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Posts Tagged ‘chemo’

The Kindness of Strangers

Posted in The Kindness of Strangers, tagged , , , , on May 3, 2011 | 1 Comment »

The Kindness of Strangers

Betsy’s first words to me: “How’s the constipation?”

I instantly knew she understood. Chemo, hair loss, fatigue, nausea – these were the usual things people talked about with those of us who had cancer.  Not shit. Not lack of it.  Not the immobilizing, bloated, out of control, backed up, doubled-over painful, I’d-give-anything-ANYTHING-just-for-a-real-poop existence.  But Betsy was up for it. I loved her. I hardly knew her.

We met the previous year.  Betsy was a manager for a community action agency, a member of a coalition that hired me to facilitate several meetings.  After the first meeting began, Betsy walked into the conference room, her head in a scarf, telegraphing chemo to all attendees.

“I just finished a treatment. Sorry I’m late.”  I was the only one surprised.  She was talkative, present, unfazed.  I found myself staring at her, then not.  Then doing it again.

As people filed out of the meeting, Betsy introduced herself to me and apologized again for arriving late.  I asked and she told me, “Breast cancer.”  We talked briefly and that was that.

I received many, many well-wishing cards when the news of my diagnosis spread.  Some were funny, some inspirational.  Betsy’s card said, Call me, if you want. Here’s my number.  When I received it, I thought, that’s really thoughtful.  And then set it aside, in the pile next to the couch. I had lots of friends. I wouldn’t be reaching out to a stranger.

A couple of months into my treatment, when I was feeling every bit as down about having cancer as the brochures in the doctors’ office waiting rooms predicted I would, I grabbed the pile of cards seeking the inspiration and encouragement they were meant to convey.  I got to Betsy’s and stopped, realizing I was lonely in a place I hadn’t known I was hurting. It turned out, I didn’t have that many friends who understood cancer.  And I hadn’t believed I would get this down or get this lonely.  I thought I was protected by my years of therapy, years of moving through my dark places already.  Sure, I struggled with depression, but I had a spiritual base.  I had prayer and meditation and friends and a gratitude for today.

None of which protected me from the impotence of constipation.  After an abdominal surgery, everyone checks to make sure the bowels are working.  Each person who entered my hospital room – doctor, nurse, Ramona, family member, visitor – expressed preoccupation with my bowels.

“Have you passed gas yet?” they asked.

Mortification ebbed to numb acceptance of my exposure as I lay in bed, waiting, waiting, to pass gas.  I could not go home until I could answer yes to the gas question.  But the bowels were not moving. No gas came.  My first bout of constipation had set in.

The surgery had caused “adhesions,” some kind of internal scarring, complicating the normal course of recovery.  By day four, I was crying out for a doctor, sobbing from a pain worse than the surgery.  Ramona could only pace the room, undone by my distress, as I lay on my side, yearning to crawl into a fetal position and cradle my wounded self.  A resident showed up, talked to me through the side rail of my bed, meeting my eyes.  “If I give you a pain killer, it will cause more constipation. I know this hurts, but we have to wait it out.” I looked at his young face and thought, there is no “we” right now.

There was no “we” as the adhesions collided with the cumulative effects of my treatment regimen.  Every chemotherapy treatment resulted in constipation.  Every pill prescribed to alleviate the side effects of chemotherapy caused constipation.  I became crazed waging an anti-constipation war.   Senna, Mylax, Fiber One, bran, prunes, Colace.  I returned to drinking caffeinated coffee, placing faith in caffeine’s ability to move bowels. I drank more water than I thought I could hold.  My bathroom became a ready room.

I will not discuss what happened when my efforts were successful.

Constipation-induced depression had humbled me.  I dialed Betsy’s number and stepped into connection with someone outside my circle, someone in the know, someone who understood powerlessness. How’s the constipation?  Betsy wasn’t looking for the plucky cancer survivor response and I didn’t give it.

“Oh, thank you for asking!” I laughed, before downloading my despair.

