In which we discuss feelings, doormats, and ways to be kind.

I’m going to state, note: not apologize, that this post is fueled by a lot of emotions and anxiety. If you have a problem with something, you know where the red x is.

These last few months have been pretty stressful. And when I say ‘stressful’, I mean fucking insane, ridiculous, demanding, brutal, unkind, etc. It’s been a real sidewinder of shit, but in a way, I’m grateful for it. Cancer has forced me to slow down and examine my life in a way I probably wouldn’t have been capable of otherwise. It has shown me incredible kindnesses through my community of friends and family, and given me a chance to connect with people I might not have before. It has forced me to work on my relationship with my partner, as well as my friends, and really value them for what they bring to my life. So for that, I am grateful. And because of that, I’m doing some self-work, y’all!

Please allow me to be the first person to acknowledge that I have a tendency to be a doormat. I am the type of person who goes out of my way to accommodate people who I consider worth it and, often, people who continually prove they don’t deserve it. I do it because I was raised to treat most humans with respect and kindness, and I stick to that as a general rule. Sure, I set some boundaries, but it takes a lot of abuse and pushing to get me there.

Even my work knows my questionable personality traits!

19549716_752308591597584_439656100_o

Sometimes, I think being a caregiver and being a doormat coincide. My ultimate desire is that everyone be happy and cared for and this often comes at price- to myself and my needs, to my partner and his needs, to my family and their needs. Again, I know that this has played a part in the end of some of my relationships, but it’s hard to break the cycle when it’s something you’ve been doing for so long. It’s hard to say ‘no’ to people when you only want to say yes, because helping people out is a fulfilling feeling. But it’s difficult to set appropriate boundaries with people when you’re used to bending over backwards to please them. And it’s quite difficult to understand why people would not afford you the same kindness.

The clear unwillingness to not be kind to someone, even if you don’t “understand them”, is baffling to me. And no, I don’t mean #peaceloveandhappiness #truth #powerofpositivity Instagram bullshit kindness that isn’t followed up with an action. I mean put your biases aside, slide into your human suit, and offer people the same treatment that they have extended to you. It’s not hard! I do it all the time, and I do it because I believe that people deserve respect, until they demonstrate to you that they don’t. And, as I stated before, I have previously CONTINUED to show them kindness, well after they’ve shown me their true colors.

I guess I believe that, even if we don’t necessarily see eye to eye on something, or we don’t get along for whatever reason, that you are still deserving of respect as a person and I am willing to help you. I believe that people can coexist in this world peacefully even if they don’t like each other. For example, you might have voted for someone whose policies I don’t agree with, but I’m not going to treat you poorly because of that choice. Someone might engage in activities that I would not choose to partake in, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to think less of them for it. The world isn’t black and white like that, at least for me.

Recently, I started going to therapy. I think the cancer has pushed me to the point of serious self-evaluation; a place where I need to decide what/who is important to me and put in serious work to realize my life goals and dreams. So, through all this work, I have come to conclusion that it is time to start enforcing boundaries. Saying ‘no’ is going to be big area of growth, as well as learning how to divide my time appropriately. I want to  learn how to accurately express my feelings, even if it feels uncomfortable and weird, and then learn how to stand firm in them when they are inevitably challenged.

So a shout out to all those people who have abused my kindness. The deliberate avoidance of eye contact when I’ve gone out of my way to do something for you or your family member? Bye. The honest well-wishes to you and your family members in their times of need, when you’ve referred to my illness as a “FUN ADVENTURE” (yes, this really happened). Bye. Tolerating snide remarks because I’m too nice (doormat)to call you out in public? Bye. Expressing my feelings in what I assume is a safe space, only to have them used against me in the workplace? Bye. Holding all of this in and letting it fester is just hurting my chances of healing. So blessed be the fruit, fuckers. It’s a new Elspeth.

BUT!

I would also like to sincerely thank everyone who has stuck with me through this last year and a half. The people who have turned out to show their support and love have floored me. The people who continue to read this word salad and send me thoughtful messages- it means more to me than you know. I know I’ve said it before, but I never thought that I would, or could, make a difference to someone just by writing. Thank you for being there for me, for being part of my community, and for being the amazing people you are. My sock drawer thanks you, as well. I value you, I appreciate you, and I love you! I have no idea how to ever repay the kindness, but I will do my best.


