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May 14, 2008

When Your Body Goes Bump in the Night (and Day)

When you haven't had cancer, it's much easier to blow off slightly disturbing bodily symptoms. When you have, every creak is a burglar, ready to take off with your grandmother's silver and your life.

So it's especially difficult to sift the ordinary creaks from the ski-masked freaks. Whenever I feel bad for calling my doctor for help, I remind myself that there must be way bigger hypochondriacs than I, calling daily even though they are technically stable and fine, and that my call every three months is not such a bad thing. But still. I save my calls for when I'm really wigging. Like now.

Ok, I've got: a cough that won't go away. Plus I went to a new GP who did some tests: I'm anemic, have a "trace" amount of blood in my pee, and lost three pounds in the week I waited for my lab results. All explained by one non-cancer thing or another? Possibly. But then today (and the gentle readers can leave now, this is kinda gross), I had a white-ish stool. White and then gray like clay. So I did when any self-respecting health-obsessed lunatic does: looked it up online.

And I was actually expecting the Mayo Clinic site to be like, chill yourself, it just means you ate a lot of vegetables yesterday. But it didn't. It--and the 8 or 9 other sites I just went to--all say to get your pale-stooled tushy to a doctor, stat.

So I called, only to be reminded that they're not in till 9am. I already have a CAT scheduled for the end of the month. And a Dr. Z visit. But now all of that seems terribly far away. Frak.

My shrink asked me the other night (pre-white stool) what my intuition had to say about my health ("Not your over-analyzing mind," he said just as I was reaching for my web of worry). And I said, "I'm probably fine. But I'm freaked out." Today, I don't feel probably fine.

Today, I feel freaked out. And it reminds me (again), that my time could be limited here. (I know, I know, any of us could get "hit by a bus" yadda.) And if it is, what does that mean? And if it is, what did I do to make this happen? It's because I'm not exercising much, isn't it? Maybe. It's because I'm still carrying around my lil pocket full o' unexpressed anger, right? Possibly. It's because I ate New York Super Fudge Chunk recently (yes, a pint, but over a week), no? Ok, probably not.

I guess this is my over-analyzing mind. But the main question is not a bad one: What if I do have limited time? What if I am dying a little faster than everybody else?

I have no great answers. I will call the doctor at the stroke of 9am, I will take a shower, get dressed, go to work, complain about work, do my work, procrastinate my work, and then leave my work to come back here and maybe clean some of the dishes that are haunting me. I will not write my book today, probably. I will not "live like I'm on fire," probably. I will not tell people some of the deep, true things I've been meaning to lately. I will get through.

And I will breathe. And I will take my 4pm meditation break with E. And I will call a friend or two. And play some Scrabulous. And enjoy what I can of the sunny spring day out there.

May 02, 2008

Evan Handler, Cancer, and Me

I've made a decision to get back to the proposal, and am having an awful time of it. I sound fake, hollow, and insincere. I sound like a really bad kid actor trying to impress you with big, phony tears. I feel like, fuck, maybe I can't write, maybe I have this incredible burning desire to write this book to the exclusion of nearly all other desire, but maybe I just can't do it. It's an awful, terrifying feeling.

So I've been trying to at least osmosify by reading and absorbing scraps of other people's apparent ability to get past their don't-do-it demons. So I went to Evan Handler's reading tonight at Barnes & Noble. The one across from the Tower Records that is now, what? Empty? A "flagship" for porno teen clothing? Dunno.

He read from his new book, "It's Only Temporary; The Good News and Bad News About Being Alive," a collection of essays mostly about his ordeal with leukemia in his 20s. I read "Time on Fire"--his wrenching earlier cancer memoir--at the behest of my agent (is she still your agent if you haven't followed up in two years? and never signed a contract? or gave a finished proposal to her?). And loved it. I wrote about it on the blog here and a couple of years ago Evan found it and wrote me a cool letter, part defending himself (tho I loved the book, I fear I was a tad obnoxious, never dreaming he'd read this), part talking about illness, and part complimenting me on my writing. I lost the email in the Great Harddrive Crash of aught-six.

Anyway, so I went to see him tonight and he read and was moving and funny and best of all, nakedly real. Just the thing I'm struggling with. Because I want people to like me so damn much, I can't squeeze out an honest sentence.

Oy. So it was great to hear him read. And people asked questions after, the first being, and I shit you not, "When does the next season of Californication start?" Ummmm. Lady, meet Google, Google, Lady. WTF? Another question was about whether he was excited by the Sex and the City movie. When Evan gave a perfectly palatable, but non-gushing answer ("the movie will do fine with or without me, I'm pushing my book right now"), she pressed him, "But it's SUCH a big movie, and here in Manhattan, aren't you EXCITED?" He replied that he was indeed but, "maybe not as much as you want me to be."

