Essays

Photo by Rene Asmussen on Pexels.com

Four years ago when facing the terror of a breast cancer diagnosis, writing became a salve for me. I journaled, chronicling the many things I found overwhelming. Over the course of two years I wrote the equivalent of a memoir I called Grit and Grace. My first foray into a writer’s workshop was with essays selected from that narrative. I received so much support and care for the words I’d written, I kept going. Four years later I’m still writing and submitting new work. Those early pieces about chemo, losing my hair, and general unravelling… allowed me to examine my new reality, giving me the chance to heal and move through.

I wrote a lot about family. My history is complicated, and for many years, I didn’t know the half of it. Secrets and decaying bones were the legacy left to my brother and me. We were fortunate that our five half sisters allowed us to dive deeper into the musty trunks of our family closet. Deep dives require breath holding and patience. To move forward, sometimes you have to take steps back. Family Adrift is a snippet of that experience.

I encourage writers to explore what makes them want to write. For some, it’s an escape… to build new worlds where we have control. For others, it’s to stand up for something… to make a declaration. And for some, it’s so personal, no one else will see the words they write. Whatever the reason you write, just keep doing it. Let the process transform you… even when you uncover unexpected hard truths, as I did when I wrote Ungrateful and Unthankful.

Once I wrote I’m not grateful and I’m not thankful right now on the page, I could sift through the muck of those feelings. But first I had to own those feelings. There are no right and no wrong feelings. You feel what you feel.

Because you write them down, does not mean you have to share them with another living soul. They’re for you. Sometimes we need to reckon with those stark realities and we can’t do that if we keep them festering in dark corners.

Family Adrift

We had a sailboat, an old Surfwind – like a Sunfish, only bigger, with blue and white sails. We didn’t sail in Cleveland but hauled that boat to Michigan every summer where we kept a cottage on Glen Lake. It felt idyllic. Dad loved to sail.

He’d disappear onto the water for hours. Sometimes we’d go with him, but he preferred the solitude of a quiet sail. Decades later, a little wiser, I understand why he craved time alone. His life was far more complicated than I ever knew – he needed time to think about the scattered puzzle pieces of his life. He was more than just a father to my brother and me. He had another family…. only we never knew until he told us, as he lay dying from metastatic prostate cancer. We didn’t know he’d been married before and had three daughters with that first wife.

We didn’t know he chose to give them up.

I didn’t know of their uprooted lives after he left. I didn’t know he left because he felt betrayed by the woman he married. Marriage to a traveling salesman is its own peril. But I didn’t know any of this.

I was unaware of another family line – 3 daughters, 7 grandchildren and great grandchildren. I had sisters and cousins… none of whom I’d recognize if they walked up to me.

Why all the secrecy?

My mother is the why.

She demanded he give up his previous family and that Rich and I were never to know. And despite all the ways secrets can leak, this one stayed hermetically sealed. We never knew… until that fateful afternoon when he called Rich and I into the study where we’d set up a bed to care for his cancer-riddled body.

I learned their names, where they lived, and most shocking – that they knew about us. He gave us their contact information, begging us to keep things quiet from mom. Sadly he didn’t live long enough for me to ask more questions. The cancer had spread too far and he had only moments of clarity from the narcotics keeping him somewhat comfortable.

He gave us the gift of knowing before he died. I think he wanted us to connect with our sisters… and the rest of his family, including his siblings and cousins who we had no contact with.

To me, as a child, my dad could do no wrong. He was my knight. He could make all the hurt and pain of adolescence go away. He was the voice of reason when mom was anything but. He didn’t play manipulation or head games. His greatest joy was rough housing with us and being outside, feeling the sun on his face, watching as our beagle mix, nose to the ground explored every inch of ground between our house and the park. And sailing…

Only years later was I able to grasp the loss his other children felt when he left them. I found pictures of him with my half sister’s and their children. It’s surreal to realize the man you’ve known all your life, has another story, another life. I couldn’t picture him sharing a sailboat with other children. But he did. I never imagined him picking up his daughters, swinging them around and calling them special nicknames, like he did with me. But he did.

