Washing Dishes

Washing Dishes - by Ginger Hamilton

I was drafted into a war I didn't want to fight. Conscientious objecting was not an option and I couldn't move to Canada to avoid it. I unknowingly stumbled into the front lines as I received my draft notice. "Your test was positive," translated into "You have breast cancer and it has spread." 

My mind further translated it into "You are going to die."

I hate the symbol for breast cancer – the pastel pink ribbon. The treatment for breast cancer tends to rob a woman of her outward signs of femininity. Every single hair on every part of my body fell out. 

My breast was markedly smaller, and had ugly red and purple tracks on it. Then third degree burns from radiation turned the already assaulted breast into a swollen, deep red, leathery lump.

Chemotherapy caused my periods to stop, ensuring I would never again give birth. 

No, the symbol for breast cancer should be a black ribbon or at the very least, a deep brown one. There's nothing girlie about breast cancer.

I was told by my oncologist that if I live long enough, complications from breast cancer will end my life. Of course, I may get lucky and be clobbered by a Mack truck or mugged or have a heart attack. But my chances of "dying peacefully" in my sleep of "natural causes" are slim to none.

I hate the term `survivor.' I hate the concept of obituaries which state someone succumbed "after a long courageous battle with cancer." Why don't they say "passed away after a long courageous battle with old age" for folks in their upper nineties and older? Who says they fought a courageous battle anyway? 

Personally, I am not fighting a battle with cancer, and I am not a survivor. Women are notably strong but I believe it's unnatural and unhealthy to maintain a battle-ready state of mind.

Cancer is part of my daily existence. Why should I engage my own body in a battle with itself? Positive imagery is a wonderful concept where folks picture their cancer cells and then picture themselves eliminating the cancer cells. 

Studies have shown that folks who picture battle themes such as shooting, bombing, and stabbing cancer cells have a shorter life expectancy than those who use less violent imagery.

Personally, I see my body as a plate and the cancer cells as leftover food on the plate. I scrape what I can off into the garbage. Then I use hot water and detergent to thoroughly clean the plate. I love the idea of throwing and washing away the cancer and leaving sparkling clean body cells. It is satisfying and something I can relate to in my external existence.

There are concentration camp survivors. Hopefully, they will never again be in a concentration camp. There are earthquake survivors and rattlesnake bite survivors – even bear and shark attack survivors. None of those folks ever have to go through their experience again. 

Breast cancer doesn't go away forever for those whose cancer has spread. We are not survivors. We are unwilling participants in a never-ending war where we remain on the front lines, ever attentive for enemy attack. 

If you'll excuse me, I have plates to wash. ~ GH

Washing Dishes

I was drafted into a war I didn't want to fight. I couldn't move to Canada to avoid it, and conscientious objecting was not an option.

Unknowingly, I stumbled into the front lines when I received my draft notice: "The pathology report was positive, and the margins are bad" translated into "You have breast cancer, and it has spread." The unspoken translation: “You are going to die."

Washing Dishes

I despise the symbol for breast cancer – the pastel pink ribbon. My treatment for breast cancer temporarily robbed me of my outward signs of femininity. I lost all my hair – my eyebrows, my pubic hair, even the fine tiny hairs on my knuckles sloughed off.

Following two surgeries within a month (bad margins the first time), my affected breast was markedly smaller and had ugly red and purple tracks on it. Unusual complications from radiation turned the already assaulted breast into a swollen, deep red, leathery lump.

Chemotherapy withered my ovaries, ensuring I would never again know the pleasure of conception, pregnancy, or future children.

No, the symbol for breast cancer should be a black ribbon or, at the very least, a deep brown one. There's nothing girlie about breast cancer.

I was told by my oncologist that if I live long enough, complications from breast cancer will likely end my life. Of course, I may get lucky and be clobbered by a Mack truck or mugged or have a heart attack. But my chances of "dying peacefully" in my sleep of "natural causes" are slim to none.

I don't like to read obituaries which state someone succumbed "after a long courageous battle with cancer." Who says they fought a courageous battle anyway? At the risk of sounding insensitive, I cried like a baby at the prospects of being torn from my children and husband. There was no option but to try and survive; courage did not play a role. My heart pounded and I felt trapped, often. My body had turned against me and there was little I could do about it. It wasn't like I could run away; the monster was inside me.

I want my obituary to read "passed away after a valiant battle with the laundry beast." We all can relate to that fight. It's a zero sum game, but we all play it.

Personally, I am not fighting a battle against cancer, and I am not a survivor. Women are notably strong, but I believe it's unnatural and unhealthy to maintain a battle-ready state of mind.

Cancer is part of my daily existence. Why should I program my mind to engage my body in a battle with itself? Studies have shown that folks who picture battle themes such as shooting, bombing, and stabbing cancer cells have a shorter life expectancy than those who use less violent imagery.

