YOU DON’T HAVE TO FIND OUT YOU’RE DYING …

Well, this past weekend, I met a lot of amazing friends, sistahs, and soul mates at Ladies Rock Camp Boston  – most of them had no idea what was going on in my life prior to meeting them. So, I’m going to do a quick shout out here.

 

My friend Raven just posted a note on my Facebook: “Who did people look up to before Liza came along?”  This is incredibly touching because when Raven knew me, I wasn’t exactly the nicest, kindest person on the block. I was catty, petty, competitive, and focused more on pushing others down so that I would seem taller.

 

I’m definitely a work in progress. I’m not as kind as I want to be. Not as forgiving as I need to be. And not as confident as I have to be. But I know that my life has changed for the better. 

 

And, it really started with this little girl right here. 

Joli and Jorge at Girls Rock Boston 2012

Back in 2003, my incredible husband, Jorge, and I were living the dream. Good jobs. Good money. Nice apartment in New York. New baby. Even when we moved to Massachusetts, we were experiencing so much success. We just bought a house. Our families were growing. And, our careers were really taking off.

 

Then, one day, we found out Joli had cancer. She had just turned 2 years old, and our world came crashing down on us. We had no warning. No net. Nothing to shake us from this nightmare.

 

But, as I reflect on that day, our world wasn’t turned upside-down at all — it was finally turning right-side-up. 

 

On that day, and each day since, we all became more loving. More kind. More generous. More compassionate. We began to see that life really did change on a moment’s notice, and that we had to find ways to express love more than hate; kindness more than pain; joy more than sadness. We began to see that when we helped others feel taller, we felt taller, too. Not a small goal for a 5’2″ chubby gal…!

 

We aren’t perfect, and many times we forget these lessons. But, overall, our glass is not just half-full — it’s always overflowing. We found that the more love we put out there, it always multiplied back. And, the beauty of it all is that it came from family, friends and strangers. 

 

It’s that outlook that got us through chemotherapy, a removal of her eye, and lots of diagnoses and doctor’s appointments since then. It got us through my sister’s cancer, my own BRCA diagnosis, a bilateral prophylactic mastectomy, an upcoming oopherectomy (removal of my ovaries), a skin cancer scare, and even some other genetic diagnoses that I’m still just not ready to confront yet. 

 

Once I began to see that cancer was the greatest gift our family had ever received, nothing could stop us. Nothing could stand in the way of believing that “what we create is far greater than what can destroy us.”

 

Joli’s endurance through her cancer treatments, how she deals with bullying, and even the ways she sticks up for others when doing so isn’t popular, reminds me that cancer didn’t rob her of her vision or her health.

 

Cancer gave her a heart.

 

And, through all of that, she gave us a little bit of soul. 

 

Peace, love and remembering “You don’t have to find out you’re dying in order to start living” (Zach Sobiech, RIP)

 

Liza

 

 

 

IF YOU WEREN’T AFRAID

Some of life’s best outcomes happen as a result of being afraid — and going for it.

In the summer 2012, my cancer survivor daughter went to Girls Rock Campaign Boston for a week. She was terrified. She hadn’t played the keyboards beyond learning a few notes, hadn’t gone to a camp in another town, and was worried if the girls would notice her prosthetic eye. When we pulled up to the doors, we were greeted by lots of women, tattoos up and down their arms, electric guitars and drum sticks in hand, and incredible energy. By the time she left that camp 5 days later, my daughter was on stage playing her first gig.

If you’ve been following this blog for a while, you know that the past few years have been a series of scary decisions for me: cancer prevention, bilateral mastectomy, doctoral program, parenting, public speaking, auditioning, putting out solo tracks, running, body image — to name a few. And, in many ways, even just writing those down for everyone to read has been terrifying. Most of my life, I’ve been obsessed with what others thought of me, and blogging under my real name has been my way of overcoming those fears.

For years, I knew I was a singer. And, I have written about my own struggles with confidence.