I couldn't bear it. Here, the man just wrote a gut-spilling book about cancer, confronting mortality and becoming a true, whole grown-up and they're asking him what they could get from a freaking TV Guide? So I raised my hand and asked him about something he mentioned at the start. He said he eventually came to gratitude. I asked what the mechanism was that made him feel grateful for his disease. He said it was a good question (at least the competition wasn't too steep), and a hard one. And then I have no idea what he said--except the word "psychotherapy"--because I was too busy calming down from having spoken in public to a writer I admire.

But I'd actually like to know the non-Barnes & Noble book signing answer. How, if it doesn't come right away, do you develop gratitude for something that sucks so badly. For something that yes, maybe makes you a little more interesting, but essentially is a life-long scar down the middle of you. I mean, maybe it is easier when you know you're cured, a word I will probably never hear. But probably not when you've been to the deepest hell and back and lost so much.

It's probably hard to snuggle up to it and say, as I wish I could, "Thank you, teacher. Thanks for enlightening me and allowing me to appreciate life better." Instead of "Goddamn, you again. Making me get another CAT scan even though I'm allegedly fine. Making me question this cough as a potential sign of relapse. Making me feel like my body is sort of enemy territory, or at least hosting sleeper cells of assholes who don't care about me, who only want to reproduce, if only I'd let them, if only they could get through.

I'm so tired of feeling like I should have learned something. Not that I'm like Seinfeld: "No learning" was one of the shows mottoes. I would, in fact, welcome some learning. Some evidence of growth, compassion, or at least self-honoring.

Today I was listening to Terry Gross (Fresh Air podcasts are reason enough to get an iPod. As are the Savage Love podcasts--I love sitting on the train, looking normal amongst my fellow commuters, while Dan is illuminating the finer points of teabagging). Today, or yesterday, she interviewed a psychologist, author and quadrapeligic who's not feeling so hot lately. Terry asked, "What's it like for your career to be taking off while your body is failing?" He stopped her and said he didn't feel like his body was failing. He said he actually appreciated his body for all it had been through, that it had been such a trouper all these last 30 years. It had been through so much and carried him through life anyway.

Terry graciously took the correction, seeming to appreciate the distinction--just because your body isn't feeling well, that doesn't mean you have to be mad at it. It was beautiful. He said, "Exactly. I just like to say that my body is getting tired."

He expressed a similar affection for his incredibly anxious mind, the mind that keeps him up nights with panic attacks. He said it was like an old friend.

There's something so tender and gorgeous in that, in loving your uncontrollable body and your crazy thoughts, no matter what they're up to, because hey, you're still here and that is huge. That is enough for you to love them.

PS: After the reading, I had Evan sign his book. He was warm and completely didn't remember emailing me, but I'm still glad that I introduced myself. Maybe just the handshake will give me the completion cooties I need to write the proposal.
(You know, maybe the ability to complete a task is contagious. Maybe.)

May 21, 2007

New York Magazine

The pink and green dot

So, New York's cancer survivor issue is out. I'm a pink and green dot on the cover in the upper left, under the first "V" of the "W," and there's a teeny portrait of me with my name on the inside, page 31. Right next to Andre, the young guy with the great hat. I look pink, but like something has happened to my eyes. But they're fine, really. If you're looking as closely as I am, which you're not.

I'm cropped out of the online version, so you'll have to grab the real thing to see my moment of pixelated glory. But here's the story to get you started: The Survivor Monologues

May 17, 2007

LOHAS, Cancer, and Me

Hi from cloudy California. Just wrapped up a whirlwind conference, chock-full-o-schmoozing, green inspiration, and demi-celebs. I'm beat.

Overheard: Young woman on phone: "So many guys here are gorgeous and environmentalists. It's great."

Saw the founder of Breathe, spent nice time with my old Breathe boss, matched up lots of names to faces and said hi to familiar ones while sipping organic wine and Green-tea-inis sweetened with agave nectar. Also splashed around in my Holiday Inn Express hottub, walked over to disgusting Venice Beach boardwalk, indulged in free mini spa services, listened to Ed Begley and Mariel Hemingway and Billy Blanks. It's so nice to step away from the computer and talk to people for a change.

Anyway. The New York magazine fact-checkers called. The cancer survivor issue will be out next week. So keep an eye out for my little face-dot in the group photo. I'm in pink toward the back. I'm guessing my eyes are closed, as usual.

It's so funny talking to LOHAS-y people I know in a professional context. I suspect there will come a time when my survivorship will become more integrated in my professional persona as I write about it more. But for now, it's the odd thing, like a secret. People ask about my "path" or "mission" and I leave it out, sticking to my spiritual pedigree stuff. Which is fine, appropriate, but I think I'm not just leaving it out for all the ordinary reasons of not oversharing and professional boundaries. I think I'm leaving it out because I really don't want to have to make something up about how changed I am from it. It seems to disappoint spiritual people if you don't say cancer changed your life for the better somehow—that you're more grateful, alive, yadda.

I'm resistant to thinking of it as part of my spiritual path at all. Because it's nothing I chose, it's just something I went through with as much peace and bravery as I could muster. Just like millions of other people do all the time. I'm no more spiritual now, and I'm not doing the things cancer survivors are "supposed" to do to stay well. I mean I eat ok but not great. Maybe I just don't want to be grilled about a regimen that doesn't exist, one that I'm not exatly proud of not existing. One that someone in my job, with my career, should have in place. The yoga, the meditation, the cardio three times a week, the green juices daily, the supplements.

