Last day of breast cancer treatment!

A short but VERY SWEET!! post:

Today I had my last day of radiation and my last day of 9 months of active breast cancer treatment! (I have ten years of Tamoxifen to go, but thank the gods and goddesses everywhere, my emotional state seems to be stabilizing after two months of…. well, hell.) The end of chemo was bittersweet for me, but today is simple: I feel like celebrating.

Thank you to the wonderful radiation therapists, Sara, Mariecruz, Kate and Dana, who tenderly administered my treatment every Monday-Friday for the past 6 weeks. (And yes, I do have purple hair. I felt the urge to do something a couple of weeks ago; now I’m anxiously waiting for the purple to grow out.)

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Moving forward, I will continue to explore questions that have been prominent in my mind and heart these last many months. (As always, I would love to hear other people’s responses!)

  • What brings me joy, and how can I bring more of that joy into my everyday?
  • Who am I really? Who am I now?
  • What about my life do I want to change and what do I want to nurture?
  • For what—and for whom—am I grateful?

What I’ve Learned About Radiation

When Harrison was just 10 months old and experiencing his first summer at the DSC02297beach, I could almost see his brain growing with every new experience, every new vision and sensation. He’d point to the crabs scurrying along the shore, and I’d point back, saying, “Crab.” We’d climb on a boat, and I’d say, “This boat is going to take us on the water.” He’d sit in the sand and watch the gulls diving for food; or throw rocks from the shore and watch them make wrinkles in the water, and I would think about the synapses in his brain making connections, vocabulary, knowledge.

That summer, I thought often of the second graders I used to teach in downtown Manhattan, most of them from Chinese immigrant or Latino welfare families, many of whom had never left the several block radius of the neighborhood. They lived and shopped and schooled and played on the same concrete streets of NYC that were but a fraction of my own experience with the world. At less than one year old, my own child was seeing more of the world than many of them ever would, and I knew that as a result, Harrison’s brain and their brains would grow in very different ways. First as a teacher, then as a parent, I saw how much hands-on experience brings knowledge.

This is what I thought about during my first days on the radiation table (which IImagelie on without the red hospital gown in the picture, but bearing my soul on the internet is one thing; baring my naked chest quite another). Lying on the metal slab, my arms reaching behind my head into the pre-planned mold I now climb into every Monday through Friday, my head turned toward the right, chin slightly up, staring at the ceiling made of those old-school white squares with dozens of grey holes splattered throughout that remind me of depressing office buildings, or in this case, a hospital basement—I would think about Harrison’s first summer at the beach and how much his brain grew: crabfish, seaweed, lifejacket, tides.

Experience brings knowledge, and I would scroll through my expanding information-base. “What new radiation fun-facts have a I learned so far?” I would ask myself (not really thinking any of them were fun, but I’m trying to stay positive, and a little lightness helps).

I’ve learned that radiation therapists carry a ruler, so that every day during set-up, they can measure the distance between the beams and the body parts, making sure everything is aligned correctly.

I’ve learned that those of us who go through radiation bear the pencil-tip sized tattoos that tell the radiation therapist how to line up our bodies each day. And though the tattoos are tiny, they really bother some of us. I simply don’t like the black dot between my two breasts, resting there like a bull’s eye. (Getting my other three tattoos was emotional and much more painful than a shot, but they don’t stare back at me when I look in the mirror, so I don’t find them such a nuisance.)

I’ve learned to lie very, very still and that radiation (at least mine) truly is quick-quick, so that I am usually in and out in 30 minutes or less.

I’ve learned that the beams of green lines this way and that on my upper left quadrant mean the machine is setting up, and that when it seems the machine is doing nothing at all, it is radiating my body.

I’ve learned that I can’t shave my armpit for risk of a nick leading to infection.

I’ve learned that, like chemo, the effects are cumulative. My slowly reddening skin will likely look and feel badly sunburned by the end. (If I’m lucky, that will be the worst that happens to my skin.) And though radiation-fatigue is nothing like chemo-fatigue, I can expect a steady decline by around week four.

I’ve learned a long list of lifetime risks, and I’ve learned that they usually cross my mind when I’m lying on the radiation table, but that otherwise, I am pretty good about not thinking about them.

I’ve learned that radiation dehydrates, which is why they think I was having such severe head rushes—and severe changes in my blood pressure and oxygen levels—every time I sat or stood up. (On doctor’s orders, I spent a couple of days guzzling Gatorade, which seems to have fixed me right up.)