Positive imagery is a wonderful concept where folks picture their cancer cells and then picture themselves eliminating them. I envision my body as a plate and the cancer cells as leftover food on the plate. I scrape what I can into the garbage. Then I use hot water and detergent to thoroughly clean the plate. I love the idea of throwing and washing away the cancer and seeing sparkling clean body cells. It is satisfying and something I can relate to in my external existence.

To apply the medical model to my visualization, scraping equals surgery; hot water equals radiation; detergent is chemotherapy. You can just as easily visualize without relating to the medical model (although I am NOT advocating omitting traditional treatment methods).

The term `survivor' irritates me. There are concentration camp survivors who will never again be in a concentration camp. There are earthquake survivors and rattlesnake bite survivors – even bear and shark attack survivors. None of those folks ever have to repeat their experience again.

Breast cancer doesn't go away forever for those whose cancer has spread. We are not survivors. We are veterans on the front lines of death, ever vigilant for renewed enemy attack.

But we don't have to live each day in a war zone.

Instead of battling breast cancer or calling myself a survivor, I have learned to love my body and its limitations. I have a renewed appreciation of the satisfaction possible in imperfect human relationships. Having breast cancer has transformed how I experience the smaller moments of my life. The smell of dinner cooking is precious. Daily annoyances don't seem as irritating now.

Despite my aversions to wearing a pink ribbon or labeling myself as a survivor, I feel an inexplicable connection to my breast cancer sisters. There are as many ways to get through breast cancer as there are types of individuals. Just as with so many other aspects of life, each of us faces our challenges in our own way.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have plates to wash.~~GHC

Note: You can pre-order "Fed From the Blade" (the upcoming anthology that I have a story in) by clicking HERE (new window opens).

A Message of Hope

He Watched With Me © 2004 Ginger Hamilton Caudill

I awoke abruptly from a troubled sleep. The pains are back again, I thought, and worse than ever too. Like a wounded animal, I dragged myself out of bed to suffer or possibly die alone. The pain was so intense, the prospect of my dying from it wasn't hard to imagine. Thankfully still asleep, my husband didn't move. He had helplessly watched with me, both of us in tears, many nights before. I think he suffered nearly as much as I did.

A new chemotherapy drug I took for my breast cancer had caused my nerve cells to swell up, sending millions of pain messages to my brain. Every nerve cell in my body panicked and told my brain to make my body get away from whatever caused the pain. Unfortunately, it couldn't. The medicine had absorbed into each and every cell in my body. There seemed no relief, except perhaps death. At that moment, death seemed a preferable experience.

I decided to try and take my mind off my pain by surfing the net or reading email or even trying to write a story. Millions of people are online at all times, but none of my friends were. I went through my list of online bulletin board groups and read each posting. Cheerful Christmas stories and silly requests from Santa weren't what I wanted to read right now. I felt even lonelier knowing the entire world was happily anticipating Christmas, baking and wrapping presents, while I suffered.

I opened my email. A thoughtful friend had sent me an e-card. Suddenly feeling cold, I looked down at my pajama top. It was soaked clear through with my tears. Lifting it away from my chest, I realized it was sopping wet. Just then, a midi file began to play "Silent Night."

Surprised, I looked up at the monitor. I hadn't realized I'd clicked on the e-card. I loved "Silent Night." It was one of my favorite Christmas songs. I began to sing the words in a blubbering whisper to try and take my mind off my suffering…all is calm…all is bright. I felt as if my chest would burst, and choked on yet another sob. All is not calm. All is not bright. I am suffering and alone! I am so alone! 

It occurred to me this must be how Christ felt in the Garden of Gethsemane when all he wanted was for his friends to watch with him, and they fell asleep. I would have watched with you, my Brother. I would have kept the faith and not slept, I thought. I'm so sorry you were alone.

At once, I felt a comforting, loving warmness that filled me from head to toe. I felt like a cup with warm cocoa being poured into it, all the way to the top. A veil of calm descended over me, and my breathing became deep and regular.

I didn't hear a voice, but a powerful thought entered my mind that I was not alone, I was never alone, that Christ was with me in everything that I experienced, that He would never abandon me. The thought continued that all was well and according to plan, that the part of me that was truly me, my spirit, was alive and well and thriving despite what my physical self experienced, that I was eternally safe.

I got much-needed relief from my pain. The intensity was never as severe after this marvelous event. I was able to tolerate the pain until the effects of the medication wore off some weeks later. The real relief, though, is in the complete assurance that I am never alone.

Spittin' In the Wind

So maybe I've been clubbing you guys over the head with honesty a little hard lately. Time for a lighter touch. Like a lot of fiction, this rings true. It is still fiction. :)

Spittin' In the Wind 

Grandma's clichés got me through breast cancer treatment although I
gritted my teeth every time she spouted one.

