SHOES

I can tell you the EXACT day that I started to care about footwear. And location, if you care.

First, you should know that I never cared much before a certain time. I mean, I've loved looking at pretty shoes since I was little (by that I mean young, because I'm insanely tall. Ridiculously tall. My house should be at the top of a beanstalk tall.), but never realized what an important part shoes actually play in the crazy world of self-esteem.

Many moons ago, I'd blogged about shoes and my cancer friends for the same reason I now love great kicks; very few women like the way they look. Complimenting one's choice of footwear is always a safe and reliable course of action. I realized while speaking at my first truly large event, October of 2005, that shoes are the cancer girls diversion.

When I was in chemo, and as recently as 2011 (when I had a radical mastectomy, after myriad other cancer surgeries in previous years), people were frequently looking me up and down, and that was disconcerting. Having people just scan my body in review of body shape, size and apparel options is something I'll never get used to.

Oh, you can hardly tell that's a wig? (Really, just by virtue of the fact that you've said that means you can tell. Thanks ever so.)

Oh, you can hardly tell you had surgery. Are you done, or are you going to have implants? (Ok, YES I opted for implants. And I'm actually all done. Again, by asking the question tells me that I clearly didn't go with a satisfactory cup-size increase. Geesh.)

My defense mechanism? Shoes. If you've got some sweet foot candy going on, nobody ever looks at your ... well, anything else, really. It suddenly goes from a potential discussion of scar tissue, scarf tying or the pros and cons of silicone to something infinitely more yummy. Offered as proof: my dear friend Mary Ann has made an art form of shoe photography during chemo. 

The quintessential patent-leather-ankle-tie-cork-wedge. Sky high and built for subterfuge. Here's to distractions, and the cancer patient's art of the ruse.

TIRES

I had very little time to spare this morning.  Very, very little. Conference calls, meetings both online and in person with fellow cancer warriors, grant requests, you name it; busy day.  You know what I didn't have time for?  A flat tire.

And yet, there it was, in all of its deflated, morose glory.  I searched around for any suspicious compliments to get to the root cause - I'm a set of rubber gloves away from becoming a forensic specialist on this tire.  WHO did this, WHAT did they use, HOW can I enact swift justice? I'm now arguing with myself, as is my daily habit. Who cares, Heidi, just fix it you-have-a-10:30 call so move it!  As my self contained arguments are just that, it appears from the outside that I am just quizzically looking at my tire.   Which prompts a sweet lady to come over and say, "You know, don't you, that you are 1/2 a block away from a Canadian Tire?  And while you wait, you could go to the Tim Hortons in the same centre.".  Poof, just like that.  Tires and donuts to the rescue.

Off we limp, me and the atrophied tire.  Both of us feeling sorry for ourselves and quite put-upon for the inconvenience (speaking on behalf of the tire). Canadian Tire, for those of you not in the 'know', is a cornucopia of retail, including items far beyond the simple tire.  You could peruse for hours and not see it all.  Socks! Frying Pans! Vacuums, boats, car seats and Giant Posters of Jonathan Toews! (yes, of course I bought one of the items on this list.  Don't be ridiculous.) But the tires are the big draw.  I can tell you this due to the wait line at the tire counter.  "You're looking at a good 2 hour wait", says the helpful young man with an impressive set of fuschia gauges in his earlobes "but there is a Tim Hortons right across the parking lot".  I'm now mentally noting that I need to research the cross-corporate investing connection between these two behemoths. 

To protest my self-pity, I punish myself by NOT going to Tim Hortons, even though I can see it is cheery, sunny and I can see them taking out fresh muffins as I stand in the tire line.  My mea culpa takes the form of sitting in the Tire Waiting Room.  So I park it in a wicker lawn chair (on sale today!) in the waiting room and attempt in vain to connect to the wireless.

And in comes Rosa.  She see the other 10 vacant seats, but decides to park her walker right next to me, and enjoy the other wicker chair.  Clearly, we share a mutual love for sturdy outdoor seating.  She starts to talk to me, and I realize this is yet another moment to just sit back and let the goodness that is about to unfold just wash over me.  It happens to me now on a fairly regular basis, I'm pleased to report. Once I stopped to truly witness the beauty in the world, it's as if I am incapable of not seeing it everywhere.