This past weekend, I had the incredible gift of participating in Ladies Rock Camp Boston — an unbelievable experience where women come together to encourage one another, build each other up, and support the hell out of each other. Nearly all of the women attend camp without having any instrumental experience, lots of fears and self-doubt, and looking for a community where people believe in them.

This weekend, I was one of them.

It brings me to tears (no, not just the post-gig-buzz talking) when I think of what this weekend has done for all involved. Personally, I was surrounded by the most loving, kind, and kick@ss women I have ever met. Socially just. Inclusive. Beautiful. Strong. Fearless women. Dedicated to changing lives.

Within three hours of arriving to Camp, we formed bands, learned instruments, wrote music, wrote songs, rehearsed, and became friends. Twenty-four hours later, we were in dress rehearsal.

By Sunday, we were on stage as “RockSteady” — five women who were loving life in a way we hadn’t before.

When I first saw our video, (explicit lyrics y’all!) my old fears and doubts came back:

“I look like a glittery sausage.” (body image)

“That rap was corny.” (songwriting doubt)

“My voice sucked.” (singing self-doubt)

“Everyone’s going to laugh at me.” (fears of being judged)

 

Well, at Ladies Rock Camp Weekend, I learned to say “F*ck It.” F- all that self-doubt. That hate talk. That loud voice in my head that tells me I’m not good enough to be watched, loved, listened to. That I’m not good enough to be strong, beautiful, fierce, and courageous. I’m done apologizing for all of that stuff — for all of the ways in which I don’t feel perfect, good, strong, and worthy. I’m done apologizing for all the ways in which I get in my own way.

 

Because, Ladies, we all believe, that WE ROCK!

 

 

Thank you to all to incredible women at Ladies Rock Camp (Girls Rock Campaign Boston). I needed this so much, and I love you all forever.

 

 

Peace, love and f’ing rock and roll,

Liza

 

COUPLE

I have this terrible habit that I must break. 

Wake up. Open eyes (barely). Extend my arm above my head and bang around the top of the headboard/shelf a few times. Feel the hard case of my mobile smart phone. Bring phone within 1-inch of my face because I can’t find my glasses. Enter password. Click on “Facebook”. Check for notifications. 

 

A newer, better version of Liza would and should do the following instead:

Wake up. Sing joyfully at another lovely night of blissful sleep. Give thanks for the air I breathe and the privileges I have each day. Inhale deeply and start my day with intention. And glide graciously throughout the rest of the morning with a smile on my face. 

 

Nah…. back to the old Liza:

 

This morning, my “notifications” read “18″. Eighteen?? Seriously?? What the heck is going on in the world today? 

 

Still groggy, all I saw was “Angelina Jolie” and “mastectomy”. 

 

I lied. 

 

All I saw was “Jolie” and “mastectomy.”

 

I nearly threw up. 

 

Nine years ago, my husband and I gave birth to a beautiful, premature, and strong baby girl. Combining our two names together, we came up with “Joli.” As we introduced her to the rest of the world, people sent us cards with “Welcome to the world, Jolie!” People who weren’t sure what her name was (“Did she say JUlie? Was it JUliA? Did they pronounce it Zhooh-lie? Was it JOE-LEEE?”). I often said, “Joli(e) like Angelina Jolie.”

 

Throughout her life, my daughter’s name has morphed. JOH-Lee. Jo-LEEE. Most days, she’s just Jo or JoJo. 

 

When I told people about the (Angelina) Joli(e) part, I said it was because Angelina Jolie is this neat blend of bad@$$, beautiful, humanitarian, kinda weird, mysterious, and unafraid combination — all qualities I had hoped for my own daughter. Back in 2003, Angelina Jolie seemed to always be in the news. She had just released Tomb Raider and her film career was in swing. Two years later, the news would follow her and Brad Pitt around and the Brangelina days began. 

