Day 10 - An Old Photo

Day 10 - a photo taken over 10 years ago of you and how it makes you feel seeing it now.

This post was a little fun. Because it forced me to dig through an old box of photos. The hard part was trying to decide what to share here - a pic of me and my old friend A? Me and the original J*vi? The original Isa? Most of these photos made me smile. In fact, there's one lingering on my face right now. I couldn't find the photo I had in mind, the one from my own house of bad vibes, which is most likely for the best, particularly if I ever plan on running for office.

So I give you this one:


Summer 1998. Lithuania, or maybe Latvia. Just a few weeks after M and I first met, moved in together, and pretty much understood we would be spending the rest of our lives together. I can't explain it - I knew this as a fact before I actually liked him. Let alone loved. I think he might say the same thing. I am wearing his shirt. We are sleepless, probably haven't eaten in a day, and simply, blissfully happy. Hopping on trains, wandering cities, spending a lot of time in parks. Because, well, they're free.

Sure my hair is ridiculous. Whatever. 1998. I bet yours was too.

How does this photo make me feel now? Like it was yesterday. Like sometimes following your heart pays off. Like I am the luckiest girl in the world.

A Little Hike Down Memory Lane

In honor of Breast Cancer Awareness Month (and you know how I feel about awareness without action), I thought I'd pull this old post from another (now neglected) blog out of the pile. Funny how I reference the Inca Trail thing. It really was my benchmark. For the longest time. I thought nothing I would ever do would be harder. Oh to be young....

This post takes me back. Way. Back. But I still remember the overwhelming emotions I felt on this trail when this moment occurred. I was thinking about this when my pal A. had to crawl out of bed to meet her Race for the Cure team after a late, late night out with me (sorry A., but I still blame you), and when my boss told me about her own experience with her daughter at the Race and how inspired they both felt. I knew what she meant. It truly can be a pretty overwhelming experience to be surrounded by women (and men!) who have overcome some pretty tough stuff and found themselves on the other side. Not the same, but ok.

Kind of like...

Ok, without further ado, here's some old shit. And more pics! OMG she's an exhibitionist now.

Cottonwood to Indian Gardens, Grand Canyon

I am a cancer survivor. I know that at least one out of ten Americans can (fortunately or unfortunately depending on how you look at it) can say the same thing. I don’t think I am anything special. I don’t necessarily feel good when people say that I “beat” or “conquered” the disease because to me that implies that all of my friends who didn’t somehow fell short, or maybe didn’t fight as hard as they could. I know that’s not the case.

Having cancer has shaped who I am. It is a part of my identity. But it is not My Identity. There are people that have known me for years that had (have?) no idea that I was once really sick. It’s not that I avoided the issue. I just never thought to mention it.

There are times when I am reminded, sometimes gently, sometimes like a punch to the gut, that being in remission from cancer does make you different. One of those times was climbing the Inca Trail to Macchu Picchu where oxygen is already scarce because of the high altitude. Scar tissue over my lungs and diminished lung capacity, two leftovers from cancer days, combined with the physical exertion to make me feel like I was going to die. Seriously die. Thank God for my patient husband who climbed ¼ mile back down the trail to retrieve the blubbering, shuffling mess that I let myself become.

That entire day I was feeling sorry for myself, constantly reminding myself that I had serious disadvantages over the rest of the people on the trail. That may or may not have been true. I used my cancer as a crutch and clearly it wasn’t a very good one because it didn’t get me very far. M’s perfect walking stick ™ would have worked much better.

That was four years ago. I am much stronger, physically and mentally now. I know that there is probably nothing I will do that will be more physically challenging than the Inca Trail. It is my benchmark. As in, “Is this as hard as the Inca Trail? No? Then keep moving!” That’s my toughy inner voice, which shares space with my not-so-tough inner voice and the virtual jukebox in my head when I hike.

My not-so-tough voice was getting ready to note her objections to the switchbacks that steadily lead the way up to Indian Gardens, our next camp, when I had to step aside and make way for a mule train that was coming down the trail. I glanced up from my boot-gazing stance to say hello and found myself looking at at least twenty women wearing Race for the Cure t-shirts astride the mules. Some had short spiky hair. Are you a survivor?? I couldn’t help wondering. Are you a survivor? My heart started racing. Because I am a survivor, too! Hey! I’m a survivor!! I was so excited I think I was trembling. I kept smiling and trying to speak but I couldn’t. The words were caught in my throat. I am a survivor, too!!!

The mule train passed, probably wondering what the heck was wrong with this teary mute on the side of the trail, and I continued on my way. As usual, M. was distances ahead of me. I was alone with my thoughts, which were no longer mundane. I felt alive, elated, proud of myself, proud of those women. I felt grateful. I felt thankful. My steps had new purpose. I am hiking the Grand Canyon. I can hike the Grand Canyon. I am a survivor! Darn it if that darn Destiny’s Child song wasn’t stuck on continuous loop on Gabby’s virtual jukebox.