© 2011 Cathy Kidman

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Treatment Day One

Posted in Treatment Day One, tagged , , , , on October 1, 2010 | 2 Comments »

Treatment Day One

The television above the foot of the bed distracts me from the nurse with her intravenous needle.  Xena: Warrior Princess is on, as it is every morning on the Oxygen network. The show has become my morning coffee ritual.  Roll carefully out of bed, hand against my abdominal bandage. Make coffee. Watch Xena kick butt.  Make more coffee.  Watch more butt kicking.  Xena always triumphs. I try not to miss an episode.  At night, Ramona and I have begun watching the DVD’s – all six seasons – dropped off after my diagnosis by a friend and her partner.   “We brought you food and Xena!” she announced, confident in Xena’s restorative powers.

Xena’s presence this morning, the morning of my first chemotherapy treatment, makes the whole thing seem more civilized.

We had arrived late this morning because I couldn’t get myself here, my feet not moving with any speed and often in the wrong direction. Ramona had packed us up, according to the instructions we received by mail.  Warm, comfortable clothing so you can sit long hours in a drafty medical facility.   Slippers so you can shuffle with cozy feet to and from the restroom.  Pants with elastic waist bands so you can pull your pants down with one hand while connected to an IV line. Snacks, because believe it or not you will get hungry.  A book or magazine, although you will have your own television to watch if you choose.  And of course, a hat to keep your head warm.

“This must be your first time.  You still have your hair,” the intake nurse stated in greeting, after noting that I was late. “That will go in 10 days.”

I squeezed Ramona’s hand but didn’t say what I was thinking, which was I hate her already and get me the hell out of here. Instead, I allowed the nurse to hand me forms to fill out before the pharmacist arrived to describe the mix of drugs I would be receiving.  Ativan and Benadryl to ease anxiety and help me sleep, then steroids to help the body efficiently process the chemotherapy drug, Taxol.  Taxol, the drug that we hope will destroy every last microscopic cancer cell.

Lots of side effects will be coming my way.  Nausea.  Hunger. Drowsiness. Wakefulness.  Constipation.  Diarrhea.  Each drug has a side effect and each side effect has its own drug to counteract its side effect.  A half dozen prescriptions will accompany me when we leave today.   Because of the steroids, the pharmacist said I would be surprised by how good I would feel tonight and tomorrow.  I wondered to myself if “good” is a relative term or if good means GOOD.

The bad side effects will arrive the next day and will continue for at least two more days.  The pharmacist urged the liberal use of Ativan.

I got lost in the explanations about what to do when we get home and gave up trying to understand, glad Ramona was paying attention, nodding her head.  Glad the pharmacist directed most of the conversation to her.  She will administer the medications, so I know I will be taking the right ones for the right things at the right times.

The pharmacist went on to explain that there are so many variables, today they will start me on a medical bed against one of the treatment room walls. If I respond well to the treatment (I don’t vomit, break out in hives, or die unexpectedly), I will graduate to an easy chair. I raised my eyes to scan the room, something I had been avoiding up until that moment.

It looked like The Matrix. Framed pastel art prints and leftover Christmas decorations cannot disguise the uniform rows of bald headed humans, hooked up to IV bags and machines, absent expressions on their faces. Propped up in easy chairs, they lined the walls against the windows and filled the center of the room.  I decided I wanted a window view. The treatment must go well.

Ramona is not distracted by Xena as the intravenous needle finally enters my vein.  Her I-was-once-a-cop stance radiates displeasure with the nurse’s needle technique and bed side manner.  “You have leather skin,” the nurse had complained.  My fault that there is dripping blood.  Ramona’s not buying.

“Are you Xena?” the nurse asks me, joking, ignorant of Ramona’s stony glare or my wince. “No.” I point a thumb to Ramona. “She is. I’m the chipper side kick, Gabrielle.” Which is why I am being saint like with you and Ramona is refraining from applying the warrior princess head lock and flying air kick. I smile at the nurse, as Gabrielle would in her “love is the answer” phase, and make wide eye contact with Ramona.  Play nice, sweetie. My focus returns to the television, where Xena is teaching Gabrielle how to fight.

The nurse finally leaves me and my hand alone. Ramona holds my other hand as the drugs take effect.  By the end of the show, when the Benadryl infusion is complete and the Taxol burns through the thin vein on the back of my hand and reaches up, grabbing my throat from the inside, I am asleep. I do not wake until I have to pee (grateful that the elastic band in my flannel pajama bottoms slides easily over my abdominal bandage as well as my hips).  I wake again when the treatment is almost over and Ramona returns from the gym, relaxed from the time both of us have prioritized for her sanity, and she feeds me the snack I was sure I wouldn’t want but am craving at 3:00 pm.