 

I was less interested in the tabloid gossip about her life and more humbled by her global engagement. Folks can judge why, how, or for what reasons she adopted so many children or married Brad Pitt, or I dunno, kissed her brother on the lips, but frankly I wasn’t that interested in the drama. She was, and still is, a pretty kickass woman.

 

There is plenty of news out there about Angelina Jolie’s coming forth about her BRCA1 genetics and her decision to undergo a bilateral mastectomy. You can read plenty of it online and likely catch it on a news show (I’m guessing she’ll do the talk show circuit or something, too). So I’m not going to spend time here writing about it. 

 

Marathon b4 Mastectomy has always been a place where I wrote openly about my experiences as a BRCA previvor. It has also been a place where my kids can go back and read what it was like for me.

 

And, I’ve done it with the full knowledge that they all have a 50% chance of being BRCA1 as well. 

 

That one day, in case I forget what this was all like, they can go back and see what it was like for me. 

 

Though they share the same genetic mutations, my children won’t need to read the Angelina Jolie version or the Kara DioGuardi version. They might find more comfort reading about their mom, they aunts, their mom’s cousins, and one day, maybe, have to write their own.

 

This is why seeing the words “Jolie” and “mastectomy” took my breath away. It was a glimpse — perhaps — into the next generation of writers. 

 

Like many who tweeted, retweeted and shared on Facebook, I, too, sent a message to Angelina Jolie. I thanked her for coming forward and welcomed her to the club (cue club music and flashing disco lights!). 

 

I’m not naive. She won’t read it. She won’t even see it. 

 

BUT, I DID SEE YOURS. I saw the many messages, Facebook tags, emails and texts you sent me today. I saw the smiles on the faces of people I ran into at work — a place where I have been openly BRCA for 3 years now.  And, an extra bit of joy filled my heart when BRCA previvors — who found strength through this blog — felt a little less alone today. 

 

Today, you called me a hero. A superstar. That I “was famous for this before Angelina Jolie was”. And that I had “always had a lot in common with Angelina Jolie, now I have even one more thing.” And that, “Angelina Jolie may have made it public to the world, but Liza Talusan was the first one to tell me about it.”

 

To know that this blog has touched the lives of so many is humbling. To know that this blog has raised your own awareness about BRCA has meant that we are all — together — changing the world.

 

Because of you, we are not surprised by BRCA anymore. Because of you, we embrace the tough choices people have to make about surgeries, prevention and recovery. Because of you, cancer caused by BRCA can be detected early or even prevented. 

 

Thank you for being on this journey with me.

 

You are my Brad Pitt. 

 

Together, we are a power couple.

 

Peace, love, and bad@$$ery,

Liza

 

 

 

MOTHERING

Happy Mothering Day!

My husband and kids have gone way out of their way to make me feel incredibly special (including a “coupon” book from my kids that included a day without complaining, 1x make my own lunch, pick up the living room, rub Mom’s back and my favorite — “no farting during dinner”).

 

All day, I have received beautiful messages from friends, classmates, former students, and current students who have thanked me for being an inspiring mother or being someone who served as a mother to them. I even received a message from a Marathon B4 Mastectomy reader who wrote, “Thank you for your blog. Because of your words, I have been able to talk more about my own journey with my family and my kids. This has made me a better mother.” Thank you, reader, for taking the time to write this. I am so very grateful.

 

I am far from the perfect mother. Most days, I’m more like the Perfect Storm – swirling around, rocky waves, lots of yelling, and the occasional sharks. 

 

But, I do know that I have mothered some really awesome kids. We have many, many, many things we could and should do better. We have more bad moments than good moments. But, those good moments – they are really good. 

 

This list is possible because of the role models I have in my own life — mothers, non-mothers, and all sorts of folks in between. Thank you for shaping me and my own approaches to mothering. 