I’ve learned to protect my radiated skin from the sun; that swimming in fresh water may or may not be okay depending on how my skin reacts; that sitting in a wet suit is a no-no, as is going in chlorinated pools. I’ve learned which lotions are okay to use, and to apply them three times a day but not for at least four hours before radiation, or they need to clean it off before my treatment.

I’ve learned once again that kindness buoys me, and that the radiation suite at Cooley Dickinson Hospital is full of kindness, so that most days, I come and go with a smile and a heart full of gratitude, because I am seemingly surrounded by angels who are carrying me through this doozy of a brain-growing experience.

(By the way, I’ve also learned that chemo-brain is real, so it’s a good thing there’s some new knowledge coming in, since it seems a lot of the old knowledge–i.e. my vocabulary along with my ability to orally string words together into coherent sentences–is seeping out.)

Roller Coaster

These days, I feel like my friend’s almost-teenage daughter who says, “I can’t stop crying, and I don’t know why!” I feel like myself at fifteen when I used to slam doors and stomp on stairs and sometimes even scream, “I hate you!” at my mother. I feel like a roller coaster, up and down, round and round; like 100 marbles spilling and spinning on a hard floor; like the site of an alien invasion or a hostile takeover or a tornado.

One day, I’m my happy self. The next, so full of rage I can’t stand to be in my own skin. One hour, sitting in sadness. The next, laughing.

I assume this is the Tamoxifen taking my body by storm. (Tamoxifen blocks the hormones that fed my estrogen and progesterone positive cancer. I’ll be taking it for the next five to ten years–but hopefully adjusting to it much sooner than that!) People have reminded me that I have other good reason to be angry and sad and anxious. (Breast cancer; and months and months of breast cancer treatment.) While I do not doubt that there are many factors at play, whatever is happening with my emotional body somehow feels physical, chemical.

The good news is, I’m not depressed. I feel further and further away from that deep, dark, hole I was in a couple of weeks ago. Sure, I feel a little crazy! Sure, I feel totally at the mercy of the wind. (What new emotion is going to blow in now?) But maybe because I’m not 15 anymore, I’m better able to enjoy the good and let the harder stuff pass on through me. At least, that’s what I’m trying to do.

Several weeks ago, in response to one of my posts, my mom sent me this card.

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In this moment, when the wind is calm, I feel like, “Okay, so I’m a little emotionally unstable these days, I can roll with that.” But when the wind picks a more challenging pace or direction, it does get harder to not kick and scream and fight back.

I’ve been working extra hard (with very mixed results) on letting the wind carry me—working hard not just because of whatever is happening emotionally, but because this is a week of huge transition, and for me, transitions often lead to grasping. To me wanting things to slow down or stop or be a certain way. And so I keep whispering to myself, “Trust. Let go. Trust. Let go.”

Transition #1: The end of school for my kids, which is bittersweet: As always, I welcome summer, but it feels especially hard to let go of 1st and 3rd grades (and of Sophie’s and Harrison’s amazing teachers). As I anxiously anticipated the last day of school (yesterday), I realized that part of my grasping is because I feel I’ve missed out on so much of the school year. And now “poof,” it’s over, my kids are a year older, and we’ll never get this time back.

Transition #2: My parents fly back to California tomorrow. What do I say about my amazing parents? They both put their own lives on hold so Josh and I could move forward with ours. When I was first diagnosed with breast cancer in October, Josh was in his second and final year of an extremely intensive graduate program to become a Physician Assistant. We assumed he’d defer for a year, but instead, my parents moved in with us to take care of the kids and of me through those awful months of chemotherapy and then again for those awful weeks of recovering fromImage 2 surgery. (And today we all screamed with joy because Josh passed his Boards and is now a certified PA! I am in awe of my husband and more in love than ever—what he accomplished amidst my breast cancer, and all of it while also being here for me every step of the way.)

I am also down on my knees grateful to my parents (who are long divorced, by the way, but neither of them could stay away, and so they—we—made it work, beautifully, all of us under the same roof for two months in the winter and another two months this spring). My parents who have been parents to my own children these past months, doing everything that needed to be done for a 6 and a 9 year old. My parents who have helped parent me back to health, doing everything that needed to be done for a 40 year old women with two young children and breast cancer. Thank you, Mama and Poppy.