Ramona is relieved to find me calm, rested.  Pillows and blankets cocoon me.  The first round almost over, anti-anxiety drugs melting my fears, I experience a surprise attack of inner well being and kiss her. Tell her I love her.  The IV is removed, the infusions finished for today.  As we pack up my teddy bear, the books I didn’t read, the remaining snacks, and my slippers, I look around the room.  The other patients seem more animated now, smiling and chatting with each other and the nurses.  The nurses were attentive and kind once our initial getting to know you stuff was out of the way.  The one who deplored my skin brought a warm pack to relieve the ache on the the back of my hand.

When I return in three weeks, the walls will be covered in red hearts and I will be hairless.  I will sit by the window and watch Xena kill obsolete gods as the Taxol burns, the Benadryl and Ativan slide me into sleep, and Ramona goes to the gym.  Green clovers and leprechauns will follow in March.  Bunnies in April.  I will chat with nurses and meet a few patients, but I avoid attachment.

© 2010 Cathy Kidman

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Free Floating Anxiety

Posted in Free Floating Anxiety, tagged , , , on September 3, 2010 | 6 Comments »

Free Floating Anxiety

Ramona has not come home. She’s two hours late. I fight panic. She’s been in a car accident.  She was car jacked.  She’s been kidnapped.  She’s at the hospital and can’t call me because she’s in a coma and the ER people have no way to contact me.

When she was a police officer, I had these fears once every few months, whether or not she was actually late.  Now I have them daily.

I know where Ramona is every minute of the day. She is a woman of routine and ingrained habit.  She is up at 5:00 a.m., washed and dressed by 5:25 a.m., and sips coffee with the Weather Channel and ESPN highlights until 5:45 a.m. when she walks out the door to arrive at work for the US Postal Service by 6:00 a.m.  She is productive without stop until 2:30 p.m.  If she does leave her office during her mandated lunch, a half-hour of forced unproductiveness, she utilizes the time for her weekly retail run-through of TJ MAXX and Marshalls.  After work, Ramona goes to the gym.  She is on the stationary bike by 3:00 p.m. and pedals for an hour while reading a political science/legal theory/history tome, before she rotates through weights.  At 5:30 p.m., Ramona is in the locker room, showering. She is home just before 6:00 p.m, unless the Casco Bay Bridge is up.  Then she comes through the door at 6:15 p.m.  From 6:15 p.m. on, she is with me, which is to say she is watching sports, surviving my television choices, or reading a book.  At 8:30 p.m. she will start getting ready for the next day, laying out her clothes, organizing her gym bag, setting up the coffee maker, preparing her lunch and snacks, and making sure the cats are in the house for the night. She is in bed at 9:00 p.m., even if the Patriots are in the Superbowl, the Celtics are in the playoffs, or the Red Sox are in the World Series.  On weekends, Ramona is up by 7:30 a.m., watches the Food Network over coffee, and  goes to the gym by 10:00 a.m. She is home by noon to putter around the house and hang with me.

It’s now after 8:00 p.m.  Ramona doesn’t have a cell phone, arguing she doesn’t need one since I know where she is all the time.  But I don’t know where she is tonight. I wonder if it is crazy to try to find her.  Decide it’s okay to be crazy, I’ll just plead chemo.  It’s seems to be a good excuse for everything.

I call the gym.  She’s not there.  I call her work. She’s not there.  I call the Portland police and ask if there has been an accident.  No. The South Portland police. No.  I call both Portland hospitals.  No Ramona Morrissette.

I sit. I dwell. I spin. About how I have cancer and chemo and an open abdomen and Ramona might be dead and I will be alone and I know I am not in my right mind but I can’t make it without her and my heart hurts. I sob.

Ramona’s Toyota truck with the tell-tale muffler turns onto the street, into the driveway.  My body races to the door, and, even as I know I am over reacting, my voice greets her with a wail. “Where have you been!?”  Plastic grocery bags weigh down her arms.  She sees my wet face and I wipe my nose on the sleeve of my Life is Good shirt.   “I got talking in the parking lot of the gym…”  Her voice gets smaller.  “I got groceries…”  Ramona’s shoulders shrug despite the bags. “I’m sooo sorry.”  She dumps the bags down on the garage stoop, apples tumble out. Pulls me into a warm full body hug. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m not going anywhere.”