 

TEACH DIVERSITY. Okay, okay. This was an obvious one. But, people, I mean it. TEACH diversity in your homes and in your lives. We are way past the “I/my kids are colorblind” and the “My kids don’t notice difference” days. I’m telling you — you aren’t colorblind and yes, they notice difference. Our job is to assure them that different is just fine. That different isn’t anything less. It’s just different from you. And, guess what — they think you’re different, too. 

So, if we can accept that different is just fine, then let’s move to DIFFERENT IS NECESSARY. Teach your children that different is interesting, that different is worth understanding, and that different is worth embracing.  We do this by talking about it together. Let’s stop “shhhushing” when kids notice. If they see someone who is blind, and they say, “Look Mom! That person is blind!”, shhhushing them only signals that they shouldn’t have noticed. Instead, say, “Yes, I believe that person is blind.” If your child actually says something unkind, then address that it is unkind.

When my daughter Joli lost her eye to cancer, we still had to go about our daily lives — grocery stores, out to eat, etc. I’ll never forget the one time we were in a grocery store and she was riding in the cart (she was only 2 years old). A child, just a few years older than her, screamed out “MOMMY!MOMMY! THATGIRLHASNOEYE!!!” The mother looked at us, pulled her child away, and shhhhhhshed him. That made Joli and me feel terrible. Ugly. Freakish. That probably made the little boy feel like he couldn’t notice. 

What would have made this better (and I’m only speaking from our own experience)? If the Mommy had responded, “Yes, she does. And she’s beautiful.” Hell, if that mom had reacted that way, maybe I wouldn’t have cried in the middle of the grocery store. Maybe I wouldn’t have felt terrible. Maybe my daughter would have felt affirmed, beautiful, and worthy of love. Instead, we felt ashamed, angry, hurt, and afraid. 

 

Today, my children are amazing. When they see someone who is different, they smile. When they ask me, “Mom, why is that guy’s body like that?” I say, “I’m not sure. But, I’m glad you noticed him. Would you like to smile at him?” Sometimes, I’ve said, “Well, we’re all different.” 

My children aren’t afraid of differences, and it’s my hope that their reactions to difference help others feel good about theirs, too. 

 

DON’T SET THEM UP FOR FAILURE. We all learn in increments, and oftentimes we treat our kids as if they should just know it and do it. Lots of times, I have to remind myself that they are 9, 7, and 4. “They are just kids,” I tell myself when I’ve expected too much. In my work as a director of intercultural affairs, I give the analogy of building a house. When you build a house, you need lots of permits, documents, and blueprints before you can even start building. Then, you’ve got to do a ton of digging (only if you’ve already gotten permission) and then set a foundation. Only after you’ve set the foundation can you actually start building UPWARDS. If you don’t set the foundation, the house comes down. 

 

Take the time to build the foundation. Even before that, take the time to get the permits, the documents and the blueprints. Learning takes time. Our job is to make sure that learning happens so they can be successful. 

 

SET THEM UP FOR FAILURE. Kids need to fail. They need to know how to manage defeat, how to reflect on what happened, and to come up with a solution for dealing with the consequences. Do this with them. Not for them. Teach them that the lessons from failure are as important as the cheers of success. 

 

SHOW GRATITUDE. I’m thankful that my children have “manners” — nearly all of the time, they use please, thank you, May I?, and know how to behave in different situations. But, even when they forget to “use their manners”, I know that my kids know and practice gratitude. Gratitude is an act of appreciation. Gratitude is an act of acknowledging a relationship. Gratitude is an act of connection. Gratitude is an intentional show of support. 

At the end of each day, my kids share their “happy and their crappy” — the parts of their day that brought them joy and the parts that weren’t as good. If their happy had to do with a specific person, I follow up with “That was very kind of that person. What do you appreciate about that person?” or “Sounds like it didn’t feel good. Was there a way it could have happened differently?” By the end of the night, just before bed, we give thanks for both the Happy and the Crappy parts of their day. It helps them to understand that our days will be filled with both and that we are grateful for the many lessons we learned today. 

