Calling the Shots

The Support Group That Went Haywire

noreply@blogger.com (Beth L. Gainer) — Thu, 14 Mar 2013 22:10:00 +0000

This posting is about a support group that went awry.

To read this post, click here.

Book Review: Your Brain After Chemo

noreply@blogger.com (Beth L. Gainer) — Fri, 08 Mar 2013 21:29:00 +0000

For a review of this excellent book, click here.

The Youngest Support Group

noreply@blogger.com (Beth L. Gainer) — Thu, 28 Feb 2013 03:05:00 +0000

Sometimes the best support groups are comprised of children. To read this post, click here.

My Cell Mate

noreply@blogger.com (Beth L. Gainer) — Fri, 22 Feb 2013 03:57:00 +0000

My latest posting is about the ties that bind me -- to my cell phone for medical reasons. Please read here on my current website.

Calling the Shots Has a New Home!

noreply@blogger.com (Beth L. Gainer) — Thu, 11 Oct 2012 10:29:00 +0000

Dear Readers,

It's with great pleasure that I'm announcing the new home for Calling the Shots: http://www.bethgainer.com/.

This site will still provide the great content you've come to know and expect.

Please change your blogroll to www.bethgainer.com and please spread the word.

Beth L. Gainer

Celebrating the Ordinary Day 7

noreply@blogger.com (Beth L. Gainer) — Mon, 03 Sep 2012 04:43:00 +0000

I know it's a day late, but here is my Day 7 celebrating the ordinary picture. I want to thank Marie from Journeying Beyond Breast Cancer for creating this challenge. I have simply had a blast taking pictures and blogging about them, as well as reading all the terrific posts that have celebrated the ordinary.

My final Celebrating the Ordinary picture is that of a painting of an arctic fox I had done years ago.

Painting is a part of me, and it is my favorite hobby, along with sketching. It represents freedom and relaxes me in a way nothing else can. When I was married, my mentally ill husband essentially did not want me painting, thinking such paintings were toxic. He actually threw out my novice paintings when I wasn't home.

When I got divorced, I suddenly found myself obsessed with painting. I was finally free to do what I wanted, and what I wanted most of all was to paint. What ensued were hundreds of pieces of artwork, some of which were drafts.

Painting helps calm me like nothing else can. I'm so lucky I have a hobby I love.

Celebrating the Ordinary -- Day 6

noreply@blogger.com (Beth L. Gainer) — Fri, 31 Aug 2012 19:18:00 +0000

Today's ordinary slice of life is one I've often taken for granted: a small farm stand not far from where I live.

It's a real treat to have freshly grown produce. I stop at this farm stand once a week to buy all wonderful yummy goodies -- until the farm stand closes in late fall.

The sight of apples reminds me that fall is soon upon us in the US. And it fills me with anticipation for my favorite apple available a bit later in the fall: the Honey Crisp.

Celebrating the Ordinary -- Day 5

noreply@blogger.com (Beth L. Gainer) — Thu, 30 Aug 2012 18:47:00 +0000

About six years ago, I fell in love -- with the Mandarin language.

My aunt, knowing I would someday go to China to adopt my baby girl, gave me a present: a CD with 10 Mandarin lessons, hoping that I could say simple things like "hello" and "goodbye" when in China. I happen to love languages, and I really enjoyed the tonal songlike quality of Mandarin.

After I was finished with the 10th lesson, I was hooked.

Three years and 90 lessons later, having gone through each half-hour lesson five to 10 times -- it was finally time to make the journey to adopt my baby. When the referral for her came, I was excited and scared about the prospect of being a new mother, but I was confident in the Mandarin skills I had acquired.

How did I devote so much time to learning this magnificent language? I did so all within the comfort of my car.

Each time I'd drive somewhere, I would put on the next CD lesson and concentrate with great effort. That is why today's photo has part of my car's steering wheel (I was parked when I took the photo, so no worries) with the box housing the CDs. Many days I didn't feel like practicing, but I forced myself to go through lesson 76 again for the eighth time, knowing it would help me communicate in China.

Knowing it was my daughter's heritage.

Knowing I wanted her to learn Mandarin when she was old enough.

We in the travel group did not have to learn Mandarin; we had a translator. Yet, I wanted to become immersed in this language, not only for its beauty, but its utility. It would be practical to speak to the Chinese people in their own language, and perhaps I could soothe my child with the familiar sounds of her native language. And learning a language could perhaps help repair some of the chemobrain damage, I reasoned.

In China, the people were so friendly -- whether I spoke English or Mandarin. And the lessons paid off: while I can't call myself fluent, I can communicate enough to get by. In China, I was able to ask where the American Embassy was, ask if a restaurant was open for lunch, and say a lot more than "hello" and "goodbye."

Sure, there were some humorous episodes. Like the time when I told a shopkeeper that my daughter was 13 years old instead of 13 months old. Yep. I got quite a stare that helped me correct my error. Or the time when I almost bought a business class airplane ticket when all I wanted was to know where a particular souvenir shop was.

Leaving China for home in the United States felt bittersweet. I was glad to be heading home, but sad to be taking my daughter from her birthplace, even though circumstances gave us no choice.

Today on my way to work, I continued studying Mandarin. After all, when my daughter and I go to China, I want to be more fluent. And I look forward to saying "hello" again to China.

Celebrating the Ordinary -- Day 4

noreply@blogger.com (Beth L. Gainer) — Wed, 29 Aug 2012 15:53:00 +0000

This week-long challenge from Marie's Journeying Beyond Breast Cancer has helped me immensely -- I now stop to appreciate so many of life's gifts, seeing the ordinary as rather extraordinary.

I took today's pictures on my walk this morning.

I find regular walks so soothing to the body, mind, and spirit. Because of physical limitations, I can no longer run, but I can walk. And I have found walking to be a greater gift in many respects because I can slow down to appreciate the space that is my neighborhood.

At first, I wasn't happy with moving here because it is a greater distance from my doctors than the neighborhood I used to live in. I moved out of necessity, as cheaper living was to be found here, with the added financial responsibilities of a new child.

But now I've come to enjoy passing each house, savoring people's gardens, and the lovely trees.

The football field pictured here shows serendipity. It's located in a pretty park, but it's not just an ordinary football field. I take it as a sign from the universe that I was meant to be in this space, place, and time. The football field, I was to eventually discover, is the home field for a high school team named the Spartans.

I cried when I first came upon the Spartans sign, for my alma mater is Michigan State University, the home of the Spartans sports teams.

Serendipity, indeed.

Home to the Spartans

Where Ari plays regularly (same park)

The neighborhood on my routine walk.