I breathe.  Until tomorrow.

© 2010 Cathy Kidman

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Preparation

Posted in Preparation, tagged , , , , on July 5, 2010 | 2 Comments »

Preparation

Wigs are a nonstarter.  Acute surgical menopause hit almost the moment my ovaries departed and the thought of a wig on my scalp, perspiration from a raging hot flash pooling underneath, turns my insides queasy while my fingernails reach up to scratch phantom itches.  It’s been six days since the first chemo treatment and fall out is imminent.  I pull at my hair constantly, tugging the roots, wondering if the next pull will drop soft tufts of dyed blonde between my fingers.

Ramona and I visit Sally’s Beauty Supply to pick up an electric shaver.  There will be times, especially during hot flashes, when nothing will be hiding my scalp or my illness. I will be bald. I am haunted by television images of St. Jude’s cancer children, strands of hair across their tiny scalps, and those women who comb over the stubborn wisps that refuse to fall out.  What I see: Gollum from Lord of the Rings.  “My precious, my precious.”

We prowl department stores searching for promising scarves, wrapping them around my head in front of full length department store mirrors.  I lack the ability to make the scarf look effortless, unlike the triad of Somali teenage girls in Burlington Coat Factory, their own hair beautifully covered.  They make several not-so-discreet passes to observe us before moving, giggling, into the hand bag section.  Ramona and I know we are on the exact wrong path. White Girl Does Bad Ethnic.  We dissolve into laughter, Ramona wiping tears from her eyes, her first belly laugh in weeks.

Wigs out, scarves out, we try hats.  A store in the weathered arts district of Portland, Queen of Hats, is a winner.  Triumphant, I score a black, frumpy but classy cotton hat, wide satin-ribbon detailing around the two-inch floppy brim.   I also purchase one black crushable soft turban for home wear only, because I already know that Turban = Chemo and I’d rather just be straight up and bald about it.

Next is the Life is Good Store.  Here, we load up.  I believe in the power of positive thinking. A blue fleece ski cap, a black fleece soft pill box, and a red baseball cap.  Three long sleeve tee shirts (in colors that will bring attention to my eyes rather than my bald head), two coffee mugs, and two stickers (one for my car, one for Ramona’s truck) accompany the hat purchases.  Each Life is Good item asserting my resolve.

The store clerk throws a couple of Life is Good stress balls into my bag as a gift, “You might want these.”  She tells us she talks with people everyday who are buying hats and shirts for sick relatives and friends, or,  like me, for themselves.  The week before, a businessman came in whose wife was diagnosed with late stage, terminal cancer.  He wandered around the store, touching various shirts and hats, weeping.  She closed the store.  The two of them chose items for his wife while he talked.  They sat on the floor for an hour.  Ramona and I wipe tears as we leave, clutching our shopping bags.

We have one more store to hit. The chemo center nurse suggested I purchase a specific shampoo for my scalp, which seemed a bit crazy but I listened anyway.  The pores on my scalp may become irritated and sore during chemo and this shampoo will calm my skin, keeping the follicles healthy for optimal hair regrowth. I will do anything to ensure my hair returns, so Ramona and I go in search of the specialty shop that sells items specifically for women with cancer.  We find it in a worn-out building along an ugly stretch of a commercial street, next to a gun and taxidermy shop.  Inside, prosthetic bras (or are they breasts?) hang from the walls.  Behind glass cases, mannequin heads display wigs.  Various products, including the shampoo, are dispersed among plastic and silk craft store flowers. The woman behind the counter is talking nonstop at a turban-clad customer about why she started the business. This shop is her personal mission in life. When it is our turn, I don’t make direct eye contact, ask for the shampoo, pay for it, and leave.

Errands complete, we meet Cara, my hairstylist and friend.  Just two weeks ago I wrote the check for my bi-monthly cut and color, but now she is here in my home on a  preventative mission of mercy.  She stands in the kitchen, chatting away like this is any other hair cut in our fifteen year relationship, and chops my hair to a crew cut length.  When my hair falls out, it will fall in clumps.  My mind numbs at the idea of long clumps of blonde hair passing through my fingers or lying on my pillow or swirling around the bathtub drain.  Shorter hair will be easier to remove.