Waiting for the initial diagnosis, she told me "waiting is the
hardest part" and "no news is good news." I wept with fear. "What if
I have cancer, Grandma? What if I die?" She hugged me and smoothed
my hair. "It's Hobson's choice, child. One man does everything right
and gets it; the next does everything wrong and doesn't. Let's just
wait and see what happens. Time will tell."

When no news became bad news, she switched to "behind every cloud is
a silver lining" and "count your blessings." I counted the blessing
of no more pregnancies, expected or otherwise. Grandma hugged me and
said, "Child, it's a hard row to hoe but look on the bright side. A
bird in the hand's worth two in the bush." I enjoyed my birds. When
a large portion of my breast was removed, Grandma winked and
said, "a half-pint's better than no pint at all."

We spent a lot of time on our knees during my years of cancer
treatment. When I was weak as a kitten from a series of
debilitating cancer treatments, she said, "It's always darkest
before the dawn" and "this too shall pass." Too exhausted to even
stand in the shower to wash up, Grandma recommended to "give it a
lick and a promise. It'll keep." My hair fell out – Grandma said it
went "hand over fist." When I saw myself in the mirror for the first
time, "bald as a cue ball," I cried. Grandma told me "beauty is only
skin deep" and "all cats are gray in the dark." Then she
added "life's not so bad when you consider the alternative." How
could I disagree?

When my hair grew back in, kinky and unmanageable, Grandma wisely
said, "The devil you know is better than the devil you don't know."
When the cancer spread to my lungs and I wanted to give up, Grandma
urged me to "tough it out" and bet me "dollars to doughnuts" the
doctor was wrong. "To put it in a nutshell, I have faith."

A woman in my support group traveled abroad, desperately seeking
unconventional cancer treatment. She offered to pay for my ticket
and urged me to accompany her. I asked Grandma what she
thought. "You might get left in the lurch. You don't know what'll
happen and you'll be far from home. Grandma said, "Don't try and
shoe a goose, girl. Those quack treatments are leaves without
figs. Your doctor's worth his salt, warts and all. Your friend's
looking for a needle in a haystack. You stick to your guns."

I wondered if a trip to the tropics might lift my spirit. Maybe I
could go along and not take the treatment. Grandma read me the riot
act. "There ain't no such thing as a free lunch. Honey, going along
on that wild goose chase, wasting your energy – why, there's no
rhyme or reason to it. Your friend's at sixes and sevens. Someone's
convinced her they found the Holy Grail. Lord love her, she's
tilting at windmills. I'm afraid she's done crossed the Rubicon, and
now she's running around like a chicken with its head cut off. I'll
not have you dragged pillar to post to suit her fancy. You stand pat
and stick with your treatment. Thank her and tell her no, thank
you." I thanked her for her kind offer, and stayed at home.

The woman passed away shortly after her tropical odyssey and Grandma
said, "Poor thing was only thirty-five and looking down the barrel
of a gun. She got pipped at the post. Well, time and tide wait for
no man. That woman's cancer grew like topsy, bless her heart. You're
different, I swan. Your treatment's up to snuff; I can feel it in my
bones, girl." Later on I realized my grandmother had invested as
much energy talking me out of that trip as she had the remainder of
the five years of my treatment.

My doctor ordered tests to gauge the effectiveness of my treatment.
Grandma and I sat on tenterhooks, waiting for test results. "There's
a light at the end of the tunnel, girl," she said.

"But what if it's a train, Grandma?"

"Don't worry about the horse bein' blind, child," she said. "Just
keep loading the wagon." We spent more time on our knees. I said my
daily affirmations. Friends brought meals, and my treatments
continued. Grandma pulled out all stops, praying constantly for my
recovery. "Give it the whole nine yards. Keep your back to the wall,
girl," Grandma advised. "By hook or by crook, we're going to beat
this thing."

Finally, the test results showed the cancer had
disappeared. "Between you, me, and the gatepost," Grandma
said, "That was too close for comfort. Sure got nip and tuck at
times. Praise God and pass the chocolate cake." Everyone around me
celebrated. "Ain't this just the life of Reilly?" Grandma
teased. "Now you're footloose and fancy-free." I laughed. I still
had four children to raise. I was relieved but the specter of cancer
still loomed just around the corner. "You do your dead level best.
Keep putting one foot in front of the other. Eat good food, take
your treatments, bend those knees every night. You won't kick the
bucket any time soon, I promise."

Grandma left us a month later. Her last words were "nail your colors
to the mast, Child, and never give up."

Now I tell my children, "Never underestimate the power of a woman.
The more things change, the more they stay the same. Don't worry, be
happy. Today's the first day of the rest of your life. Live it with
gusto. Give it everything you've got – lock, stock and barrel." Then
I add, "Nail your colors to the mast, Child, and never give up."

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.~~GHC