Celebrating the Ordinary -- Day 3

noreply@blogger.com (Beth L. Gainer) — Tue, 28 Aug 2012 21:21:00 +0000

I would be remiss if I didn't mention the other significant being in my household -- my cat Hemi. I adopted him a few years ago as a rescue cat, wanting a companion for my other kitty Cosette. It wasn't exactly love at first sight (mostly on Cosette's end), but now they play and sleep near each other.

Hemi was named for the Hemi engine -- because he purrs and purrs and purrs.

Loudly.

He is easy to please and very social. He prides himself on being quite the looker. He is a tuxedo Manx cat, and he really sports that tuxedo well, as you can see.

He is so special to me. I love his kisses and purrs, and he is eager to climb on my lap for affection.

"I know I'm handsome."

Celebrating the Ordinary -- Day 2

noreply@blogger.com (Beth L. Gainer) — Mon, 27 Aug 2012 18:12:00 +0000

Today's post is designed to celebrate another family member -- my cat Cosette.

She is beyond special to me. I adopted her from a shelter the day after my breast cancer diagnosis. She innately understood the sorrow and anguish I was feeling and approached me, sticking her paw out of the cage to touch me.

Cosette and I were both sick, it turns out. She had an almost-fatal respiratory infection, and I held her for hours trying to comfort her, and she purred trying to comfort me.

She was hospitalized the day before I went into the hospital to get my lumpectomy and axillary node dissection. I joked that we should've had adjoining beds, as we were both in our respective hospitals on the same day.

After she had recovered, she wouldn't leave my side through cancer treatments. In turn, despite my being sick from chemo and radiation, I would take her to the veterinarian for many followup visits.

She also comforted me during my divorce and through several cancer scares/surgeries.

Cosette is quite playful and has fur as soft as a rabbit's. She is not a total lap cat, but she loves to lay her head on my lap for hours. She's my ever-steady, faithful companion.

My Sweet Friend

Celebrating the Ordinary -- Day One

noreply@blogger.com (Beth L. Gainer) — Mon, 27 Aug 2012 03:05:00 +0000

Marie at Journeying Beyond Breast Cancer has challenged us bloggers to a fun, exciting assignment: to post one picture each day for a week that illustrates our celebration of the ordinary in our lives.

I love Marie's challenges, and I am embracing this one with a sense of awe and fun. Here's my photo:

Jumping to the Challenge

This girl is my four-year-old daughter Ari, and she is my universe. The picture was taken this weekend at a place called Xtreme Trampolines. The joy on her face and the sparkle in her eyes tell the whole story.

Here's a girl who had just been jumping for 45 minutes on a trampoline. Jumping with zest, abandon, and with a sense of childish glee.

I asked her to stop so I could snap this picture. Then she got back to her business of being a child, sporting a bandaid on her leg, not because she had a boo-boo but because it was a fashion statement.

Watching her jumping, I was amazed and grateful to have her in my life and for the lesson she was teaching me right this very minute: to jump into life joyfully and confidently.

And I learned that a snapshot of an ordinary day is actually quite extraordinary.

The Straw That Broke This Camel's Back

noreply@blogger.com (Beth L. Gainer) — Mon, 13 Aug 2012 13:05:00 +0000

After a two-month self-imposed blogosphere exile, I'm coming clean.

Over the last couple of months, I've been dealing with yet another scare that's left me feeling like a James Bond drink: shaken, not stirred. And as if a train were getting ready to flatten me to Kingdom Come.

It all starts with pain in my left ribs.

And a "routine" followup appointment weeks later with my oncologist, Dr. B.

*****

He prescribes an anti-inflammatory for the rib pain, which doesn't work.

He then orders a CT scan and bone scan; I schedule both for the day before my daughter and I leave for Florida to visit my parents and for some R and R. During the bone scan, the staff repeatedly ask me about my cancer background, about my surgeries, and all-things-cancer.

Too many questions for my comfort.

Something is wrong.

I do get a chuckle from one technician. Upon my telling her I've had a double mastectomy with reconstruction, she asks me if I am currently breastfeeding.

Once in Florida, I try to forget the drama. I try to forget about the tests. I'm here to have fun, after all. And for three days, I am at a tentative peace.

Dr. B calls my cell and leaves a hopeful-but-ominous message: "There's nothing terribly, terribly, terribly wrong with you. I just have to talk with you about the bone scan."

There are too many "terriblys" in his message for my comfort.

My parents know nothing about what's been going on. They love me, but they could not handle my breast cancer diagnosis and treatment years ago. I won't tell them a thing, I decide, but just act as if nothing were wrong.

Finally, Dr. B and I connect. He is kind and doesn't want to worry me, but he sounds uncomfortable. He talks about my CT scan, which reveals a number of "multiple healing fractures" in my back. He talks at great length about how symmetrical the "breaks" on both scans look and that if I had a cancer recurrence, it would not look symmetrical.

The dreaded R word, but there it is.

He continues talking about his extensive experience in interpreting the scans, how even if the bone scan report says one thing, he knows better and is pretty certain that I just have broken back bones. He is adamant that the bone scan report is wrong.

I ask what the bone scan report says.

He hesitates. He then says, "Metastasis to the bone."

*****

I'm audibly silent.

He tells me he's very sure it is not because in this case, the CT scan gives the fuller picture and the broken bones are in the same areas as those that lit up in the bone scan. Besides, once a person has cancer, he continues, those interpreting diagnostic tests have a cancer bias.

I listen and listen. And then I listen.

He asks me if I had any injuries to my back that would cause my bones to break. I tell him that I don't know, but I do. A major injury.

Chemotherapy.

Since chemo, my bone density has dwindled considerably. Since chemo, I've had bone-related problems. Since chemo...[fill in the blank]

I ask him what the next step is. He tells me to take the over-the-counter pain killers regularly and see him in a month.

Do I have bone mets? Or do I just have bones that inexplicably break? I'm hoping for the latter. My body keeps betraying me, I think.

My parents call me to dinner. I wipe my tears and paint a smile on my face. During dinner, I laugh and joke and put on a happy, happy face.

*****

But depression sets in the next day. I'm in a fog. I'm not proud of what I'm about to reveal:

I sleep all day, knowing my parents can watch my daughter. I just want to be alone. But my daughter doesn't want to leave my side, and she asks me what is wrong. I tell her that mommy isn't feeling well and that I will be OK soon.

And this is true: I haven't been feeling well. My back hurts a lot.

But I eat dinner with my happy face and then go back to bed. My mind and body are shutting down, and I need more sleep. The next day finds me swimming by myself at the retirement community pool and crying. Later that day, I envy the 80-year-olds who seem healthier than me. No matter how much I exercise or take care of myself, I reason, my body will always betray me. So I do the only reasonable thing:

I buy a huge-ass Godiva chocolate bar and devour it at 1 a.m.

The next few days are better. My parents, Ari, and I go to children-friendly places. We have fun at a turtle sanctuary. I keep busy. I see a rainbow (pictured in this post), and I savor it.