 

IF YOU NOTICE SOMETHING, SAY IT. I’ve spent most of my life talking about bystander behavior — the act of seeing something and not saying anything. We often do not say anything because we are afraid, because we just don’t care, or because we don’t know what to do. When I conduct workshops for adults on intervening when they see something (e.g. acts of bias, bullying), they often respond with, “I don’t say anything because I was taught to mind my own business.” Well, I’m teaching my kids that our business is always intertwined. We are all part of this small world, and we need to treat each other like valuable members of this world. So, if you see someone being bullied, say something. It may not always be to the person doing the bullying. Maybe you say something to the person being bullied like, “How are you feeling? Are you okay?” or “I noticed they weren’t treating you nicely.” I don’t tell them to always get involved with the perpetrators unless they are ready to; I believe the most important actions are often with those who are vulnerable.

I absolutely believe that our interactions with the most vulnerable are often the greatest markers of our character. 

 

ADMIT TO THEM WHEN YOU ARE WRONG. It took me a long time to admit I was wrong. It took me a long time to admit that I was scared, unsure, and in need of support. But, I think these are the most important lessons my kids are learning. I’ve especially learned this after I have lost my temper or yelled at them. It almost always ends with a 1:1 conversation about my behavior, what triggered it, and how I felt. I spend time asking them how they felt when it happened and really listening. I want them to learn that conflict is real and that we can negotiate it together. 

 

 KNOW WHEN TO TURN IT OFF. 
I have a lot of roles: mom, wife, chauffer, doctoral student, singer, writer, programmer, speaker, diversity educator, anti-racist parent. These identities are all integrated. But sometimes, all they need is for me to be a warm body. They don’t need me to have a dissertation or business cards or a blog. They don’t need me to have a playlist of recordings or a calendar of training workshops. They don’t need me to be a diversity educator or social justice advocate. They just need me to be there. They just need Me. 

 

And, as I hear the beckoning calls of “MOM!! COME KISS US GOOD NIGHT!!” at 9pm on Mother’s Day, they need me. To be Me.

 

Happy Mothering Day to all out there, and thank you for reading along.

 

Peace, love, and every-day-is-Mothering-Day,

Liza

 

LIZTERVENTION

My sister Grace is often the target of our teasing. In fact, our family has even created words based on my sister’s antics:

 

• Gr-emory: Grace + memory: Grace’s fictional recollection of how an event took place
• Gr-iction: Grace + fiction: What Grace ends up writing after she’s had a conversation with you
• Gr-iagnosis: Grace + diagnosis: what happens when you tell Grace you have a stomach ache and she comes back with “It must be tapeworm.”

 

“I’m so glad you’re feeling better. We were planning a LizTervention,” she tells me as I sit in my car at the mall eating a Pinkberry frozen yogurt. I had just finished texting Grace that it was the best day ever — my mother-in-law was visiting and staying with the kids, so for the first time in months, I snuck out and bought an ice cream all by myself. The sun was warming the inside of my car, and the tart taste of the frozen yogurt with the sweetness of the strawberries, alone, melted the tension in my body.

 

My family had plenty of reasons to want to stage a Liz-tervention. My body was physically reacting to stress. Now, if you’ve been reading these blogs for a while, you’re familiar with the fact that I love stress. I do. I thrive in stressful situations. I feel most useful when my to-do list is a mile long. And, I love the adrenaline of juggling 20 different tasks.

 

But, after nearly 4 months of doing just about everything in my life and the lives of my kids, my body had enough.

 

Just three weeks ago, I had a surgical procedure to remove a potentially cancerous mole. The procedure left me with a lengthy scar that crossed my already sensitive post-mastectomy breast. My body — already maxed out — began to attack itself.

 

It started out as an irritation just around the scar. Then, the red scaly dermatitis spread all over my breast, interfering with my already sensitive scar. My chest muscles became like dried out rubberbands, limting my range of motion and causing throbbing pain up through my back and shoulders.

