Turn, Turn, Turn

Today is Janet’s birthday. I ‘ll celebrate her by carrying on her memory and life’s mission. She wanted more, much more, for folks living and dying of stage 4 metastatic breast cancer.

Just last week Paul and I were on a kinder open house tour – and I saw a lady with a beanie on. Clearly no hair underneath (this wasn’t for fashion or style – this was chemo). I made a point to join her tour group so that I could talk with her and let her know I’m in her tribe. I was ready to flash my freshly revised port scar and all! As I approached her from behind, she turned around and faced me, I was taken aback, it was my friend Julie (was it a badge of honor that I knew the cancer lady on the school tour? Ugh, I dunno, maybe?…probably not, I’ve lost all sense of perspective at this point).

Julie is living with metastatic disease. She’s my age (ish) and has a daughter Nora’s age. Her life is very different from mine, yet exactly the same. She’s a mom. She’s going on kindergarten tours. She’s trying to figure out the lottery system for her child — same as me. BUT, she has to do all this planning wondering how long she’ll be on this earth – will she be here to watch her child go to kinder? 1st? 2nd? 3rd? You get the point. I want to scream, kick and shout for her.

So then, we continue on with the tour. Paul and I trying to picture our kid(s) at the school, marveling at the dance studio and art room – but I couldn’t stop putting myself in Julie’s shoes. The pit in her stomach as she walked the halls wondering how long she’d get to see her child grow and learn.

It’s GD heart wrenching. I hate it. I hated stealing glances at her on the tour knowing exactly what she was thinking. I wanted to scream like both of my toddlers do every.single.day. THIS IS NOT FAIR. ITS NOT FAIR. SHE’S BEING CHEATED. HER FAMILY IS BEING ROBBED.

All I can say is stage 4 needs more. It’s not just a cute hashtag. Please please please do what you can. No matter how little, because it matters. If you’re able, donate HERE.

To everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time to every purpose, under heaven
A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep
To everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time to every purpose, under heaven
A time to build up, a time to break down
A time to dance, a time to mourn
A time to cast away stones, a time to gather stones together
To everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time to every purpose, under heaven
A time of love, a time of hate
A time of war, a time of peace
A time you may embrace, a time to refrain from embracing
To everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time to every purpose, under heaven
A time to gain, a time to lose
A time to rend, a time to sew
A time for love, a time for hate
A time for peace, I swear it’s not too late

 

IRL

 

You are exposed. And unconscious. And it must be difficult to trust. I honor you, Dear One.

My job is to help your surgeon take away the cancer. I get a bird’s eye view of the process. The surgery begins and I feel your warm skin through my gloves. I wonder what stories you already have and the ones that are yet to come.

We carefully remove your breast. It never gets easy to see or to do. You must know this. It never feels natural, it never feels cavalier. It feels sacred to me. Every. Single. Time.

Julie posted this amazing article from a nurse in the OR during a mastectomy. It feels appropriate to re-post in celebration of all of us who have undergone this trauma. Breast cancer is not the easy cancer. We are cut up, amputated, re-amputated, disfigured, chemo’d, radiated and on and on and on. Some of us die. Some of us live. Whatever the outcome, the disease is forever seared into us, our bodies and our loved ones.

It’s a really hard road to walk. I’m forever grateful for my community of amazing BAYS folks who hold me up (and who I try my very best to return the favor to). NONE of this is cosmetic. NONE of us elect to do this.

This article is a beautiful tribute to all of us who have had to chop or slice our boobs and/or breast tissue off and deal with the aftermath. I don’t want to speak for all of us, but my chest is forever changed, Not in a good way.

I’ll post more about my surgery and recovery in the coming days. I find it easier to talk about when I have some distance — so bear with me!

For all my new non-cancer friends, NOPE. Saying crap like “oh you’re so lucky, you got a boob job” or “you get a new new rack” is SUPER OFFENSIVE – please just bite your tongue and stick to “I’m holding space for you”  or “sending you love and light” or “I’m so sorry you’re dealing with this, how can I support you?” – those are the most non offensive things you can say – BUT pah-lease don’t say shit about “how lucky I am to get boob job” (sic), for the love of christ. It’s super ignorant. So sad that 7 years in I’m still dealing with these IGNORANT comments. UGH. BLECH. BARF.

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Janet

It’s hard to believe I was just sitting with you on your couch 72 hours ago. Talking about deep and heavy things, as well as perfectly mundane stuff.  You taught me so, so much. In the way that you lived and the way that you died.

Your memory is a blessing. I’m privileged to have known you. May you rest in peace.

In a Hurry
Janet S.
I want to see, touch, do, taste, smell, feel everything. I want to go everywhere, walk the earth, climb the mountains and snowboard down. Try everything at least once.
Lots to do, I’m in a hurry. Not much time left. How long do I have before the cancer makes it impossible? Narrows the world to just my room, my doctor’s office, the hospital? I don’t know, I can’t know.
Time wasted planning for a future I don’t have. Working to save for a family I will never have. No more, I’m here now to experience everything. To dance and sing and laugh around the world and at home.
But, I can’t do it all. No lifetime is enough to experience everything. To watch the sunrise from space.
I will see, touch, do, taste, smell, feel everything I can. In my lifetime, however long or short it may be. And it will be enough.

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