Today I'm seeing my oncologist for a not-so-routine followup. Prior to this latest installment of my life, I was working hard on finishing my book and a new website (details to eventually come). This news has temporarily derailed my work.

I've had a setback. Don't we all?

I've resumed work on the book and website. I refuse to allow this latest scare or any future scares to interfere with my hopes and dreams.

A rainbow amid the storm clouds

I'm writing a book titled Calling the Shots: Coaching Your Way Through the Medical System. I am a professional writer and have published numerous academic and magazine articles, as well as an essay on my breast cancer experience in the anthology Voices of Breast Cancer by LaChance Publishing. I can be contacted at bethlgainer@gmail.com.

The Burden of Survivorship

noreply@blogger.com (Beth L. Gainer) — Mon, 18 Jun 2012 15:53:00 +0000

My oil painting: "Survivorship"

I'm a breast cancer "survivor," whatever that means.

But I'm still waiting -- waiting for that moment when I can feel like a triumphant and brave breast cancer warrior-survivor, that ever-so-neatly-packaged archetype.

I want to live up to those expectations, you know, the ones where people tell me how brave I am, how heroic I am, how much of a role model I am.

How inspiring I am.

I wish I could feel happy when I hear the "good-for-you-for-winning-your-battle-on-cancer" comments.

But the praises and accolades don't sit well with me.

Surviving breast cancer is a good thing, don't get me wrong. And I survived partly through self-advocacy -- and partly through sheer luck. Random luck.

I wouldn't trade my life for anything. But the status of "survivor" carries a heavy burden and a heavy price.

People who see me as heroic should know some things about me:

Not a day goes by without thinking about cancer. I spend ~~enormous amounts of~~ some energy quelling the fear welling up inside of me. I get panic attacks and have to control them with deep breathing. I worry about the toll cancer treatment has had on my body, I have body-image issues, osteopenia from treatment, chemobrain, constant abdominal and back pain from surgery, and fear of recurrence -- and this is just the tip of the iceberg.

Emotions are still raw -- even 11 years out of treatment and six years out of my double mastectomy with reconstruction.

I try to keep busy. I work hard. I paint. I write. I care for my daughter.

But I'm always looking over my shoulder. Every body ache assaults me. I wonder, did I strain a muscle, or do I have cancer? My friend Faun died of metastatic breast cancer, and she became aware of it because she had hip pain and went for a "routine" physical.

Nothing is "routine" I've learned. I grieve for her still.

My hip hurts. Is it cancer?

"No it's not," I tell myself, "Stop being such a hypochondriac." I take Tylenol, and the pain goes away. Ah, I'm feeling more confident about my health. Later, my hip hurts again, and the rollercoaster twists and turns in my stomach all over again.

I put off getting routine bloodwork for almost a half-year after my general doctor ordered it. I am not proud of this. But for six months, I am trembling at the thought of the lab results indicating a new problem. I finally summon up enough courage to get the blood drawn on Friday. I am not afraid of the blood draw; I'm afraid of the results. I am trying to put it out of my mind for now.

I just set up an appointment with my oncologist, two months overdue. It is so painful to pick up the phone and make the call. My heart is racing. The receptionist tells me that my oncologist ordered bloodwork and I should get there early to have it done. I numbly say, OK, but when I hang up, I sob. "Why does he need blood from me?" I keep ~~torturing~~ asking myself. This "perhaps routine" test has been constantly ~~gnawing at me~~ on my mind ever since.

I get a "routine" colonoscopy this year, and the period of time leading up to it is ~~hell~~ challenging, and I spent a lot of time ~~crying about it~~ preoccupied with it. I'm convinced the results will be bad. Luckily, they are good. I'm relieved. For now. Until the next medical worry.

Yes, I'm waiting for that moment when I can feel like a brave and strong warrior. I now know I will never have that feeling of medical and emotional security. Because I have already had breast cancer. And that forever changed things for me.

In the meantime, I'll continue looking over my shoulders, which carry a crushing burden no one should have to bear.

For an excellent article on the complexities of survivorship, please read Darryle Pollack's article, Surviving Cancer: It's Complicated.

Have you been put on a societal pedestal because of cancer? How do you define survivor? Please feel free to share your experiences.

I'm writing a book titled Calling the Shots: Coaching Your Way Through the Medical System. Please feel free to subscribe to this blog by clicking the orange subscribe button. I am a professional writer and have published numerous academic and magazine articles, as well as an essay on my breast cancer experience in the anthology Voices of Breast Cancer by LaChance Publishing. I can be contacted at bethlgainer@gmail.com and gainercallingtheshots@gmail.com.

It's Only Words...

noreply@blogger.com (Beth L. Gainer) — Thu, 31 May 2012 20:39:00 +0000

"It's only words, and words are all I have

To take your heart away..."

These lyrics are from the Bee Gees' song "Words," a simply beautiful ballad. First of all, my closest friends and family know that the Bee Gees has been my favorite musical group forever. Their words and music -- on more occasions than I can remember -- have taken my heart away.

When Robin Gibb died of metastatic cancer, I felt so saddened for him and his family -- and I felt the loss deeply, as I will always feel connected in some way to the Brothers Gibb.

I took Robin's death personally. Damn cancer.

Marie at Journeying Beyond Breast Cancer wrote a wonderful post about how media reports said that Robin "lost his battle" with the disease, and she pointed out that the cancer vocabulary taints how society views cancer with all the warrior/battle/victor imagery. Then AnneMarie of Chemobrain...In the Fog With A.M. From BC 2 AD created an excellent prompt for posts on what words really agitate us, irritate us, or just royally piss us off.

So, following AnneMarie's lead, here is a list of insensitive, ridiculous cancer-related and adoption-related remarks that people have said to me that launch the stupid-o-meter into space:

On Cancer:

"You're lucky: you have the best cancer" (Are there any good cancers?)

"You don't look sick." (And you don't look smart.)

"You lost weight. What are you complaining about; you have a nice figure." (Yes, it's that no-food diet, thank you very much.)

"Don't take this the wrong way, but you are luckier than all of us who aren't getting two vacation days off a month [for chemo]." (WTF?)

On Adoption:

"Your daughter looks just like you, especially the eyes." (My Caucasian self got on a plane to China in order to adopt my..uh...Chinese daughter. We look different, and [with a Stuart Smalley pause] that's okay.)

"I wonder if she misses her real mother." (Hullo. Her real mother is ME. I'm the one up late at night with a sick child; I'm the one tending to her bruises, and I'm the one she clings to in times of stress. If that's not a real mother, then I don't know what is. I'm the only mother she has known. And the last time I pinched myself, I hurt, so I must be real.)

"She's a China doll." (Correction: She is from China, not made of china, and she's not a doll.)

"I bet she was expensive" (I didn't "buy" her. And I don't go around asking people what they spent birthing their biological children).