Transition #3 has been less of a transition and more a time of uncertainty, as I met with various doctors to figure out when and where and for how long I would be doing radiation—and feeling like my life was once again on hold until I figured it all out. Yesterday I got the news: I can do radiation at my local hospital. I start on Monday and will go every weekday for 28 days.

My goal now is to let the wind carry me there and back and wherever else it wants me to go. My goal is to minimize the grasping, the door slamming, the roller coaster rides—but also to try and go easy on myself, knowing it ain’t always easy to keep steady in a storm.

Pathology Report, Birthdays, Doctors I Adore, and Breast Cancer Be Damned

I realize that a couple of posts ago I wrote about needing radiation without explaining why, which I will attempt to do now. The good news is that the results of my post-surgery pathology report are positive (or so I understand—after getting a medical run-down of the report, I did need to ask, “So, is that good news or bad?”).

As far as the doctors know, they removed whatever cancer remained—and what remained was much smaller than what the MRI showed pre-chemo, meaning I responded well to the chemo. They got “good margins,” meaning there was a good buffer of cancer-free tissue surrounding the extracted, cancerous tissue, reducing concerns about any lingering cancer cells being left behind. There was no cancer in my lymph nodes. There was, however, scarring in one of my lymph nodes, which is a sign that there might have been cancer there before the chemo eradicated it. Which is both good news and bad: good, of course, that the cancer has been eradicated; bad because knowing it might have been in one of my lymph nodes was the tipping point for needing radiation. (Though my understanding now—which was not my understanding in October when Josh and I first met with the radiation oncologist—is that radiation likely would have been recommended regardless, because of how young I am and how wide-spread the cancer was throughout my left breast.) The radiation is meant to kill any free-floating cancer cells that might remain.

What else is going on this week? Pretty much I alternate between tears and rage; bed and couch (or a doctor’s office).

My baby girl (who isn’t a baby anymore) turns 7 on Saturday, and I always make a big deal out of birthdays. But this year, it looks like I won’t be able to pull off very much. On Tuesday night, I was slammed with pain like I hadn’t felt since the hours just after my surgery. As careful as I thought I was being, apparently I overdid it. So I’m back on more or less total bed rest. I must have slept for 20 hours yesterday, all doped up again on pain meds. I’m feeling better physically today but terrified about doing too much and hence 1) postponing my healing even more and 2) missing out altogether on Sophie’s birthday celebrations.

I can’t say that the increased pain, bed rest and narcotics have done much to improve my emotional state.

I saw my oncologist, Dr. Katz, on Tuesday, who is starting me on my 10 years of Tamoxfin. Maybe it won’t be a big deal at all. Or maybe it’ll give me massive mood swings and hot flashes to top off all the other joys of the last seven months.

When I asked about our next appointment, she said she’d see me again in about 3 months. “Three months?!” I exclaimed, with great disappointment. (I would rather 3 weeks. Or 3 days.) I really like Dr. Katz. She is smart and direct and patient and kind and makes me feel like I am not only in the best of hands, but that I am a real-life human being about whom she genuinely cares. I actually look forward to seeing her, which is a big deal, because I can’t think of when else I’ve looked forward to going to the doctor.

Though I might be looking forward to seeing Dr. Parikh, my plastic surgeon, tomorrow. (I say “might” only because I’m pretty sure he’s going to tell me he can’t take out my surgical drain yet, which brings me back to the tears, rage, couch and bed.) I like him as much as I like Dr. Katz: a lot. The first time I met him, he blew apart all my stereotypes about plastic surgeons. He, too, is kind and patient and humane on top of very smart and very good at his job. What ultimately put me at ease about my surgery was knowing he would be in the room with me. (Which is to say nothing at all negative about the surgeon who performed my mastectomy. He, too, struck me as surprisingly kind and gentle for a surgeon—there I am exposing my stereotypes again—and he apparently did an excellent job. I would recommend him (Dr. Arenas) in a heartbeat. But I only met him once, briefly, whereas I met with, emailed with, even ran into Dr. Parikh often; which is why his presence, like Dr. Katz’s, feels like a safe place for me to land these days.)

ImageMy bed is a safe place to land, as well, but I sure am getting sick of it. Why this didn’t happen during chemo, I don’t know. Why I traveled through the first 6 months of treatment feeling more or less okay (and sometimes even strangely wonderful) emotionally, and am now hitting a wall, hard, I don’t know. But that I am: hitting a wall, hard. I am sick of the inside of my house. Sick of being so unavailable to my kids. Sick of feeling crappy. Sick, sick, sick of breast cancer. (Thanks, Greg, for the “screw cancer” poster.)