 

On top of all this, I had major deadlines at school, work, and with the kids. Two of the little ones developed fevers. The oldest one was growing anxious about all the yelling and crying in the house (both from the little ones and from me!). I tried to react the way I usually do — kick it into survival mode and get through it.

 

But, my body had enough. It had nothing left to kick. No survival mode to switch into. And nowhere to go.

 

My body began to attack me.

 

Within a day, I was covered in hives. From my finger tips to my toes. All across my chest, back and stomach. Up and down my legs. And even on my scalp. I was covered in hives. My chest was getting worse, and now I had nothing to give to get better.

 

One evening, I asked Grace to come over. At 6:00pm, I yelled over the screaming children that I was going to take a nap downstairs. I took Benedryl and went to my bedroom. The next thing I knew, it was 6:00am. The house was quiet and still,  and somewhere in there, I had lost 12 hours of my life.

 

Grace came and went, and I was left to fend for myself again. The hives came back as soon as I started the morning routine. By Friday, I was getting my stitches out and headed home from the doctor with medications to help ease the pain.

 

“Your hives might feel better,” says the doctor. But the Gr-iagnosis was “Liza, you need to rest. You need to let yourself heal.”

 

Turns out she was right.

 

My mother in law came for a week. I slept. Ate some good old home cooked Puerto Rican food. She took care of the kids, made sure they were bathed, fed, played with, and answered all of their questions. She did all of the laundry, took care of the dog, and stayed up late and woke up early with the kids. All I had to do was get out of bed on time, go to work, and come home.

 

It was an inverse reaction, really: the more sleep I got, the less hives I had. 

 

As I talked through this LizTervention with Grace, I began to realize what I really needed. Contrary to people’s good intentions, I didn’t need to give up things. People often tell me, “You just have to cut things out of your life, Liza. You have to turn invitations down and just say NO.” Frankly, I don’t think that’s what it is. I love what I do. I love my kids. I love our crazy schedules. I love feeling wanted, needed, and admired. I love getting invited to speak at other colleges, to know that I was engaging people in my work, and receive the positive feedback afterwards.

 

What I don’t have is the opportunity, daily, to just take a time out. I have no opportunity to be alone, to recharge, or to just create a few minutes of distance. From the moment I get up until, well, the next moment I get up, I am serving others.

 

For me, the solution isn’t cutting back. Rather, it’s finding those few minutes to focus on me. 

 

When our own bodies turn against us, it’s a reminder to slow down and to focus on healing. In some ways, I have been afraid to do that — I’ve known that life is short and unpredictable. But, rather than trying to cram it filled with things-to-do, it’s time I start enjoying it, breathing it, and savoring the more quiet moments.

 

It’s not going to happen immediately for me. I’ll still love the thrill of working at 100 miles an hour, the adrenaline of facilitating workshops, and the rumble of applause at the end of a good day.

 

I’ll just also make sure that there is time for me, too.

 

Peace, love, and interventions,
Liza

 

Mark of Courage

It’s not the stitches that are freaking me out – it’s the darkness.

 

For the first time since November 18, 2010, I have a dark circle in the middle of my breast. Just one breast. The one that had the potentially cancerous mole. The one that now has thin, course, spikes poking out of tightly tied knots at the base of my skin. During the procedure, I felt a burning sadness — one that reminded me of the small space when the Ativan seemed pointless and the anesthesia began to take effect. I was reminded of the team of surgical residents pulling apart my velcro compression bra, muttering, “Looks good. Looks good. Looks good.”

 

I knew they weren’t talking about me, the indents from the oxygen mask still outlined the lower half of my face.