So for those who think their insensitive remarks are only words, they might want to start actually thinking. There's no such thing as "only words" -- except in a remarkable Bee Gees song.

My real daughter

The lion is fake.

I'm writing a book titled Calling the Shots: Coaching Your Way Through the Medical System. Please feel free to subscribe to this blog by clicking the orange subscribe button. I am a professional writer and have published numerous academic and magazine articles, as well as an essay on my breast cancer experience in the anthology Voices of Breast Cancer by LaChance Publishing. I can be contacted at bethlgainer@gmail.com.

Belated Six-Word Memoir

noreply@blogger.com (Beth L. Gainer) — Fri, 25 May 2012 19:50:00 +0000

I've been playing catch-up with reading all the fabulous blogs out there and trying to catch up in my writing. Here's my six-word cancer memoir, part of a blogosphere challenge a little while ago:

cancer. uninvited guest. lifetime of unrest.

I'm writing a book titled Calling the Shots: Coaching Your Way Through the Medical System. Please feel free to subscribe to this blog by clicking the orange subscribe button. I am a professional writer and have published numerous academic and magazine articles, as well as an essay on my breast cancer experience in the anthology Voices of Breast Cancer by LaChance Publishing. I can be contacted at bethlgainer@gmail.com and gainercallingtheshots@gmail.com.

Cancer and Emotional Dependency

noreply@blogger.com (Beth L. Gainer) — Fri, 18 May 2012 14:20:00 +0000

I am writing this post a couple of days later than I planned for Mental Health Blog Day. I thought, what a great idea, to blog about something so important -- mental wellness, still considered a taboo topic in our society.

Cancer's physical repercussions are constantly part of the cancer dialogue. The toll this disease takes on our mental health? Not so much. Well, to break the taboo ice, here's my story of how cancer has affected my emotional health and made me dependent on my healthcare providers -- something not unusual in the cancer world.

When diagnosed and going through treatments, I think of only one thing: how to stay alive. I do what my doctors and oncology nurse tell me.

I follow their orders.

I don't want to see them so regularly. But I have to.

I'm in a primal state of being.

I'm in survival mode.

My treatment regimen is brutally inhumane: chemotherapy and radiation during the same period of time. When radiation ends, my chemotherapy will continue awhile afterward. I don't want to be in this situation.

But my oncologist is kind and decides that this treatment is most likely to save my life.

I mindlessly drive myself to radiation and chemotherapy treatments and focus on one day at a time, one treatment at a time. One foot at a time as I walk.

One breath at a time.

I have no energy to do the things that once seemed so simple to me, things I took for granted: walking, talking on the phone, reading, writing, having a bowel movement.

I continue working a full- and part-time job and take only one sick day. I use my well-saved-up vacation days for chemotherapy.

Doctors schedule me for treatments, and I can't say "No, that date doesn't work for me." My life now belongs to them.

I collapse into anxiety and depression. My life is reeling out of control, and all I do lately is cry to doctors and nurses. They all hug me and hold my hand. They try their best to make me feel better. It helps.

Finally, the big day comes.

Graduation.

Treatment is "over," and I am free of the barrage of doctor's appointments -- for now.

Friends and family are celebrating that I'm "done" with these major treatments and therefore "done" with cancer.

In a strange twist, I feel even more anxiety and depression than I did during treatment. I want to be getting radiation and chemo. I don't want to be "done." The fact that routine followups will be part of my care plan does not comfort me.

I need my doctors. I want them to see me everyday. I want to live right across the street from the hospital in case I need medical help.

I miss my radiation oncologist and her beautiful, cheerful smile. I miss radiation, the daily care that the loving staff gave me. Why should I care that I was burnt to a crisp? I miss seeing my medical oncologist. All I want is the security of seeing my doctors.

I miss being closely monitored. I feel hurt, upset, angry, rejected.

I feel like an astronaut in space, and my doctors are in the space shuttle. I feel that my lifeline has been severed, and I am floating away in space, begging my doctors not to let go of me.

"Don't let go of me. Just don't let go."

But they let go, and my forced re-entry into the world is anything but stable. As I land into a sea of turbulence, I realize the world has not changed since my diagnosis, but I sure have.

I am afraid to face the world and don't know how to process what had just happened to me. Life during treatment was in some ways easier because I just had to "do," not "process."

Somehow I've managed to survive. Because my life now belongs to me.

And I've had to let go.

I'm writing a book titled Calling the Shots: Coaching Your Way Through the Medical System. Please feel free to subscribe to this blog by clicking the orange subscribe button. I am a professional writer and have published numerous academic and magazine articles, as well as an essay on my breast cancer experience in the anthology Voices of Breast Cancer by LaChance Publishing. I can be contacted at bethlgainer@gmail.com.

Shock

noreply@blogger.com (Beth L. Gainer) — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 05:21:00 +0000

Just two days ago, a former co-worker at a former company informed me that our former boss died from lung cancer.

She was 62.

I simply couldn't believe it. My former boss was so vibrant and alive. She was too young for cancer.

Why the shock that someone died relatively young from cancer? Why the shock that it was lung cancer? Why the shock that it was someone I knew? Why the shock the victim seemed destined for a long life in my mind, only to have it crashing down?

Then I caught myself.

I, of all people, should know better. That cancer strikes people from all walks of life and at all ages. That cancer doesn't give a sh*t who its victim is. That it is an insidious, ruthless disease that tries to destroy the body. That the whole "one is too young for cancer" is a bunch of rotten baloney.

Yet I still felt shock, disbelief, anger, and grief about my former boss. Had to read the message from my former co-worker over and over again. Couldn't -- wouldn't -- believe it.

Today, my friend with leukemia received her second bone marrow transplant. I was shocked that the first one was unsuccessful. I thought she would be in remission. I even convinced myself she was cured. Then the doctors found cancer cells. She needed to start her treatment all over again.

I pray that this second transplant works. I know I'll be shocked if it doesn't take, as I am in the process of lying to myself that cancer cooperates.

And my co-worker's husband is faring poorly. Metastatic cancer. And I am surprised. How could cancer metastasize so quickly?

Clearly, I am not a naive person, but it's unsettling how much I'm lying to myself these days. I know what it's like to lose a loved one to cancer and I know what it's like to have cancer young.

The truth is all wrapped up somewhere in the lies I tell myself.

The lies serve to protect me from the real possibility that I may soon lose some people dear to my heart.

A couple of weeks ago, I spoke with a woman who is 62 and whose parents are alive and well into their 90s. The mom of my friend with leukemia lived into her mid-90s and was hardly ever sick. My friend and I always thought her genetic line was strong.

We were wrong.

My family dies of old age or cancer in their 90s. Does that longevity bode well for the future for me? Probably not. Family history doesn't seem to correlate to long lifespans. I'm the youngest in my family to have cancer. I'm the family's cancer pioneer.