The End of Chemo: Reflections, Remembrances and Readying for the World

Yesterday was my last chemotherapy appointment. After 4 ½ months and 16 infusions, I am finished with the first phase of my breast cancer treatment. For the past week, I have been battling severe, free-floating anxiety, which I now think had as much to do with the anticipation of this new change in my life as it did with all of the life-details to which I was attributing the stress. As mentioned in my last post, reaching this momentous occasion has been bittersweet. (In a much earlier post, I write about the mixed feelings many people experience as and after they finish cancer treatment.) Bittersweet because it means saying good-bye to all of the caretakers I’ve gotten to know at the Cancer Center; good-bye to Maggie’s packages of delight; good-bye to my routine.

But last night I realized that there is something much bigger burning beneath the surface. The end of chemo brings with it yet another significant and in many ways unknown life change, much the same way my cancer diagnosis did. With any significant change, uncertainties abound: What now? And, What do I want now? And, How do I actually make happen what I want now?  The unknown is, in and of itself, often scary (even when it is also exciting).

But it’s more than facing the unknown.

When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, all of the unknowns swirled around inside of me as my life transformed in ways that sent me INWARDS. Into my house, into myself. I was too sick to work, to socialize, to go outdoors.

With the end of chemotherapy, all of the uncertainties are once again swirling, but this time, as life is sending me back OUT. OUT into the world. And despite the fact that there are many ways in which I have always loved going OUT—love socializing, love traveling, love collaborating, love making new connections—going out into the world has also always come with a degree of fear.

Almost every morning, when I bring my 6-year-old Sophie to school (or say good-bye before sending her off with someone else), she clings for one more hug, often her eyes well with tears, she braces herself to leave my side and venture out into the world on her own. Amazingly, she goes; never has she grabbed hold and begged and cried (for which I have the deepest awe and respect). (Thankfully, it only takes her a couple of minutes to feel settled and safe in her classroom.) I understand her lingering completely–which only deepens my respect and awe. As a young child, I also struggled with school mornings—and then as an adult, with work mornings. I have always awoken to those mornings with a sense of loneliness and a touch of fear in my gut. I have always had to brace myself to face the wide and scary world on my own.

I think I am bracing myself now.

As I brace myself, I know that I desperately want to hold onto what I’ve learned these last several months about who I am, who I want to be, how I want to live. And I know it is much harder (at least for me) to stay grounded and true to myself when I also need to navigate the wide world and all of life’s realities.

But perhaps this is the meaning of life. Perhaps we—perhaps I—am here to find my truth, and then find ways to live that truth, not in a bubble, but in the day-to-day, real-life, wide and scary world.

Already I am feeling so much more grounded than I did over the past week. Perhaps it’s the newfound clarity rising to the surface. Perhaps it’s simply getting past the anticipation of the end of chemo and to the actual end of chemo. Whatever the reason, I am relieved and grateful to be more comfortable in my body (that the intense anxiety has eased for now). I am also feeling more excitement than fear (in this moment, at least! who knows what the next moment or tomorrow will bring!) about whatever might come next.

Before I close the door on my chemotherapy, I want to look back and remember and share with you the many wonderful people who took me to, and took care of me, during my 16 infusions.

Jen (on the right), my regular chemo nurse, who, after years as a hospice nurse, knew well how IMG_0420to take care of people in the midst of major life challenges and changes. Over the last several months, I learned about her four children and her police officer husband and her love of reading.

And Joanne (to my left), longtime nurse who then turned massage therapist about 20 years ago, after caring for her 6-year daughter old when she was diagnosed with cancer. (Her daughter is now 28 and healthy as can be.) Most weeks, Joanne would massage my shoulders or my face or twice, my feet, while we slowly got to know about one another’s lives and hopes and fears.

IMG_0518Kayla, who always took my vitals with a smile and brought me a warm blanket and chatted with me about our weekends and our children and made me feel welcome and safe and seen.

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Annie (aka “Borgy”), whom I designated as my god-mother when I was nine (despite the fact that she is Jewish, and I have never been religious); and whom I’ve always referred to as “another mother” to me, since she has known and loved and cared for me since the day I was born. She traveled 2 hours from Hunter Mountain—twice—to take me to chemo (and to take care of me during the aftermath). (Unfortunately, I don’t have any pictures of us during this time, but here’s a picture of her:)

Jenae, soul-friend-extraordinaire, who traveled three hours from Brooklyn to take IMG_3116care of me in the days before my parents arrived. During that time, she took me for my post-chemo fluids and steroids, which was identical to a chemo visit aside from what they were pumping into my veins, so I’m including her here (with a pre-chemo photo of us; she’s on the right).