I was his Peach.

Since his passing, I’m grateful to my sisters. I’m touched by their kindness and generosity, despite the lies and deception enacted by adults who should have known better. We chip away at those untruths and continue talking… We wish each other happy birthdays and send Christmas cards. When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, they pulled me in, and supported me with calls and notes and love. We’ve built a relationship, sharing stories… and remember the flawed and wholly human who was our dad.

It’s taken half a lifetime to recognize the fragility of our boat and tenuous lines tying us together. They haven’t cut us loose. They’ve pulled me and my brother in, like a sail and now we can face into the wind, together.

This Too Shall Pass

Photo by u0415u043bu0435u043du0430 u041au0443u0437u0438u0447u043au0438u043du0430 on Pexels.com

Every time I think I know the lay of the land, things change. Mountains rise in front of me where I’m not expecting them. I lean forward, pushing my heels into the earth and hike upwards. The things I thought would bother me don’t seem so bad. The anticipated ick of chemo – no taste buds, bit of nausea, exhaustion, loss of more cranial peach fuzz – it seems okay… even, manageable. Truthfully, the anticipation of losing my hair was far worse than the actual head shaving experience. I’m getting used to things – sort of.

Then I lost feeling in my fingers – that’s the neuropathy they warned me about. More numbness – not painful – just dull. After my first surgery, I have little to no feeling in my upper torso and back. I run into things all the time. My proprioception (word of the day) is impaired. I don’t quite understand it, as my vision isn’t the problem. I just keep bumping into the sink, the wall, the table – and I don’t know why. Numbness aside, I do feel the straining muscles in my stomach from the d-flap reconstruction surgery, as I hunch over.

During this trek up Kilimanjaro, (breast cancer diagnosis, treatment and recovery), I’ve been subjected to all manner of indignity. You think when you get breast cancer, you’ll be cradled and cared for. Truthfully, most days, you are. Some days – well, let’s just say, you’re shocked how fast and low you can tumble. One minute you’re hiking through montane evergreens, the next you’re sputtering, gasping to catch your breath in the icy waters of a creek bed. The day prior to surgery, I met with the plastic surgeon. Had I known what I was in for during that appointment, I might have opted to take my chances with the cancer. (Not really). To cut right to it, I underwent a mortifying photo shoot – squeezing into teeny-weeny string bikini panties (blue, if you care) so they could develop a reconstruction plan, like This Old House. Glad Bob Vila was nowhere in sight. I should have screamed “NO!” but didn’t. I stuffed myself into dental floss masking as “panties” and stood in front of the assistant as she photographed me… from every God-awful angle, revealing every flaw and roll of fat tumbling over ridiculously miniscule undies. The only other thing I was wearing were pink fuzzy socks they’d given me to keep my feet warm. So thoughtful…

I joked with the photographer relying on humor to help me through the horror of it. But if I’m honest, I shouldn’t have been put in that position and know I should have refused to put on the damn panties. They could have offered various sizes or told me to wear simple briefs. Shoot, I’d have felt less exposed standing there buck naked. This is not the time to shame women when they’re about to lose a vital part of their bodies.

My old breasts fed three children, despite the challenges of inverted nipples. Sorry folks if this is TMI. I struggled as a new mother to breastfeed. But I persevered, attached myself to a masochistic breast pump while watching endless episodes of Bonanza, to ensure my babies got the health benefits of my colostrum and sedating effects of the occasional glass of wine. When my third child finally latched on without much trouble, I remember the surge of joy and pure love as my infant son looked up into my eyes, smiling as he suckled. I miss those moments.

Breast-feeding nostalgia aside, the old boobs had to go. Standing in my baby blue dental floss, Dr. S. returned and took a bright blue sharpie to me, marking me like a Jackson Pollack canvas. He told me what he’d shave off, shape up and rebuild. I was a lump of clay and he, the sculptor. I felt like a blob of fat, not a piece of art.