Well, life's longevity may not be all it's cracked up to be, I tell myself. The key is to seize the moment and savor all the days we have left on Earth.

And to be less shocked.

I'm writing a book titled Calling the Shots: Coaching Your Way Through the Medical System. Please feel free to subscribe to this blog by clicking the orange subscribe button. I am a professional writer and have published numerous academic and magazine articles, as well as an essay on my breast cancer experience in the anthology Voices of Breast Cancer by LaChance Publishing. I can be contacted at bethlgainer@gmail.com and gainercallingtheshots@gmail.com.

Cancer Fallout

noreply@blogger.com (Beth L. Gainer) — Thu, 12 Apr 2012 15:05:00 +0000

For those Desperate Housewives fans, a storyline a few years ago featured one of the main characters, Lynette, having cancer. I cried watching her deal with diagnosis and go through chemotherapy.

However, when her treatment ended, so did the cancer storyline.

She was not only "cured," but she had no physical and psychological effects from the devastating disease and treatments. And guess what? Her husband and children put the cancer behind them, too. Cancer was so over, that it was time to move on to other plot lines of dysfunctional proportions.

We in the cancer world know better. We know that cancer -- whatever the outcome -- affects us for the rest of our lives. Like a nuclear fallout, the fallout from having cancer is huge. Storylines like that of the Desperate Housewives post-cancer episodes do the public a disservice: they teach us that if we are lucky enough to have the status of "cancer survivor," then cancer should be eradicated from our history.

Someone once told me that I had to "get over" this thing (meaning the cancer), as it was in the past. Other people told me how lucky I was to have breast cancer, the "good cancer."

What loads of sh*t.

To this day, people admire me for "beating" cancer.

Truth is, breast cancer has beaten me up pretty badly.

OK, it's a given that diagnosis and treatment were hell, so I'm fast-forwarding to what my "post-cancer" life is like. Overall, I am grateful to have survived thus far, and I enjoy each day, or try to, because I know how fragile life can be -- and I know how close I was to losing my life.

However -- not to sound ungrateful here -- my cancer treatments set off a chain of events: side effects such as significant bone loss, terrible abdominal and back pain from DIEP flap surgery, chemobrain, fears of recurrence -- especially when I have aches and pains, as well as psychological lows and flashbacks. And then there's that pang of fear that strikes me each time I have a follow-up with a doctor.

But I'm just expected to "get over cancer" because it's in the past.

Huh?

Why do people feel the need to sweep these experiences under the ever-so-tidy carpet of denial? Maybe it's because they want to live in a land where we all live in gingerbread houses.

Well even gingerbread houses rot.

Having cancer is like being on a doomed train. If the first car derails, there are repercussions for the other cars.

In the meantime, I will ignore the "get over it" and "it's in the past" comments and go on with what's left of my life. We only get one life on Earth, so it's our duty to live it to the best of our abilities.

For another post on the effect of a cancer diagnosis and subsequent treatment, see Nancy Stordahl's excellent post, Cancer and the Domino Effect.

What are your cancer fallout experiences? Has anyone tried to minimize your cancer experience? All rants are welcome.

I'm writing a book titled Calling the Shots: Coaching Your Way Through the Medical System. Please feel free to subscribe to this blog by clicking the orange subscribe button. I am a professional writer and have published numerous academic and magazine articles, as well as an essay on my breast cancer experience in the anthology Voices of Breast Cancer by LaChance Publishing. I can be contacted at bethlgainer@gmail.com and gainercallingtheshots@gmail.com.

Breast Cancer Diagnosis: The Prequel

noreply@blogger.com (Beth L. Gainer) — Thu, 29 Mar 2012 19:19:00 +0000

I enter the hospital for a stereotactic core biopsy on a suspicious mass in my right breast.

I leave the hospital having had a different kind of biopsy and an unofficial-but-pretty-certain diagnosis of cancer, the prequel to the official diagnosis two days later.

At the Core of the Matter

I am naked in my gown and am ushered into a cold room where I see a table with a hole in it. The hole is for my right breast. As I lay on my stomach, a nurse helps position my breast in the hole. The radiologist will be drilling into my breast to get a sample from the suspicious mass. Lidocaine is injected into my breast to numb it.

Enter the radiologist. Pardon me for stereotyping, but she doesn't look the part. She's a glam fashionista, wearing a beautiful dress and no doctor's outfit. I want to scream that this is a mistake, that this test is a mistake, that the mass identified in the diagnostic mammogram is a mistake.

But it's real.

She starts drilling away, and I feel pain. A lot of pain. And I tell her so. She seems surprised.

More lidocaine is injected into my breast. Oh joy.

She starts drilling again, and I still feel lots of pain. And I tell her so. She seems surprised. She asks me if I am sure I'm in pain.

Uh...uh huh. YES, I am in PAIN, I tell her.

More lidocaine.

More drilling.

More pain.

Finally, the doctor tells me it is unethical to continue with the procedure (er the drilling) with me in so much pain, and I've been maxed out on the lidocaine. In a blaming tone, she tells me I have to schedule a surgical biopsy. Then she abruptly leaves.

The staff slowly sits me up, and I make a mistake. I look down at my breast. There's a hole with blood pooling in it. It looks like a bullet hole.

I feel my eyes roll back and feel faint and nauseated. I almost pass out. Nurses scurry around me and lay me down on the table. They take my vitals and are concerned.

After ~~what seems like forever~~ some time has passed, a nurse puts a bandage on my gaping hole. The nursing staff is trying to schedule me for a surgical biopsy. I say I want to speak to my surgeon about it, and they say he never is in this area of the hospital on Wednesdays.

Just as they utter this, my surgeon appears. Out of nowhere. He has heard the elevated voices and wants to know what is wrong. They tell him about the failed biopsy attempts.

I feel like a failure.

The surgeon takes me and my then-husband into an examination room and closes the door. He tells me to sit on the examination table. I'm emotionally better and believe I don't have cancer. This is all a joke. I expect the surgeon to have reassuring words.

He says, "Forget about scheduling a surgical biopsy. I will do the biopsy myself. Now."

With my mind still reeling, I say, "But don't I need to schedule the surgery?"

He then says, "You don't understand. I can tell from your mammogram that this is probably cancer. I'm doing the biopsy now."

At this point, I physically feel the examination table going through the floor. I feel like I'm dropping into an abyss, and I am -- an abyss of terror.

The surgeon ushers my then-husband out of the room, and appears with a gaggle of nurses and assistants. They gently lay me down. He grips the scalpel, which I am not afraid of. After drilling, cut-by-scalpel seems pretty easy.

By now my breast is good and numb. As he is performing the biopsy, I whimper, "I don't want it to be cancer." But I know what I'm doing. I'm begging the doctor to tell me I'll be just fine. That I really don't have cancer.