PS: If this seems disjointed, or not like my regular writing, I apologize. I am apparently suffering from “chemo brain”, which is a real thing verified by my oncologist (!!!), and it has really been taking a toll on the way I express myself, as well as my memory. Bear with me, as all I can do is continue to push through it. October can’t come soon enough. 

No longer floating in the stratosphere of stupid (and other updates).

Remember all that chest bleeding that was going on last time we spoke?

Well.

It didn’t go away. In fact, it got worse. I had to see my surgeon again to have him drain it, which meant being juiced while having my left drain removed simultaneously. Neither one felt particularly pleasant, in case you were wondering. We all hoped that, with the compression of an ace bandage and pressure to the area, the bleeding would stop and the chest flap would adhere to my muscle. In typical Elspeth fashion, this did not happen, and my surgeon scheduled a “right mastectomy exploration” surgery. Exploring, what fun!

On Tuesday morning, I went in for surgery and came out with no explanation for the bleeding, plus two new drains. As disheartening as it is, I am hopeful that the extra drain time will help me heal enough so that I may get on with treatment. In the meantime, I’m collecting photos of the nasty (beautiful) things my body produces so that, at some point in the future, I can create a photo collage and make my big break as a modern artist. El oh el.

IMG_0334

Why, yes, those are Larry David leggings! I wore them to the hospital for good luck. All of my nurses loved them, even though most of them thought they were Bernie Sanders. Speaking of nurses- it is Nurse Appreciation Week! Have you profusely thanked all of the nurses in your life? If not, please take the time to do so. I have been incredibly blessed by the excellent care that the nurses of Methodist Hospital have provided for me in the last two months. Without them, I would still be peeing purple and trying to use WebMD to cure my blood balloon boob.

All of this does put off starting the chemotherapy process, though. I need to heal and have these two saddlebags removed before I can have my port placed. It also means that I am doing well enough to start back at work, which I was less than thrilled about. I’ve really enjoyed having time to write, spend time with Justin and my mom, and focus on getting better, as opposed to stressing the fuck out over whether or not we should be purchasing cups for the med office. If I had it my way, truly my way, we would pack up and move out to LA where we could play in the sun all day and I could make my break into the green burial scene. Home viewings! Natural burial! New age death positivity! Woo! I’d even settle to stay in MN and work from home as a tortured writer figure… But since that isn’t happening, I’m back to an 8-4 routine. At least I have good health insurance and some wonderful coworkers!

The last update I have for now is a very exciting one (at least to me)! If you’ve known me at any point during the last year and a half, you know that I’ve been desperately trying to get divorced from an anthropomorphic chicken nugget, and that it hasn’t been going well. But no longer! The final nail has been hammered into the coffin and I’ll be free sometime in June or early July. Hallelujah, hallelujah, thank the dark lords! For months, my attorney had been proposing fair and equitable settlements to him and his counsel, and they kept refusing them, all the while making terrible comments about me and throwing around unfounded accusations. It all came to a head when we had to sit down for a third party-mediated FENE, which is basically financial uncoupling. I won’t go into details, but I will say that I held my ground and walked away satisfied with the outcome. Sometimes things do go my way.

#blessed

Bags of Blood

Before I start getting all serious n’ shit, I want to tell you a funny story.

This past Wednesday, I went in for my post-op check-in with my surgeon. I was all excited, thinking I might get to have one of my drains taken out. The right one (mind you, this was the breast that was totally healthy) had been coming in under 30 ml’s of fluid for about 24 hours, and I was dying for a bit of relief. My surgeon, a self-identified hobbit and all around amazing guy, let his PA take my right drain out. The removal process felt a bit like a hard, thin snake being slowly yanked from my chest. It was awesome. I was pleased with this progress and went about my day.

That evening, as I was moving around in my nest of blankets and pillows, I noticed a sloshing noise coming from my right side. That’s right. Sloshing. As in a bunch of fluid was rolling around in a big, empty cavity in my chest. “It must be left-over lymphatic fluid”, I thought to myself. That area of my chest grew bigger and bigger, as if my body was trying regenerate a tit like a lizard does when it loses its tail. I consulted the Interwebs to see what I should do before I lost my shit and called the doctor. I tried heat. I tried compression. I slept in a sports bra, and woke up with a huge bruise on my shoulder (MY SHOULDER).