Even after the surgery, I’m conflicted over this new body I’m walking around in. Sure, I look better. My belly fat was used to construct new breasts. Pretty ingenious, really. It’s still me, and the cancer’s gone. I know that’s the most important thing. But could there have been a better way?

I’m grateful to be cancer free, but it’s been a long road – a twisting, obstacle-filled road where things were thrown at me and I had to swerve to avoid crashing or running off the road all together. I found myself in the ditch a few times, but I met others there.

Now I’m dealing with the challenge of chemo. I’m retaining what feels like a camel’s hump of fluid. My left hand and arm continue to swell from lymphedema. My fingers are puffy and pale, like the Pillsbury Doughboy. My face is splotchy with hints of teenage acne. Even my eyelids are swollen – really? Didn’t know this was possible but I look like a character from a Tim Burton film. My appearance has changed so much my own iPhone doesn’t recognize me. I have to punch in my passcode each time. I could go on – dry, itchy skin, acute sense of taste – everything’s too salty or too sweet. And then the total loss of taste as the chemo kills off my taste buds. Daily gastric distress, aching muscles…. And I know, this too shall pass, as my obstetrician reminded me years ago when my young children were fraying my last nerve.

This too shall pass. Just need to persevere a few more weeks, then a final round of chemo to ramp things up. But I’ll be okay. Lots of people have been up this mountain and survived. I’ll keep writing and processing this science experiment I’ve become. Each day brings a new experience – something new to examine. Is that the start of a camel’s hump on my back? That must be where all the water’s going. At least I’m a Dromedary and not a Bactrian.

I’m a shit show, but I’m still here. I’m surrounded by people who love me and keep me sane. They lie and tell me I look good. I know better but appreciate their kindness and generosity. Friends come by with magazines and goodie bags of puzzles and word games. Others get me up for walks – even short ones – to be sure I see the sun. My teenage children check on me, even abasing themselves to watch bad TV with me.

My husband cooks and cleans and walks our pack of mongrels. When I first came home after surgery, he took care of my multiple drains, emptying and logging the milliliters of fluid I continued to secrete. I felt like a voodoo high priestess donning shrunken heads, as they were looped on a piece of elastic around my neck, while I showered.

To say I wasn’t always grateful for his gentle ministrations and patience is an understatement. I’m not a silent sufferer. I spit venom, claws out when I lose control over things – especially bodily things. It’s difficult to feel grateful and loving when retching over the toilet or coming out of the shower with handfuls of hair. But my John – he smiles sweetly, makes a stupid joke and before I know it, I’m laughing – murderous thoughts and hatred gone. Or at least suppressed until the next degrading moment. And that’s how we get by… one moment to the next.

Last weekend we came up to Clifford (our farmhouse named by our daughter because it’s red and full of dogs). We bought the house a few months back and it needs work. We’ve been fixing things up, slowly. John decided we needed to mount the deer heads gifted to us by a friend, Sharon. Over the years I’ve used Sharon’s hunting spoils as educational biofacts for wildlife talks I present at schools around the city. We have two large deer heads and it’s time they hung in a place of honor. John and our son, Sam hung them – one over the fireplace and another on an adjacent wall. Neither is centered or well-placed. The larger, more impressive buck is on a side wall, looking at you from wherever you are standing in the room. The smaller one – the one Sharon told me I could not hang in a place of prominence, due to its wonky antlers, is over the fireplace, off-center, looking somewhere left of center.

John stood back, admiring his handiwork and smiled to our son, nodding. He could see me cringing in the corner, fighting to keep my ungrateful heart and judgmental mouth shut. He put an arm over my shoulders, not meeting my eyes, pulling me back to get a good look at his artistry.

Hugging me close, he whispered, “Honey, some places have Feng Shui. We’ve got Fuck Shui.”