But he can't say this.

However, he shows his humanity by saying, "I don't want it to be cancer either." Nurses are massaging my legs and holding my hand as he takes his sample.

Then he gently removes the bandage over the gaping hole and says aloud to himself, "I wonder if the breast is numb enough for me to stitch up that hole."

Wanting him to stitch it up really badly and tapping into my inner courage, I hear myself say, "Well, there's only one way to find out."

He immediately sews it up, and I feel no pain.

That night, I start making the phone calls telling people I probably have cancer. It gives me a head start. On Friday, my surgeon calls me at work confirming I do have breast cancer.

I'm not surprised, but I'm stunned.

He asks me if I want to come to the office to see him, but I tell him I'm at work and have a writing deadline to meet. After I calmly announce to my co-workers that I have cancer, I go back to writing. I don't react at all.

An hour later, my co-workers scurry around me, holding me tightly, for I am sobbing.

The reality has finally sunk in.

I'm writing a book titled Calling the Shots: Coaching Your Way Through the Medical System. Please feel free to subscribe to this blog by clicking the orange subscribe button. I am a professional writer and have published numerous academic and magazine articles, as well as an essay on my breast cancer experience in the anthology Voices of Breast Cancer by LaChance Publishing. I can be contacted at bethlgainer@gmail.com and gainercallingtheshots@gmail.com.

Adoption Story

noreply@blogger.com (Beth L. Gainer) — Thu, 15 Mar 2012 20:55:00 +0000

Referral Picture 1

I return home late after an evening of teaching. I have one voicemail message -- from the head of the China Program at the adoption agency. She asks me to call her back as soon as I can.

I had been expecting this call for the three years I was in the China program. And now I am scared, excited, and exhilarated beyond measure. I have heard rumors that the latest referrals are being received, and I know that this call means only one thing:

I am now a mother.

It is too late to call the head of the China Program back, so I will call in the morning. But the suspense and curiosity are keeping me up all night. My aunt has requested that even if I find out about being a mother in the middle of the night, I should phone her.

I have no problem honoring that request. A single person, I need someone to share my excitement with. Someone who doesn't mind being woken up to hear the news.

So I pick up the phone, and I wake her to tell her the news. We talk for hours. I pull up maps of China and obsessively read to her all about the province, hungering to be with the baby that fate has matched me with. All I know is she is from Nanchang, the capital of the Jiangxi Province in China.

Morning comes, and I speak with the China Program's director. She congratulates me and tells me that my baby girl has the chubbiest cheeks she has ever seen.

My baby girl.

Referral Picture #2

I receive information about her health, weight, and height and receive the referral pictures a couple of days later. The 9-month-old in the picture looks angry. She looks like a tough little girl.

But still, I am in love with her.

I am excited.

I am scared.

I wonder whether I will make a good mother and do right by the girl who is being entrusted to my care. Although from the referral picture she looks like she's got a chip on her shoulder. I think I'm in for a challenge, but I admire her seemingly apparent chutzpah.

Referral Picture #3

A couple of months later, in July, my travel group and I take the 12-hour flight to China. The head of the China program and a translator is accompanying us, a group of eight families, all yearning for their babies. I am the only single person in the group, and I am one of two people in our group going alone. Most of the people in our group are not first-time moms: I'm the only first-time mom who is taking the trip alone. I opt to go alone because I want the opportunity to bond with the child, for she will be inundated with family when we return to the US.

We arrive in Hong Kong and will fly to Nanchang the next day. For some reason, I'm not jet-lagged. The next morning, the day we are supposed to meet our daughters, I get a call from the head of the China Program. Apparently, there's a typhoon heading our way and we need to change transportation plans. We are now taking a train.

We take a train and then a bus to the hotel where the babies have been waiting. They have traveled through unbearable heat and must be hot, tired, and hungry, I think.

In a vestibule off the hotel lobby, they are handed to us. There is mayhem with the babies crying as they are placed in the arms of their new parents. I wait for my name to be called. I will meet my daughter in a few seconds. Then, suddenly, she is handed to me.

She is sobbing hysterically, looking at me often in disbelief, and simply frightened. As I smile for this picture, I feel overwhelmed with sadness for this poor child's grief. She doesn't understand what is happening. She had been attached to her previous caregivers, and now a stranger was holding her.

Everyone in the group goes up into an elevator and up to our rooms. Some babies have stopped crying, some are whimpering, but Ari is crying the loudest. (For the next few days, Ari cries every time we go in the elevator.)

When I get to the room, the baby punches my ear. Because it has a stud earring, it bleeds. Her referral pictures weren't lying: she is tough. I can't help but admire her spunk and spirit.

I lie the child on the bed so I can feebly try to open the bag of dry formula we received. Instead, I nervously rip open the bag, and the dried stuff spills all over the bed. I still have some in the bag, though, but I have already forgotten the proportion of formula to water. I do it all wrong. She refuses the bottle anyway.

The director and translator are making their rounds, and they get to my room. I'm nervous that the baby won't take food, nor will she stop crying -- loudly. The director and I strip the sobbing child to check for any injuries or signs of illness. She seems healthy. I put a diaper I brought on her, and it's too big. We dress her anyway and lay her in her crib, and she quiets for a moment. Then she starts crying again. Then she is quiet. She has fallen asleep.

My guests leave the room, and for the first time, I am able to get a close look at her. I study her face and her body.

She is beautiful.

Tears of joy fill my eyes, but the joy is short-lived, for when I brush her hand gently, she instinctively pulls it away from me. She doesn't want me touching her. She sleeps 12 hours, and I sleep in the bed next to the crib, getting a good night's sleep.

For four straight days, she cries inconsolably and constantly. She is the most vocal and unhappiest of the babies. I am stressed out, as I try all sorts of ways to calm her down. If I am meeting my group for dinner at six, I bring Ari to the lobby of the 5-star hotel we are staying in and wheel her umbrella carriage round and round the marble floors starting at 4 p.m. after she wakes from her nap. I tell myself that we are getting good exercise.

I am in emotional pain, for the only time she doesn't cry is when she is sleeping or being wheeled around the hotel lobby. She is shell-shocked and sometimes just stares into space, even when there's a program on TV. She stares through it all.

One of the government officials who interviews me for the adoption tells the translator that Ari is his favorite because she has spunk (yes, she angrily protests and cries the whole time).

Well spunk is a compliment to be sure, but it gets old around day 2 of a 14-day trip when all one's baby does is wail.

I bring her to the hotel's toy room, with so many wonderful toys. Ari is hysterical there. I have to take her out of the room. All the other babies seem to be settling into their routines, but Ari is having none of her situation and none of me.