 

For 2 1/2 years, I’ve grown accustomed to my breasts. “Breast mounds,” I told my brother when I lifted up my shirt to show him the contact inflammation. “Geez, Liza. Flash me much?” “It’s not like they’re real breasts, dude. They are more like ‘silicone-with-skin’.” That didn’t seem to make it any better. I guess it’s kind of shocking when your older sister decides to just rip open her shirt and show you her battle wounds.

 

For 2 1/2 years, it’s been hard for me to think of these silicone-with-skin mounds on my body as “breasts.” They don’t look like breasts. Don’t feel like breasts (well, actually, I don’t have any feeling due to nerve damage, so that statement is only partially true).  And, with the football-like stitching from arm pit to arm pit, they don’t have any similar surface qualities as breasts.

 

Until this week.

 

At least, one of them does.

 

My best guess is that I developed an irritation to some cheap gauze that I had purchased. Once I changed my hospital bandages and replaced it with these store-brand bandages, my skin became angry-red and inflamed. I’m talking blistery red. It took me a day to figure this out, and in the meantime, I trapped my skin under these bandages and caused quite a bit of damage to my skin. Now, 5 days later, the skin is beginning to heal and moving from that Angry Bird red to a mellow merlot.

 

The kind of color I used to have. When I had breasts.

 

Shortly after my surgery in December 2010, a wonderful woman who I had met on the cancer listservs sent me “tattoo nipples.” They were outstanding. I applied them just like the ones my kids have of fairies, Spiderman, and Pirate tattoos: peel off the plastic, put the tattoo side on the skin, and stick a wet washcloth over it for 30 seconds.

 

The first time I put the tattoos on, I rolled on the floor laughing. Thankfully, my wacky sister Grace was with me, and we just had a grand old time. We put different colors on our bodies and made people in my house look at us. But, in that quiet moment when your stomach just can’t laugh anymore and you let out your last, exhausted sigh,  I felt myself grow sad. The only way I would ever see my breasts look like, well, breasts, would be if I put on a stick-on tattoo. Aside from undergoing additional surgery, this was my new reality.

 

Until today.

 

Within a few days, the dark skin irritation will fade. My skin will go back to its light, uniform brown, and my mastectomy scars will once again be the featured mark. But, this time, there will be a new scar. A scar that replaced where a mole once lived. A mole that may have, maybe, forced my life into a new direction. A new journey. A new adventure.

 

I check the website every day — sometimes three or four times a day — to see if the pathology report has been posted. I know it won’t be. I can only hope that on Friday, the day my stitches will be removed, that my fears and worries will also be snipped away. That the words, “it was nothing” will be how I am greeted behind the courtesy curtain. And I can move on.
With the faded mark of courage to remember.

 

Peace, love and still waiting,

Liza

 

THE BODY REMEMBERS

It’s been almost 2 1/2 years since my bilateral mastectomy; and since then, I’ve become a collector of scars. In the space between my collarbone and my belly button, I have 10 reddish-brown scars.

And, on Friday, I added my 11th. 

Now, this week has been particularly difficult for me. I have had a number of school assignments, work deadlines, conferences, a singing gig, and a grant proposal for a graduate assistantship. My kids had their own homework, my after school babysitter came down with a nasty flu-like bug, and our full-time babysitter is leaving for a month.

Now, I usually thrive in stress, deadlines, and unexpected tasks. But, this week, my body and brain shut down. I cried nearly every day this week. And, while officially taking a “vacation day” and locking myself in my office to write a paper, I had an anxiety attack. A full blown one. I was paralyzed in my desk chair, my hands were shaking, my heart racing, and I knew I only had a few seconds to text my husband and a close friend “About to have a panic attack. But, don’t worry, I’m safe” before the muscles in my hands went limp.

I have only had 2 panic attacks my entire life, but I knew what was coming. I kept breathing, tuned into the voices of my co-workers who were outside of my office talking about their Easter weekend plans, and repeated to myself, “This will pass. This will pass.”

After a few minutes, I felt my arms again and I pulled a set of headphones out of my bag, booted up iTunes, clicked on my “paper writing” playlist, and banged out 8 pages in 60 minutes. I wrote and wrote and wrote. Furiously. Focused.