So Rosa doesn't even put the parking brake on the walker before she tells me her story.  She's 87, and left Italy during The War.  There was a bad, bad man ruling her beloved country during that time, did I know about him?  Yes, I reply.  My family is German; we, too, had a miscreant running the show for awhile.  She liked that answer, liked it a lot.  She reaches over and grabs my hand. "I'm going to hold your hand because you are a very good girl, I can tell".

She: "My daughter, over there, is getting tires" Me: "Ah, me, too"  She: "You know, she has The Breast Cancer." Me: "Ah, me, too" She: "It makes her very tired, but every day keeps fighting." Me: "Ah, me, too" She: "We thought she might die, but she was sure she wouldn't - not yet anyway". Me: "Ah, me, too". She: "You know, my daughter says that its not her, but Jesus that is doing all the fighting really".

So it's at this point that I ask Rosa if I can take a photo of her hand.  "Why?" she asks.

Because, sweet, wonderful Rosa.  Because you have lived through inconceivable hardship.  You fled a country at age 11 after watching family members die.  You persevered though fear, intimidation, poverty, and loss.  You lived a strong, beautiful and faithful life and gave the world 2 beautiful daughters.  You support and love your daughter through her cancer journey, and you are unashamed to say the words "I love Jesus" in a tire store. To a stranger.  I want to take your photo, I told her, because of those things.  I want to tell people about you.  When I feel like I don't have time to appreciate the little everyday things, I want to look at this and remember you.

And remind myself that even a flat tire can provide great joy.

optimism

There is danger in optimism.  If you have a disease, particularly one that has visited more than once, people look to you as a baseline for anyone/everyone else they meet with the same disease; regardless of diagnosis.
If you look too upbeat or 'like normal', many will assume that their neighbor should look the same. We are not all the same, our lives are so vastly different, there is just no way to compare one persons reaction to diagnosis/treatment/recovery to another.  Very recently, I was told that I was told that I was "too positive a person" about cancer.  At first, I was taken aback; but then realized that the patient who said that is struggling with issues I can't understand.  We are at different levels of acceptance, pain management, discourse.

When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, my weekly doctor visits included a) my oncologist and b) my ob/gyn.  Being pregnant was an additional tweak to the diagnosis, but not to my life.  This little fella inside was a good reason to fight on, and every day I woke up was reason enough to celebrate.

It is this joy that gives me pause when relating to others.  I've learned not to chime in when I hear pregnant women bemoan morning sickness, although in my head I say things like "Sister, please. Try morning sickness with a chemo chaser." I also try not to interject when my fellow cancer patients are detailing their woes - my situation doesn't compare.  They might not be pregnant, but I had amazing friends surrounding me.  A family that loved me every day, a worldwide group of church friends praying for me, a roof over my head, decent insurance, a reliable vehicle, a doctor that is the best in the universe.  I had a difficult journey, but had so many other things that many people don't get to have -  I chose to focus only on the good stuff.

Which is where the danger comes in.  I try to find the good in every situation, in every person (even the hard ones), and try to highlight that, not focusing on the bad.  When I'm introduced to a newly diagnosed person, I do all I can to encourage and uplift; but I do share the tough stuff, too.  I've made list of things they will need during chemo, radiation, post surgery, etc.  I do this not to scare them with hard facts, but because I've learned the hard way about what is helpful and I want to make it easier for them. 

My journey was, and continues to be, an intensely difficult situation.  It's impossible to explain what bone pain feels like, for example, so I chose to only talk about that with other people who share a similar diagnosis.  That doesn't mean that don't constantly have bone pain, I just opt not to talk about it. I don't feel that I am hiding the horrible side effect of my treatment, I just don't think it serves any purpose to tell people. I had surgeries, new tumors, more medicine, the works - but each have resulted in what I choose to see as success.  I'm still here, after all, aren't I?

When I am interviewed, serve as a keynote speaker or panelist, I adjust my message for the audience.  Oncology groups want, need and can handle all the details I can pour out.  A ladies group at a church tea, however, might not want to know about nipple reconstruction.   So, yes, I will continue to be that 'cancer gal who is funny and optimistic' (actual title once given to me at a speaking engagment. to my great delight.)  Not because bad stuff isn't happening every single day.

But because good stuff is happening as well.