IMG_0261My parents, Sula (aka “Amma”) and Harvey (aka “Zayde”) who took me to the bulk of my infusions, where we usually talked, sometimes did a bit of reading, very occasionally watched TV when I was too zonked to do anything else, and then toward the end, discovered the joys of travel Scrabble at chemo infusions!

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Maggie, my soul-mate, sister-friend for the last twenty-plus years (and the giver of all those chemo gifts), was usually teaching 2nd grade when I was at chemo, but thankfully had the chance to take me when she was on school break… and then Josh, who was doing a rotation next door, surprised us on his lunch break!

And my other (in addition to Maggie) nearest and dearest Northampton friends (who did so much more these past several months than take me to chemo):

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Hannah Ray! (left) and Keegan (right)

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Angela and Clover (left) and Jen and Nunia (right)

And I have to tuck in Jain here. Even though she never officially tookImage 3me to chemo, she did pop in for visits before and after and in between her midwifery shifts next door. (Again, no chemo picture, but here we are at an American Hustle dress-up party—Jain is the curly red head on the right of me in a wig.)

The end of chemotherapy brings other endings, as well.

One more chemo to go! The feeling is bittersweet (similar to what I wrote about in an earlier post), for there is so much more that will end along with the chemicals pumping through my body: Weekly visits with the nurses I have slowly come to know over the last almost-five months. Three hours of quiet quality time in the middle of the day with whomever brings me. My current routine. And the weekly delivery from dear friends-family, Maggie and Barry.

IMG_0115The first time I went to chemo, Maggie sent me with a bag of gifts, each one individually wrapped with a time taped to the front—my instruction for when to open it, one every 30 minutes for the duration of my infusion. A bright green blanket; a dozen paper hearts, decorated by the family (her and Barry; Owen and Henry) and strung on a piece of ribbon; lip balm; a clementine with a glitter-heart stuck to the peel; the coziest of socks. It was just the thing Maggie would do. The sort of thing we’ve been doing for each other for 20 years now.

A week later, another bag of gifts arrived (once again delivered by Barry on his way to work) and it dawned on me that she might try to do this every time I went to chemo. “Maggie,” I explained, “It’s too much!” After all, I had four and a half months and 15 infusions to go. (And she had a 60-hour-a-week teaching job, twin 5 year olds, a husband, a home, my Caring Bridge site to manage, chronic Lyme disease and friends other than me.) But chemo-day after chemo-day, Barry would arrive while those in my house were bustling about getting kids ready for school and me ready for my appointment, and he would deliver yet another bag of individually wrapped gifts, each one with a time taped to the frImage 1ont. Sweet-smelling hand-sanitizer for my purse; hot pink slippers; hand crafted book marks by each of their sons; a cheetah hat; a pair of sassy underwear; a deck of cards; a puzzle; a poem… the list truly goes on and on and on. (Here is a wee fraction of the seventy five or so gifts Maggie has bestowed upon me since I started chemo in November.)

IMG_0259Some weeks ago, about half way through my infusions, my mom passed me the next little package, and I realized just how much I’ve come to count on Maggie’s gifts. “I know I’ve been encouraging you to stop,” I told her later. “But now I don’t think you can.” I’ve come to depend on those packages over the last few months like I’ve come to depend on Maggie over the last two decades.

Even though I will be saying good-bye to the bag of goodies when I say good-bye to chemotherapy, thanks to the chemotherapy, it looks like I won’t have to say good-bye to Maggie anytime soon.

A fight with Josh, my bald-head, and being in love

Josh and I had one of our rare “fights” a couple of weeks ago. “Fights” in quotes because I’m not sure we can really call it a fight. Our “fights” tend to be more of a brief turning away from the other: someone snaps, the other person snaps back or storms off, and usually within the hour, there’s an apology, an explanation of what was really going on beneath the snap, a hug, a commitment to be more this or less that with one another, a mutual acknowledgement of how much we love each other and of how very lucky we are to have what we have—including a relationship that is filled with passion but not much turbulence.

