when moving, move like the river

I had heard from other mastectomy patients about the euphoria I was likely to feel after the surgery. Nothing wrong with a touch of euphoria after leaning into the canyon of death and then being pulled back to safety. Reminds me of moments in childhood when one of my beloved brothers would grab me from behind as I stood, say, at the edge of a cliff or canyon. He would quickly rock me forward and then pull me back, saying, "Saved your life!" It was never funny or fun, but I, much younger sister, felt powerless to protest and simply let the relief of being safe wash over me.

So, I felt it. The euphoria after surgery. Hoo hoo! Didn't die on the table! Nodes are clear! This isn't pain, this is discomfort! All right!

Now I'm afraid I am going to forget what happened that day, two weeks ago today. I am trying so hard to be resilient and cheery (often that is not hard for me) that I am blocking some memories that I don't want to lose. Last night Laura recounted for me the hours right before and after surgery -- things that were either very blurry for me or never encoded at all. It was like hearing a bedtime story, a lullaby. It was George and the rabbits all over again: this happened, paula, and now you are okay. You fell off a cliff and got caught on a branch that saved you.

I am having fun with my blog, but am unsure of how to use it when I feel sad. When I am quiet, in the rare moments when I am not writing a thank you note, or doing dishes, or seeing clients, or otherwise demonstrating my resilience to myself and whoever might notice -- in the quiet, the cancer is there and so are my breasts. That's the only place my breasts exist: in the spaces I occasionally allow, and in my memory. I am afraid to visit them there.

The picture at the top of this blog was taken at 4:00 a.m., November 30th, maybe an hour before we left for the hospital. Already I was anxiously chipper, determined not to have Yani and Laura worry about me any more than they already were. There was that plan about the turkey joke in the O.R. There was my need to show the doctors and nurses that I had unusual courage and was someone who could follow the zen directive: When still, be as still as the mountain. When moving, move like the river. Something like that. Breasts have to go? Let the knife move like the river.

I don't remember enough of that day. I tried to do a Michael Jackson dance in the hospital johnny and booties. The orderly wheeling my bed around got lost, twice, and we took the longest possible route to the operating room. No worries! I was Miss Cheerbutton. We took a photo of the air pillows they put over you to keep you warm before surgery -- they gave the illusion of immense breasts. Ha ha. I had to do it. I didn't want to be in the spaces between.

It helps me that Ellen took little notes after I came out of recovery. Some of them follow:
   
     One of the first things you said once you were in your private room was, "I'm looking forward to regaining my perspective." That cracked me up. You spoke a little slowly, a little quietly, but with clarity and conviction.
     You seemed to be very curious about what you were going through. At one point you said, "I'm taking it all in."
     You said a couple of different times, " Can you imagine seeing clients like this?"
     Your spirits were good. When a nurse came in and asked how you were, you said clearly, "Tip. Top."

     You asked if there was a marker at the dry erase board, where "Goals" was written. There was. "Could you make Goals into Goats?" We did.
     You also said, "Sorry to be so needy." It was quite silly, if it hadn't been quite so sad. We were eagerly standing by to see what we could do, which was very little. We tried to find you something you wanted to drink. We tried cranberry juice, but the hospital variety was really bad. You rejected the jello, too. Water. Ice was best. "Will I ever salivate again?" You could not hydrate and it occupied a lot of your attention.
     But the main thing that you kept trying to figure out and wanted us to know was that on the one hand you were terribly relieved. I presume you meant that the cancer was removed, the lymph nodes were clear, the operation went well and was over. But you had trouble saying what was on the other hand and you kept trying to express it. Your thoughts were fragmented, and you were working something out in your head: "on the other hand, now we're going to be in...and may not... and it's totally ego in a neurotic sense....personality and temperament...." It ended up being something like: I'm afraid I will fall off the radar because things went so well and because I take care of things so well. People will think I do not need to be taken care of.
     You were doing this kind of intense pondering for much of the time I was there. I also jotted down, and it's a mix of quote and misquote: "It's been an interesting personality test for me to see how excruciating lack of clarity is to me. I project the lack of clarity onto others because I can't bear it myself: she did THAT? she removed her breasts? should she have?"
    
     El's notes remind me that I agonized afterwards. Not about my decision to do the surgery; not exactly that. But I agonized about how little I had agonized, and how that might be perceived. She let the knife move like the river? What was she thinking?

     I worried then and sometimes now that I cope so well that I give the illusion that I don't need much support. But how do I reconcile that with yesterday's very true feelings regarding my need to avoid being indebted to others, that I don't like receiving too much support?