© 2010 Cathy Kidman

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Another Flower Delivery

Posted in Another Flower Delivery, tagged , , , , , on April 23, 2010 | 2 Comments »

Another Flower Delivery

Flashes of yellow and orange bob above the window sill moments before the knock on the kitchen door.  ”Come in!” I yell from my horizontal post-surgery station on the couch.

This delivery woman has been here before and she brings this latest flower arrangement right into the living room.  She pauses at the doorway, taking it all in. There are flowers from other shops now, covering every surface and spilling out of the living room and into the kitchen and dining room.  Lilies, roses, daisies, Christmas cactus, house plants with unpronounceable names – they have been arriving daily, sometimes several times in a day, since my diagnosis.  Many accompanied me home from the hospital.  She moves a vase of lilies on the fireplace mantle to secure an advantageous spot for the new bouquet, a clear glass vase of bright Dutch tulips from a colleague.

Surveying the profusion of flowers again, she asks for the first time, “What kind of illness do you have?” as if this abundant overflow means that I am either an obscure, minor celebrity or my illness must be really, really bad.

“Ovarian cancer.”

“Oh.” Illness, not celebrity.  She weighs my response against the garden in my living room. Her face telegraphs that she wishes she hadn’t asked. “Ohhhh,” the extended syllable escapes, “I am sooo very sorry.”

No, no, I want to insist.  I get this many flowers because I have friends and a community of people who love me, not because they believe I am dying. And then I think, maybe I have these many friends and they believe I am dying. This gives me pause. Maybe I need to stop saying to everyone, “Don’t worry. It’s early stage. We caught it early. Great prognosis. Surgery went great. I’m fine. It’s just chemo.” Maybe I need to see what everyone else is seeing.

The words “Don’t worry” wilt on my lips and I acknowledge her sympathy with an awkward nod.  “Thank you for the flowers.” Rote courtesy kicks in as she sees herself out. “See you soon.”

© 2010 Cathy Kidman


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First Bra

Posted in First Bra, tagged , , , , , on March 31, 2010 | 3 Comments »

First Bra

The decision to get a bra was cinched on Friday night when Stacy London and Clinton Kelly, the hosts of TLC’s What Not To Wear, my favorite television fashion make-over show, told me that “lifting the girls” with the correct size bra will hide (or at least minimize) the tummy bulge.  Most weeks, the show features a fashion challenged woman whose body looks like mine.  Lumpy.  Maybe her increased breast size and lumps weren’t steroid-induced like mine, but we share the same beauty aspirations.  By the end of each show, these CEO-teacher-barista-artist-actor-moms are confident and sassy, “girls” raised and unfortunate belly roll disguised. I peek down at my new breasts and the belly supporting them.  It’s time to “lift the girls.”

Since middle school, I have worn tanks and cotton tees, my miniscule breasts blissfully unaware of the bound existence endured by other breasts on other women.  This freedom came with occasional complications.

In high school, I flipped burgers on the back grill at the local McDonald’s.   All the other girls worked the front counter, their hair and make up perfect for the customers, but I was out back with the guys, battling french fry grease and sprouting acne.  I think I was a gender experiment, because other than me, there was no mixing of gender roles.  Girls out front, guys out back, and all the managers were men.

Employees wore thick blue polyester uniforms, wrinkle-free and indestructible. The guys’ tunics sported a half zipper, flat fronts and clean lines.  The girls’ tunics zipped up the front and were shaped to fit a womanly form, seams parallel to the zipper in order to accommodate breasts.

Several times each day, I trudged to the meat cooler, hefted a twenty-five pound box of frozen burgers up to my chest, and lugged it out to the grill area.  I’d look around to see if anyone in the small kitchen space was watching before I dropped the box on the stainless steel counter, revealing the crushed inverted seams of my tunic. I’d rush to pluck the seams back out before one of the guys noticed.  It was an impossible routine to keep private for long.

“Hey Cath, whatcha doin’?”

“Pluckin’ out my breasts, Jeff.”

“Cool.”

I begged the head manager, an eager company man in his early twenties, for one of the guys’ tunics.  I even demonstrated the inverted seams and pluck.

“No can do, Cathy, that’s not possible.  Guys wear guys’ uniforms and girls wear girls’.  Those are the rules.”

After awhile, I stopped plucking.

Twenty years later, I lived and worked by different rules. So I was prepared when Casey, profanities flowing, slammed through the office door Portland’s gay youth organization, seeking assistance from me, the Executive Director.