So, I called the nurse. She told me to wait. I waited. It got bigger. I called her again. She told me to try heat and to roll the fluid out the hole that the drain had been in. Gods bless Justin- he tried. So I waited another night, but the fluid pocket/boob grew even more. I was fed the fuck up at this point, so I called her again. She told me to come in at 12:45 pm and they would squeeze me in.

Look, I know you’re all thinking ‘omg lady, just deal with it that shit will be absorbed back into your body through your lymph nodes lol that’s how bodies work you should be a seasoned pro at dealing with weird body shit by now’ but no. This was my line. Cut off my tits? SURE. Poke me with a ton of needles in all of my semi-working veins? GO FOR IT. Fill my gross skin flap with fluid? HELL NO I’VE HAD ENOUGH GET IT OUT.  And get it out they did, but not without some pomp and circumstance. What would this blog be without a little bit of that?

……………..

Five of us are piled into this tiny office, the surgeon, the PA, the nurse, me, and Justin. I’ll skip a few details and get to the exciting part of the story when they try to aspirated my fake water boob with a giant needle and are unsuccessful. Why? Because my chest is filled with blood, which must have happened when they pulled my drain (a ruptured blood vessel or something), and my surgeon then decides to just squeeze me like a fucking lemon into a mound of gauze. Blood is everywhere, I get squeezed until I’m dry but am then promised that it will fill again and the juicing pleasure will be all theirs, as early as next week.

As I write this, with my chest and arm muscles moving viciously to bang the keyboard on my iPAD, I can hear the blood squelching above my ace wrap. Now that I know that my chest cavity is home to internal bleeding, I feel so much more at home. Calm, cool, and collected.

tumblr_lp1m7dydfw1qd7fgzo1_500

AND NOW…THE SERIOUS.

It’s with that calm, cool, collected zen yoga peaceloveacceptance shit that I now take issue. I cannot even right now. I know that I seem strong and put-together for what is happening to me. People remind me of that constantly, and are so kind to do so. But I don’t feel strong all of the time. I still succumb to that split brain thing that has plagued me for so long.

I’m amazing no matter what my body looks like.

Sure, except your body looks like a fucking train hit it and is reversing just for good measure.

IMG_0309

I’m a strong, independent woman who is being honest and sharing what life with this disease is like.

You sound like you’re whining.

You could be a voice for young women going through this in the future, etc etc. You are telling people what a female body can look like and still be sexy.

Yeah, but my body doesn’t fucking feel like my own right now and everything feels terrible, so thank you, but no.

And isn’t that the shit of it? I want to be a strong role model for women who are faced with a decision such as mine, but right now, I don’t feel strong. I don’t feel like I have control over my body. I don’t feel like this even IS my body right now.

On Tuesday, my oncologist told me that I would be starting chemotherapy as early as mid-May. Due to the unexpected appearance of cancer in my lymph node, it was no longer just a precaution. As soon as my second drain is out, I will go in to have a port installed and then I can power all of Steve Jobs’ shitty electro…I mean absorb a bunch of poison much more easily than I could intravenously, for about five months. I almost linked the regimen I will be following, but that can come at a later date.

My point is that I am not in control of my body right now. Nothing about what is happening to me is within my control, and that is undoubtedly terrifying. I am a person who tries to maintain her body, who enjoys using her body, and is apparently quite bereft without it. I am grappling with learning this new breast-less body, a body without eight lymph nodes, and a body in which I can now see the tendon that connects my chest muscles to my arm. It’s sick. It does not feel normal. And as much as I love it and was ready for this change, it is still unsettling.

I will lose my hair. This hair, that I have worked so stupidly hard for, that has helped me define myself in a lot of ways; I will lose it, and I will lose a bit of that identity. I will lose eyelashes, eyebrows, and leg hair–and in that, I will lose my control. This will not be my body. It is not the one I have chosen. It is not the one that I want. All of this hurts, and it stings true when my chest fills with blood and I am uncomfortable and hate everything. I can’t even do aerial or acro right now; all I can do is use my hobbit lower body. That’s no fun.

But I am not alone, thank the gods. My mother did this before me, and my friends’ mothers have done it. I am connected with a multitude of women who experience that same pain as I am feeling on a daily basis. So I can feel it, yes. I can slip into my second brain for a bit. And it can be overpowering and intoxicating, but my Tami Taylor brain overrides it and reminds me that though I am but little, I am fierce.