As if I’ve fooled them all along, and really been wide-awake watching and feeling everything.
The third door
The third door isn’t a door at all. It’s a portal of light that emits understanding and peace. All the mysteries of the universe are answered beyond this door. There is no pain, no suffering, no worry, no hate, no war, no cancer. All things pure and good glow from behind the portal. I’m not sure that I am worthy to enter. It beckons to me—I long to enter and yet I long to stay on this side.
An Inconvenience
Monday, November 17th, 2008 | Cancer Survivor | 1 Comment
Well, it’s been a long time since I’ve blogged. I looked back on my last entry and could not believe that my last entry was September. I realized that I really left everyone riding the crazy roller coaster. Not good. I’m sorry about that. I guess that it was just too raw to write that I found out that I have breast cancer, after being a seven year survivor of fallopian tube cancer, and am a BRCA 1 gene mutant. I think that being a Ninja turtle mutant would be better. At least then, I could wear a crazy costume and be a hero. But, I have to deal with the cards (or make that the genes) I was dealt. In a strange, weird way, finding out about the BRCA 1 gene mutation made me feel better. I always wondered what I did to get cancer (now two cancers). I wondered if it was where I lived or how I ate or drank. But, I’ve always had a healthy lifestyle, so that did not make sense. So, a small inside voice kept telling me that it was because I was a perfectionist and always had to do everything 150%. I thought it was because my closet was color coded and all my pantry items labeled. Of course, finding out about my bad genetic code, made me worry more for my son (and sibilings) who now has a 50/50 chance of being BRCA1 positive too and all the implications that it has for him. The counselors tell me that this genetic stuff can be very tricky. Parents feel guilty, siblings without it feel guilty. Insurance companies don’t want to cover you, which is now against the law—but you know how that goes.
I’m just glad to now have two needle biopsies, a needle location, and a lumpectomy behind me. We’re still waiting on a clear margin from the lumpectomy biopsy, so we can move forward to radiation and tamoxifen. I was disappointed that I didn’t get my anticipated Dixie cup during the needle location. During needle location, prior to surgery, they insert a long wire into the breast for the surgeon to follow when operating. This wire extends to the outside and is usually covered by a Dixie cup for protection until surgery. My wire was lying against my chest, so I didn’t need the Dixie cup. Gosh, too bad, I was sort of looking forward to the Madonna jokes! All things considered, the surgery was the easiest of the past five that I’ve had in seven years since my first diagnosis in 2001. As usual, I was awake as they rolled me into the operating room. It seems it takes a while for me to succumb to anesthesia. I was chatting with the nurses when the lights went out. I woke up, bright eyed and bushy-tailed, as my father would say, and started cracking jokes about my leg wraps (to prevent blood clots) that looked like the Michelin tire guy. That was it for the nurses. They said it was time to move me to the next level. See where a little sense of humor will get you—right out of the recovery room to the “Step Down” area. That’s where you get to see your family and drink ginger ale. Ah-h eureka!
So, we’re praying for a clear margin so we won’t have to travel another five hours to Charlotte, to do this all over again. I told my surgeon to be sure and get it all because I planned on doing Thanksgiving as usual with my family and to get my house ready for the Christmas tour on December 6th. She looked at me as if I were crazy. I replied to that by telling her that cancer is just an inconvenience. I like to think that is the case. It makes it easier to cope.