Casey could have been the fashionable high school girl from any teen television series – tight jeans, platform heels, expert makeup, styled hair.  Snug shirt across full breasts. Six feet, two inches of gorgeous emerging womanhood.  Pissed-off womanhood.

Except Casey was a boy.  Or at least the body was.  What pronoun to use remained unclear.

“The principal kicked me out of school – she said ‘my breasts are a distraction’.” Casey emphasized with air quotes.  Then paused, forehead and eyes wrinkled with thought, and gestured with French tipped nails to the offending breasts. Said with unblinking sincerity, “I think it’s the stripes. Stripes make breasts look bigger.”

I laughed out loud. I couldn’t help it. “Casey, I could wear that shirt and I wouldn’t look like that.”

We both looked down. Clinically observed the area of my chest where we both knew my breasts were hiding.

“It’s not the stripes,” I gently said.

“No,” Casey exhaled the solemn syllable, head tilted in consideration, “I guess it’s not the stripes.”  A moment of silence followed. “It may be time for smaller boobs.”

Now at forty years old, I stand shirtless in the apricot fitting room of JC Penney, being measured for my first real bra by an older than retirement age saleswoman who was quite patient the first two times I inquired, “Okay, tell me again how you decide what size is the right size?”

Intrigued by this elderly saleswoman, I wonder what this experience is like for her.  In the fitting room, hat off, my bald head is exposed.  Shirt off, my stomach bandage is front and center. She can’t look up and she can’t look down.  She is focused like a laser on my chest and her measuring tape, which she lays with precision across my nipples.  This efficient, white haired woman sees an awful lot of nipples in a day.

In the midst of the measuring, I burst into flames.  A hot flash begins at the back of my throat, fast and scorching, like a struck match in a tight space. In nanoseconds, the fire has surged through my body, an over-efficient furnace in a small house.  My eyes go wide as my ears start flaming.  Perspiration drops turn to rivers of rolling sweat, dripping down my hairless scalp, my back, and between my now present breasts.  At this, the saleswoman looks up, meets my eyes.

“Hot flash,” I explain as I reach around her to grasp the bottle of water, the only permanent accessory I carry.  “Happens when I’m stressed.”  Happens when I’m eating, sleeping, or breathing, too, but she doesn’t need to know that this is an every twenty minutes occurrence that I am trying to figure my life around, just like I’m trying to figure my life around the idea that I used to go braless but now I have breasts and I used to have cancer but now I have chemo and menopause.

Measurements complete, we take a break so I can mop up before we select some bras.  I’m a buxom 34B.  I already miss my flat chest.

At least the tummy bulge will be disguised.

© 2010 Cathy Kidman

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Ribbons. (submitted to This American Life)

Posted in Ribbons, tagged , , , , on February 23, 2010 | 8 Comments »

Ribbons

“I’d like to have some buttons made,” I tell the manager in this converted textile mill office.  It’s a cluttered, busy place; papers, boxes and dust everywhere.

He observes me with a quizzical expression.  The mill is not easy to find, hidden on the riverbank of this neglected town. They don’t get many walk-ins. Walk-ins with small orders.

“Here’s the mock-up.” I hand him the black and white graphic designed yesterday on my computer.

“CHEMO BITES,” he reads aloud. His gaze strays to the hat not hiding my baldness.  Darts back to my eyes.  “Ohkay,” he says, “How many?”

We decide on two-hundred and fifty.  I can order more if I run out.

The day before I visited a friend who was diagnosed a month after me with the same cancer, same stage.  My response to the diagnosis was to slow down.  Cheryl sped up.

“Our color is teal,” Cheryl told me.

“Our what?”

“Our color.  Breast cancer is pink.  Ovarian cancer is teal.”

Cheryl has been researching everything to do with ovarian cancer, which should not be a surprise to me.  When I was diagnosed, she was my main source of information.  Some people turn to the internet, I had Cheryl.  She works for a large health insurance company.  They have better medical information than most hospitals.

Cheryl placed a small, tasteful teal lapel pin in my hand, gold trimmed and ribbon shaped.  “We need to get the word out.  Ovarian cancer is deadlier than breast cancer and prostate cancer but there is little funding or research. I’ve ordered hundreds…”

I wasn’t listening. I was focused on the teal ribbon pin on my palm.  It’s burning my flesh, I thought, but did not say.