I’ve been writing 12-25 page papers for the past two years; my body knew what to do. 

The next day in class, I couldn’t hold it together. I was looking forward to the distraction of my brilliant cohort sisters and professors, and even managed to pull together a 15-minute presentation. And, though I was entirely unprepared for the day’s discussions, I held my own.

By 4:00pm, the cement walls of the public university classroom were replaced by a well-lit beige walls in a comforting waiting room with the Ellen Degeneres show playing on the flat screen TV. My doctoral classmates became surgical residents. The seminar desks became the padded table with a slim covering of crinkly, white, disposable paper.

“This won’t take long, Liza, only about 15 minutes. Once we remove this mole, we should hear back from the pathology department in a week or so.”

It would take as long as my powerpoint presentation that I had thrown together for my AM class.

I am terrifically used to hospitals, doctor’s offices, and paper gowns. I no longer draw the courtesy curtain that separates the entry door from the table; they’ve seen it all anyways. And, I almost never pull the front of my gown closed.

As she prepared the small, metal tray that held various scissors, gauze pads, and suture kits, I made small talk with the nurse, asking her about her plans for the weekend, the food she was preparing for Easter dinner, and how she missed dressing up her kids in matching outfits for Easter photos. I shook the doctor’s hand when she walked in, joked about how she had “saved the best for last” on a Friday at 4:45pm, and assured her that I didn’t care about the scar she was adding to my collection. I joked that she should autograph it when she was done.

And, as I laid back on the table and drew my hair into a ponytail and tucked it under my neck, I slowly raised my hands above my head and felt the easy pull of my muscles along my silicone breasts. “I should really make an appointment with a physical therapist,” I thought as I struggled to keep my elbows parallel to the floor.

I flashed the doctor and nurse a “let’s do this” smile and inhaled.

But, in that small, exact moment when the inhale breath turns around and leaves the body, I began to sob. Timidly at first, but soon uncontrollably. I felt the doctor’s hands on my breast, marking the cut-lines around the mole she was so gravely concerned about when she saw me just a few weeks ago.

I apologized profusely, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m so sorry….”

“Your body remembers, Liza. It remembers this same feeling. It remembers being drawn upon, pushed, moved around. It remembers, even when you think your mind has already forgotten.”

As she moved the anesthetic needle in and out to numb my skin, I cried harder. Instead of numbness, I felt pain. I felt tiny little knives piercing my skin. I knew it was sleepy nerves deep within that had not been touched since November 2010.

Even after the anesthesia had settled, the pressure of the silicone on my tissues was unbearable. I could see the top of my doctor’s knuckles as she carefully moved along my skin. Closing my eyes was worse — when I did that, all I could focus on was the sensation of feeling nothing.

I had been in denial about this procedure for weeks. I didn’t prepare for help. Didn’t prepare for what it would feel like. I didn’t even prepare for coming home — I had parked a 1/2 mile away from the office thinking “What a beautiful day for a walk”; never realizing that I would have to walk to the parking garage, my face tear stained, my eyes swollen from crying, and dodging the end-of-day commuters on their busy walk home on the streets of Boston.

When I finally reached my car, I cried more.

I called my sisters and cried more.

Came home, and cried more.

And, when I finally looked at the compression bandage on my chest, I sat on the bathroom floor and cried more.

Today, when I changed the bandage in the shower, the act of pulling off the tape brought back those tiny little knives. Touching the tape sent nerve endings firing; separating the clear lining from my brown skin nearly brought me to my knees.

 

It’s a strange sensation — the combined feelings of numbness and pain — and nearly impossible to describe.

But, it almost seems foolish to try.

Because no matter how well I try to recall it, there is no need.

 

The body already remembers. 

first smile after a day of crying

Bandages. Again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Peace, love, and waiting for pathology,

Liza