I laughed so hard, tears poured from my eyes. I look at those deer heads with new appreciation. Yup, we’ve got Fuck Shui – something off kilter and out of balance. From my altered taste buds and newly shaven head to steroid driven cravings for eggs … nothing’s quite right. And it isn’t supposed to be. I still have rocky mountain roads ahead with another surgery around the corner after chemo. They’ll likely make me wear those damn panties again. Maybe this time I’ll say no. Right now, I feel particularly Fuck Shui – mentally and physically. It won’t last forever, but for right now – that’s where I am. And that’s okay.

Fuck Shui at Clifford

Post script: This piece was published in Adanna Literary Journal, Nov. 2023

Another Brick in the Wall

(Note: I found this image on Pinterest and the words started writing themselves.)

Moss slippery, crusted with bird shit, clay crumbled, rigid rectangles. Unlike the large, colorful Jenga game on the sunporch, if you remove one of my bricks, I fear I’ll collapse. Each brick integral to my overall structure and stability, despite the messy make-up. I appreciate their blocky durability, sharp edges, unyielding. Even when they rub and bruise my tender flesh, I refuse to let any go.

Why can’t I seem to rid myself of unnecessary things, like pencil stubs worn down to nothing? They’ve served their purpose and now I should let them go. I’m afraid of the hole left behind. Is that why childbirth traumatizes? It’s not just the pressure and pain of growing and releasing a being. There’s loss – the hole plugged for a time – filled with moving parts: heartbeat, blood, sinew and muscle. Later, a gaping wound while those moving parts move on, without you. But you’re overly occupied with the external management of things and forget about the abyss left in birth’s wake.

As I stand here, assessing things, I hold tight to my remaining bricks. Can’t afford to lose any, even if they don’t serve me. I hold onto them like old Christmas cards, Grandma’s chipped flowery China and love letters. They define me: who I was… who I am… who I might be…. Can’t bear to be without them. They keep me tethered to the here and now.

I need these bricks of memory,

bricks of history,

bricks of life – to hold me in place.

Fear of flying…Flying is for my children. Not me. I must be anchored so they’ll have a haven to return to – something consistent…

knowable…

safe…

That wasn’t my experience the first time I flew. When I jettisoned for new horizons, new perspectives, new everything, I gave up home. I released its hold on me, rarely to return. Maybe it was always there – but it shape-shifted into something I didn’t recognize.

Or maybe that was me.

My childhood home feels small – chaotic, dusty and sad. The faded green velvet chair where my mother’d sit each night, waits… The clink of melting ice in her vodka in one hand and a cigarette dangling from the other… words slurred and sloppy, eyes misted over, runny and red. Pat Sajak screaming out for another letter. Every night… starting at five.

But there are other images too. Cherry Jello popsicles dripping down our chins. Saturday mornings with Wylie Coyote and Bugs Bunny, followed by Dad’s special lemon zest and spiced pancakes. Sweat and sun-drenched summers spent running the neighborhood til fireflies flickered. Our yellow Plymouth station wagon bulging and hooked precariously to the sailboat trailer for the ten hour drive to Glen Lake. Lots of mishaps in ten hours. Lots of cigarette smoke. These are the bricks of my upbringing – the crusted clay rectangles that formed me into the person I am today.

I’m a mother, a wife, a sister, a daughter – so many things to others. But what am I … to me?

Writer?

Explorer?

Dog whisperer?

My bricks are a mess of all these things and I can’t bear to give any away.

Some days they’re heavy and awkward to haul around. Some days I forget about them – unconcerned if I’ve lost a few. “Matter is neither created nor destroyed” – echoes from high school physical science class. Nothing is ever really lost or gained – so what does it matter?

It matters. Zen, I am not.

I compare my bricks to others. Does she have more? Are their bricks better or nicer than mine?

Sometimes I hide behind them, wishing for invisibility.

I want to blend in like the jewel-toned tree frog perched on the emerald palmetto spine. I’ve learned to slip into shadow, delicately balanced… always watching…

Wishing for…

Another brick in the wall…