When we got married 10 years ago, we each wrote a letter to the other which we shared for the first time during our ceremony. In my letter to Josh, I included part of a journal entry that I had written nearly four years prior, on February 1, 2000: I have been deeply affected by someone today, and it is almost unfamiliar, the intensity of it. I am deeply aware of how other-worldly this thing feels. “I could go places with you,” I said. And I feel that so completely, it is startling. My eyes have been opened to something. I have seen what is possible.

 For fifteen years now, Josh and I have been nurturing “what is possible,” and perhaps that is why, where we once slammed doors and screamed at the tops of our lungs and stomped around in anger and in hurt for hours (days?) on end, we now move in and out of our shared and individual space with much more compassion and forgiveness and grace.

Which doesn’t keep us from hurting one another now and again, sometimes intentionally, sometimes because of a temporary lack of awareness, of which we were both guilty during this most recent fight.

We were getting ready to go out to a party. A real-life, actual party, which is the opposite of what I’ve been interested in doing these days; despite the fact that I have always loved a good party, lately, the thought of big crowds and small talk has been at the bottom of my wish list. So I wasn’t going to go. But Josh would be playing music (guitar, singing), and I didn’t want to miss it. And as the party came up in conversation with this dear friend and that dear friend, I found myself getting excited for something like this for the first time since my breast cancer diagnosis.

So here I was getting ready for my first big party in months, and I didn’t know what to do about my hair—or lack thereof. At first I planned to wear the wig I bought months ago only because it was covered by my insurance. The wig that I have only donned once since losing my hair in the beginning of December because it makes me feel like an imposter, like I am trying to be someone else, someone without cancer. (Which, let me be clear, I think is absolutely, positively, 1000% appropriate and understandable: that someone with cancer and without hair would want to sport a wig and move through the world as NOT a sick person. But for whatever reason I have yet to fully understand, wearing a wig—unless it’s an obviously-not-real-hair-bright-purple-wig—has not been for me.)

I didn’t want to wear the wig. I wanted to wear nothing (on my head, that is). But I was terrified to wear nothing. It’s been below freezing for months now. I cover my head everywhere I go, inside or out, with either a winter cap or what I refer to as a “cancer hat,” so that now I feel utterly naked with my head exposed. And yet, it has started to feel important to expose my head. Soon it won’t be freezing; and already, there have been times when I have been hot but have hesitated to remove my hat. I don’t want to be hot because I am afraid to remove my hat. I don’t want to do or not do anything because I am afraid. (As I write this, I am compelled to share the fact that twenty or so years ago, I shaved my head by choice… though “shaving” really meant the closest of buzz cuts. I tried unsuccessfully to pull up a photo. Picture me with chubby cheeks and black stubble across my scalp…. which now compels me to to share that today, my slowly-growing-back-hair is almost entirely white.)

So as I stood in front of the mirror a few Saturdays ago, putting my wig on, pulling it off, putting it on, pulling it off, I was trying to figure out whether I had the courage to “own” my bald head. And when I turned to Josh, asking him what he thought about me going to the party bald, he hesitated and gave a mild, “Whatever you want to do, honey.” That’s it: a little hesitation and a mild response, that was all it took for me to shut down. I went silent and cold (but still bald! I’m proud of that!), and we kissed our kids and my mom and left the house knowing we were in one of our fights.

As planned, we stopped for a drink, just the two of us, and this is what transpired: Josh, my love, my love, explained what was behind his cool response. That every time he sees me with my “cancer hat,” he sees his mom, who wore a similar hat before she died of ovarian cancer nearly seven years ago, at the age of 63. That of course he thinks I should go bald if I want to go bald, that he thinks I’m beautiful and courageous and strong. But that sometimes, he wants to forget that I have cancer. Sometimes, he can’t believe that cancer is pressing up against his life again. Sometimes, like in that moment when I asked about going to the party bald, he wished he could cover it all up and make it all go away.

Listening to Josh, I immediately softened, and just as quickly as our “fight” happened, our fight was over, and we were squeezing each other’s hands across the table, and I was telling him how grateful I am that he responded the way he did to my bald head, because it led to this conversation, and that I was so sorry he’d been seeing his mom in me all these months that I’ve worn that damn cancer hat, and that I want him to talk with me more about the thoughts and feelings I know he tries to protect me from, like his fear of me dying like his mom died, and that I was so sorry I haven’t checked in with him more these last weeks, and that I love him, I love him, I love him.

Image 5And then Josh and my bald-head and I went to the party. And while I can’t say that my breast cancer went away for either one of us that night, we both had the kind of fun we used to have before this crazy cancer-journey started.