In fact, she prefers to be held by others rather than being held by me. I feel helpless. Luckily, the Chinese people are wonderful. Restaurant staff, strangers in the street, and store owners watch over Ari and try to comfort her, albeit unsuccessfully. I write in my journal nightly and cry.

Other than the situation with my new daughter, I'm a hit in China. My three years of studying Mandarin have paid off. While I'm not fluent, the Chinese people respond favorably to my communicating with them in their own language.

Day 3 of new motherhood: Ari starts studying my face, studying me. She still cries all the time, but now she occasionally stops to consider me.

The evening of Day 4: Miracle! We had just had a long day of traveling in the heat and are getting settled down for the night. I blow a "fart" on Ari's tummy, risking more wailing. Instead, to my surprise, she giggles and looks at me with a knowing adoration.

From that day forward, Ari clings to me and hardly cries. She is a content baby who has finally bonded to her mother. On the flight home, she sits quietly on my lap for the duration of the flight.

Being Ari's mom is a pleasure. She has come a long way -- figuratively and literally. She is a sweet-tempered, kind, considerate little girl.

And she still has spunk!

Prankster Ari and me enjoying a light-hearted moment

I'm writing a book titled Calling the Shots: Coaching Your Way Through the Medical System. Please feel free to subscribe to this blog by clicking the orange subscribe button. I am a professional writer and have published numerous academic and magazine articles, as well as an essay on my breast cancer experience in the anthology Voices of Breast Cancer by LaChance Publishing. I can be contacted at bethlgainer@gmail.com and gainercallingtheshots@gmail.com.

Cancer is a Liar

noreply@blogger.com (Beth L. Gainer) — Sun, 04 Mar 2012 21:47:00 +0000

"Enjoy your daughter."

These haunting words came from one of my dearest friends. She had just told me that her leukemia had returned. She had reminded me how important it is to enjoy the blessings in my own life.

Our conversation reminded me how naive I still am about cancer.

I thought she had beaten the disease. I thought she had done enough to become a survivor. I thought that everything was going to be OK. After all, her brother participated in her bone marrow transplant. And he was a 100 percent match.

What are the odds of that?

Again, cancer fooled me into complacency. I thought she was in remission. That's what her doctors said. But cancer is a liar.

I should have known better. I should know that there is no cure, that cancer is ruthless, that cancer's insidious path knows no boundaries. That cancer is one cruel, ugly son of a bitch.

This February has been mild weather wise, but it's been especially dark and wintry to me. I teach my students that, in literature, winter is often the symbol of death. The month started with the deaths of Rachel Cheetham Moro and Susan Niebur. That would be enough to send anyone reeling. In fact, that sent all of us in the blogosphere reeling.

That same week, a friend of mine had to put her very ill dog down, and I stopped by her house to say good-bye to the dog I've known since he was a puppy15 years ago. More grief, more sadness.

And then a few days later, I find out through a beloved co-worker that her husband has melanoma that has spread into his lymph system and how they were going to "fight" and "beat" this thing called cancer. Uh huh.

And then, only a couple short weeks later, my friend tells me that her leukemia is back. So on leap day, February 29, she took her leap of faith -- with her first chemo infusion in awhile. She has to be hospitalized for at least five weeks. Luckily, her sister is also a perfect match for a bone marrow transplant.

Deja vu. That's exactly how her first treatments went, but she has a rare, aggressive form of leukemia.

I am distraught.

Did I say cancer is a liar? I won't be fooled into complacency this time.

I have been out of the blogosphere loop nearly all of February because of all these tragic happenings. I just can't seem to focus on the writing at hand. I remember losing my friend Faun to breast cancer, and thinking how I never wanted to go through something like this again.

Now the losses are like a major car pileup on an icy freeway.

With the exception of my journal, I often have writer's block. I can't express the depth of sadness, the abyss I find myself in.

It's getting more and more difficult to push through the sorrow. I know death is part of living, but why do so many people have to die young from cancer? Why is there no cure for this disease? Our society is all talk about eradicating this disease, but we don't walk the walk.

My friend who is now suffering from leukemia treatments in the hospital is such a good person. I surround myself with positive, good, kind folk -- in person and online. My friends are first-rate people, and now I feel I'm losing them one by one. It makes me feeling pretty beat up.

I promised my friend that I would enjoy my daughter, and thankfully I'm doing that. I have a renewed appreciation of the mischief in Ari's eyes and her smile and the wonder that is my child. Dear Ari: Momma loves you.

Dear blogosphere: I'm finally back.

I'm writing a book titled Calling the Shots: Coaching Your Way Through the Medical System. Please feel free to subscribe to this blog by clicking the orange subscribe button. I am a professional writer and have published numerous academic and magazine articles, as well as an essay on my breast cancer experience in the anthology Voices of Breast Cancer by LaChance Publishing. I can be contacted at bethlgainer@gmail.com and gainercallingtheshots@gmail.com.

In Memoriam

noreply@blogger.com (Beth L. Gainer) — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 13:50:00 +0000

Early this week, the world lost two incredible women to breast cancer, Rachel Cheetham Moro and Susan Niebur. These women's presence was deeply felt on the blogosphere, but most importantly, we in the online community came to regard them as friends.

We collectively mourn.

If you have not visited their blogs, please do so. I have provided the links above. Rachel's and Susan's blogs are filled with energetic writings about living with breast cancer.

Whenever I feel grief, I read the poem "In Memoriam" by Lord Alfred Tennyson, my favorite poet. It is a very long poem, but each word is important; in it, he works through his grief of losing a dear friend. I took a small excerpt that seems so comforting at this time.

"I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all."

So many bloggers have written outstanding tributes to these remarkable and brilliant women. Here are just some. If I have left anyone out, please feel free to put your posting and URL in the comments section.

Our Virtual, Very Real Friend Rachel by Jody Schoger

One Fateful Day in February by Nancy Stordahl

Susan and Rachel by Katie Ford Hall

For My Blogging Sisters by Stacey of Bringing Up Goliath

Rachel Cheetham Moro 1970-2012 by Gayle Sulik

For Rachel with Unending Love and The Same Love For Susan Just Hours Later by AnneMarie of Chemobrain...In the Fog with A.M. From BC 2 AD

Memory Pools from Ronnie of Being Sarah

I Spoke Too Soon by Renn of The 'Big C' and Me

Judging a Book by Its Cover

noreply@blogger.com (Beth L. Gainer) — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 03:45:00 +0000

During chemotherapy, I didn't lose my hair.

At the time, I was relieved.

But in hindsight, I wish I would have shaved my hair and eyebrows at the time. I would then have donned my bald head, forcing people to see breast cancer up close and personal.

Because my not losing hair caused many to turn a blind eye toward my credibility as a cancer patient.

While some people took my illness seriously, others did not. I looked like everybody else, so the ugliness of my disease was not apparent. These individuals should have been in tune with my suffering, but instead they perceived me as the poster child for the "good cancer."