So without all of that, it's just easier to leave it out, at least until I have something to be braggy about.

May 13, 2007

Cancer Graduation Time

Well, Dr. Z said I have "graduated." Two years, babay! Two years of it being all-gone. Cat scan was "perfect," bloodwork, also, "perfect."

This means I only have to go to that building with the dying people and the getting better people, and the in-between people and their guests TWICE a year. TWICE! Like, hey tyke, no more training wheels, you go, girl. And I only have to be injected with radioactive goo ONCE a year. Upon my "woo hoo!" Dr. Z said, "Well, you're glad, but I'm not sure how I will bear it." I heart my doctor.

Speaking of graduated, I went up to my high school's alumni day yesterday with T. It was lovely and sunny and sweet as it almost always is those days. I get pangs of missing myself around every corner. In the meeting room I remember how I learned the sound of my own truth (in addition to some under-pew groping, of course), and what it's like to be in a community of people all doing their best to care, even when they're bratty fucked-up adolescents. It truly seems like a miracle to me, that place. That there's this incredible oasis two miles north of the city, that I found, and that saved me. The Quakers aren't big on anything so flashy as miracles, but it feels that way, even in the simple meeting room with shiny new wood floors.

I could tell whether people knew I had been sick by how they greeted me. "You look great," was weighted somehow, drenched with meaning that wouldn't be there if they were just commenting on my complexion. A few people asked how I was doing and I was glad to give the good report. Saw my first love there, looking distracted and distant, there with his adorable daughter. Sigh. I think if I could bottle that sweet want-less yearning we all feel for our first loves, I would. I'd dab it behind my ears whenever I was feeling rootless and sad. Even if the reality now has nothing to do with what was then. Because it reminds you of something that seems so pure and easy, even if it was just pure pheremones and wasn't actually easy at all. Ya dig?

Anyhoo, waiting to become famous; New York magazine did a photoshoot of New Yorker cancer survivors a few weeks ago. The turnout was way less than they had wanted, but we all lined up in Tavern on the Green, winding through those crazy mirrored hallways full of reflections of crystal chandeliers to have our individual portraits taken by hot gay photo assistants who looked more suited to snapping Kate Moss than us ordinary survivors. I felt dowdy and frizzy and nervous. Clearly the Asian 24-year-old hottie will be featured, as will the 30-something cuties in the red polka-dotted dress and jaunty scarf. But not me, it was clear from the photographer's face.

The real photographer was yelling at the assistants, "When do you shoot someone below the neck?! When do you do that? Raise it up, raise it up!"

I milled out onto the patio when other people's stories started to overwhelm me and I met Max, a cool survivor gal who liked my lotus ring. Then we were all herded onto Sheeps Meadow. The day was sunny and a bit windy and warm. The cherry blossoms were exploding with pink. A day that anyone is psyched to be alive, much less 150 people in various states of recovering from a formerly and sometimes still fatal illness.

He had us do small smiles, big smiles, look proud (but not angry, the photog was quick to point out from his cherry-picker crane). We all chatted with each other and it was uneasy fun. I sort of hated myself for being nervous because clearly, as a cancer survivor I should care much less about my hair than I do.

Anyway, it was lovely and we all are waiting for the issue. Hope spring is rubbing away the winter from all your dark corners. Love.

April 18, 2007

The Latest CAT

Waiting. The waiting part is getting easier. I had a CAT last week. Those are actually getting harder. Going there, waiting, ignoring the CNN (I wrote a whole post on that here), talking to the very nice man who opened up my vein for the magic potion that makes your "groin" hot--as they say in measured tones--feeling flooded with the heat, trying not to laugh loud when thinking, "now that's some really hot pussy," breathing when the automated man says to, holding my breath when he says that too. All of that. Hard. Drinking the Kool-Aid. Yuck, hard. Feeling incredibly nauseated afterward. Hard.

But the wait for results, not as hard. Dr. Z is out of town, so we left it at, the nurse will call me in if it's bad and they won't tell me anything if it's not bad. And I see the doc next month. Before, I would have freaked with that sort of test-answer lag. And yes, a tiny part of me is like, what if they forgot to look, forgot to call, and I'm riddled with the stuff again? But another part of me says I feel pretty good, everything seems normalish, I'm ok. Which is downright unusually sane for me with this.

Actually my biggest worry is that these tests--the Kool-Aid, the hot-pussy potion--are all accumulating in my body, making me feel progressively worse each time. And as we all know the things we use to test for and treat cancer... cause cancer.

Oy. And is it just me, but does cancer seem downright trendy right now? Like the media simultaneously are waking to the notion that people are living longer, regularish lives with it. Which I hope doesn't detract from outrage/research on actually sussing out the sources of it, getting rid of all the chemical root causes, the things that are making so many of our cells and lives mutate in horrible ways.

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