Red ribbons for AIDS were introduced when I worked for an AIDS organization.  Before they were sported on lapels from Fort Kent, Maine to Hollywood, they meant more than simply preventing HIV and funding research.  A red ribbon meant you probably lost someone to AIDS.  It meant you weren’t afraid of gay people.  It meant you knew you were witnessing a preventable genocide caused by unrelieved homophobia.

Even then I didn’t wear one.

Disease-wear and disease-gear make me feel like I am living in a disease-state.
As ubiquitous fashion and life style statements, they don’t bring me hope.  No yellow wristbands, no red dresses, no pink Kitchen Aid appliances.  Especially no pink.  Breast cancer has been Barbie-ized.

The buttons arrive in a small brown box.  Can all two hundred and fifty fit in there? My eager fingers tear the tape, reach in and grab the shiny, black and white circles.  CHEMO BITES. The buttons fall between my fingers like gold coins.

I distribute the buttons to friends. Friends distribute to their friends.  I supply a dish at the chemo center, next to the dish with the pink ribbons.

A friend phones to share a story.  There has been a button sighting. A middle school boy with cancer wanted to go to school in a “Cancer Sucks” tee-shirt. His mom said no, “sucks” being a banned word on school attire.  A friend of a friend of a friend gave the boy a Chemo Bites button.  His mom let him wear that to school.  Made him happy.

I keep buttons in my pocket and offer them to strangers who ask about them. I hadn’t anticipated their impact.  My bald head is the illness equivalency of pregnancy – when a woman is obviously pregnant, is it appropriate to acknowledge the pregnancy or not?  Does she want the focus on her belly?  Is the belly community property?  My head has been patted by strangers.  “You look sexy bald,” one man told me after telling me about his sister’s cancer and asking if I had an extra button. The buttons provide an unstated invitation to acknowledge my illness and talk.  About them, their loved ones, sometimes me.

At the end of April, when I am nearing my final treatment and I am tired, bloated, red in the face, and pimples have formed a constellation across my cheeks and head, the compliments stop coming.  So do the intrusive pats.  I keep passing out Chemo Bites buttons.

The mall is my venue of choice for distributing buttons. This is where I can walk as slowly as I need without worrying about ice or rain or access to a restroom.   Like the rest of me, my feet have swollen to a new size and after months of walking the mall, it is time for a new pair of sneakers.  In the shoe section of JC Penney, I spot the exact pair of New Balance cross-trainers I have been searching for – they are on sale!  The display pair is actually my size. I take this as a sign that good things are coming my way.  Yes, I still have one more treatment and the thought of it makes my throat burn and the nausea rise.  Yes, I still have an open, seeping bandaged wound down my abdomen. Yes, I have gained thirty pounds.  Yes, with my bald head and round face I look more like my father than my mother.  Yes, yes, yes.  I have reason to be miserable.  But I am alive.  And I have found my sneakers.

I sit my substantial self down on the bench, unlace the sneaker and begin to fit it on my foot.  That’s when I see it and I’m not sure I believe what I am seeing.  A pink ribbon, embroidered on the tongue.  The sale shoe, my miracle shoe, is a breast cancer shoe.

I am on my feet, the shoe thrown to the floor.  Hear a voice yelling.

“I DO NOT WANT CANCER ON MY SHOES! I DO NOT WANT IT ON MY CLOTHES, MY BODY, OR ME! I DON’T WANT TO BE REMINDED EVERY FUCKING MOMENT THAT I HAVE CANCER! I JUST WANT A GODDAMN SNEAKER!”

I realize the voice is mine.  Doesn’t matter.  The sneaker appears unmoved by my rant and I kick it.  Tears fall into the lenses of my eyeglasses and because I have no nose hairs, nose drips are flowing over my lips and onto my coat.  My rant continues.

“AND GODDAMN IT, MY COLOR IS TEAL!”

Startled by myself and spent, I slump back down on the bench, self conscious. I look toward the aisle’s end and find myself unsurprised by the stunned mother-daughter pair staring at me, concerned expressions on their matching faces.  Of course they are there. They probably like pink. I wipe my nose on my sleeve, point to the sneaker.  “My color is teal,” I explain helpfully. They offer limp smiles and disappear around the corner.

© 2010 Cathy Kidman

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