The happy warrior.

The brave, heroic woman.

The every-stereotype-you-can-think-of happy cancer patient.

With my full head of hair, people could ignore the physical and emotional toll that breast cancer and its treatments heaped upon me.

Many told me I looked good (the standard, albeit awkward, line) -- but truth be told, I did look good. I had my hair, my eyebrows, my eyelashes. Oh, and I lost all that weight. Some told me they envied my figure. A few insensitive dolts told me how grateful I should be that I didn't lose my hair.

Yes, I. should. be. grateful.

I had a full head of hair. What else could a gal with breast cancer ever want?

Never mind I endured a grueling treatment of chemo and radiation during the same time period; never mind that while my particular chemo regimen didn't target my hair follicles, it targeted my digestive tract and I felt I was imploding; never mind that my cognitive dysfunction (aka chemobrain) caused me non-stop distress; never mind that it was so hard to put one foot in front of the other when walking slowly; never mind that I was beyond the point of illness; never mind that I had to be rushed to the hospital; never mind that I was scared of dying young.

Damn, I looked good.

Because people tend to judge a book by its cover. If you look well, you are well. And I looked very well, indeed.

I am not trying to diminish the experiences of people who lose their hair during treatment. I imagine it must be horrifying, and if it had happened to me, I would've been upset. I'm just expressing another point of view, one of a person whose treatment did not result in hair loss. The viewpoint of feeling isolated and diminished by others who didn't "see" me as ill.

And I want to end with a terrific quote from a recent Nancy's Point posting, where author Nancy Stordahl sums up the hair issue for those of us who did not lose hair from cancer treatment:

"I’ve discovered that hair loss is a sensitive topic even for those with cancer who have NOT lost their hair. Really, how can this be you might ask?

If you have cancer and still have your hair, you can’t really be all that sick, right?

Don’t you have to 'look sick' to really be sick?

Wrong."

Did anyone perceive you as not being sick even if you were? Feel free to share any of your or loved one(s) experiences.

I'm writing a book titled Calling the Shots: Coaching Your Way Through the Medical System. I am a professional writer and have published numerous academic and magazine articles, as well as an essay on my breast cancer experience in the anthology Voices of Breast Cancer by LaChance Publishing. I can be contacted at bethlgainer@gmail.com and gainercallingtheshots@gmail.com.

Lost in Translation

noreply@blogger.com (Beth L. Gainer) — Thu, 12 Jan 2012 16:27:00 +0000

"Diagnosis"

I wrote this piece the year after my double mastectomy with reconstruction. Before my surgery, I was already grappling with body-image issues due to a lumpectomy-disfigured breast. I thus decided to enroll in a figure-drawing class to help me work out these issues. I would then interpret the drawings that seemed to translate to breast cancer and convert these sketches into oil paintings. I anticipated that this exercise would heal my psyche after the double mastectomy, but I was in for a surprise, as this narrative relates. The oil paintings are my own works of art.

I’m sketching a nude female in my figure drawing class. Each pencil stroke evokes waves of grief and despair. Tears flood my eyes, and I no longer see her clearly.

Just as well.

Pre-double mastectomy, this model was my favorite one to sketch. She has full breasts and a sculpted athletic body. She is better than a supermodel – she’s the Super Natural Woman with a Shakira-hips-don't-lie body. Boasting distinguishable shapes and forms, she is an artist’s dream.

A year after my reconstructive surgery, I finally feel physically and emotionally well enough to go back to class.

Or so I think.

Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch. Students are frantically drawing. Some male students are greedily eyeing her. Between her poses, they even converse with her. She laughs, tossing back her head with confidence. Renewed grief and envy roll down my cheeks, as I think of my extensive torso scars.

I'm not exactly a work of art.

I fidget at the easel, lost, wondering if the model appreciates her body, wondering if she feels lucky that she still has the breasts she was born with. Wondering why I can no longer remember what my life was like pre-cancer diagnosis.

I tell myself I should be feeling happy; after all, I’m alive. That I should be grateful for the energy to draw again, let alone be back in art class.

I reluctantly glance back at the model’s breasts and wince, as I recall that a double mastectomy was not my original choice at diagnosis years ago. I had opted for a lumpectomy plus radiation rather than a mastectomy. Until faced with the choice of whether to remove my breasts, I had never realized how important they were to me. I wanted to keep them. My doctors would monitor me closely, and there would be ample routine follow-ups.

But my follow-ups were anything but routine.

My doctors and I had not anticipated the many false alarms during the years following my treatment. We also could not anticipate that, in my case, mammograms and other diagnostic tests would prove inconclusive – thanks to my dense breast tissue. After all, a mammogram had missed my tumor just months before diagnosis, and my self-exam helped me discover the malignancy. I had already slipped under the medical radar once. Given my breast cancer history, keeping my breasts was akin to playing Russian Roulette.

So now, after a year of recovery and physical therapy, I find myself back in my figure drawing class. Yet, from the time the model removed her robe, I feel awkward. I feel

like a fake

like a fraud

like a freak show

I was created in a plastic surgeon’s image of what a woman should look like. While cancer didn’t steal my life, it robbed me of my authentic breasts, replacing them with doctor-created substitutes. To my plastic surgeon, my breasts are art – his artificial creations made to look like the real thing. And I'm his living sculpture. Before surgery, he drew marker lines all over my torso. I admired his wonderful sense of line at the time.

Now those lines are forever etched into my flesh.

I realize, though, that, like my doctor, I’m an artist. And that struggling with a drawing is much more pleasant than struggling to stay alive. I breathe deeply, close my eyes.

"Hoping for Hope"

I made the right choice, I tell myself. I should be grateful, I tell myself. But today is not the day for gratitude. Today is the day for a pity party.

Break time. My fellow students walk out quickly, hoping to catch a snack, smoke, or bathroom pitstop. I'm having a panic attack and having trouble breathing. I quickly snatch my pencils, pad, and gather my other supplies and make a beeline for the exit.

My instructor stops me and asks why I'm leaving. I tearfully tell her that she's a great teacher, but I'm having body-image issues. She understands.

As soon as I arrive home, I run to the dresser mirror, I slowly peel off all my clothing, so delicately as if I’m made of glass. No one would ever want to sketch me, I think.

I crawl into bed and cry myself to sleep.

Do you have body-image issues as a result of breast surgery?

How did/do you feel physically and/or emotionally after surgery?

I'm writing a book titled Calling the Shots: Coaching Your Way Through the Medical System. Please feel free to subscribe to this blog by clicking the orange subscribe button. I am a professional writer and have published numerous academic and magazine articles, as well as an essay on my breast cancer experience in the anthology Voices of Breast Cancer by LaChance Publishing. I can be contacted at bethlgainer@gmail.com and gainercallingtheshots@gmail.com.