I made it to camp in record time. I don’t think I stopped once. M was shocked and amazed. He had barely put down his pack and filled his water bottle when I turned the corner. I didn’t need him to come to my rescue this time. I did it on my own. My cancer wasn’t my crutch; it was my motivation and my reason. I don’t think I am anything special for being a cancer survivor, but boy do I feel lucky.

Day 9 - A Photo You Took Since Your Loss

Here's one for ya:


I distinctly recall pulling out my camera and feeling kinda artsy this weekend. This amazing, restorative weekend spent with some other baby lost moms. I think Niobe was rubbing off on me.

Nothing fancy, but I like it. I'm a little partial to the beach off season. And wonderlands.

Day 8 - a photo that makes you angry/sad.

Day 8 - a photo that makes you angry/sad

And, just like that, I'm days behind on the MEME. Don't worry, I've already received some tsk tsks from IRL friends. And I'll do my best to catch up.

But can I just skip over the rest of the picture posts? Please?

My relationship with photography could be one of the most striking changes since the birth and loss of our daughters.

Because on the one day, in the few moments that we needed a camera, we had none. For some reason, the woman that carries a little point-and-shoot with her everywhere had a an empty purse. The man who takes hundreds of photos weekly had nothing in his hands.

But its worse than that. Its not like we trekked hours to get to the hospital. We could walk there from our apartment. One phone call to M's parents or my brother would have sent them and any photo-taking apparatus we wanted dashing to the room where we were weeping.

But we didn't call.

In fact, we sent both of them away when they appeared at the hospital that night. Because I couldn't bear to let anyone else into the grief that overwhelmed us. Didn't want to try to explain the events leading up to the delivery. I couldn't get my head around anything that had occurred within the last 24 hours and trying to bring anyone up to speed while hanging on to the final seconds of our daughters was more than my heart and head could bear.

And if I could undo all of that, I would. If I could give the people we love just a few minutes with our daughters while they were alive, I would.

But I didn't. And that is one of the most shameful admissions I can make. I didn't. I didn't let anyone in.

**

We have just a handful of photos of Isa and Jovi - one from a camera that a nurse let us borrow and a few taken on my cell phone that are far too fuzzy to do anything with. Trying to transfer the photos from the nurse's camera to something we could use was a fiasco, an absolute breaking point for M, who insisted the prints she handed us were lovely but there HAD to be a way to get them off the memory card and on to one of our computers - he ran home to get a computer and any other USB apparatus he could grab. He opted not to grab a camera because at that point the girls had already passed away and it felt, I don't know, it didn't feel right snapping photos. Frankly, I am surprised he didn't hurl all of our cameras into the river. Because that was his state when he returned to the hospital. Shaking. In shock. Realizing that the apartment he entered looked exactly like it did just a day earlier when all was well. The understanding that everything in our lives had completely shifted, but nothing else had.

So, its not a particular photo that makes me angry/sad/ashamed - it is the lack of them, and the remembrance of my own selfishness that makes me cringe.

We Interrupt this MEME....

For just a little bit of real life news.

M. and I have quietly been prepping for an FET with me.

And last night, after learning that after almost a full month of heavy increases of estrace that my lining is still only 4.7 mm, we decided together to call it off.

We still have time to try a few more days of estrace before another ultrasound on Friday, but really, what would that show us? That it's grown to 5.1? 5.5? Still well below the 6.0 that would usually mark the canceling of a cycle. Far below the preferred 8.0 mm.

It's not about the numbers. It's about feeling like this is grasping at straws, like this is desperate. And that's not a place M or I want to be.

I don't want to put everything on hold only to have someone else make this decision for us. I don't want to spend my mental energy trying to reschedule meetings, juggling more days off work, longing for my morning runs and thinking about all of the things I could be doing if I wasn't cycling....and truly, this is where my head has been lately. After the first ultrasound showed us pretty much exactly what I expected, my heart wasn't in it. And neither is M's. All the more reason to say, hey, you know what? I don't think this is the time.

This isn't bad news. Disappointing, hell yes. But the fact that we could rationally sit down and make this call - this decision that these were not the terms we wanted to accept - felt like a pretty big milestone.

"For the first time in a long time, I am actually happy with our life. I'm ok with where we are, with what we have planned."

"Me too. And I'm afraid going into a cycle where the odds of success are well below normal could throw us back to a place I don't want to be."

"Me too."

"So then...."

"So then."

**

We're not hanging up our baby-making hats. We haven't given up our hope for a family. In fact, I know it will happen. Somehow.

But probably not like this. Not right now.

And that's ok.

Day 7 - Photo

Day 7 - a photo that makes you happy

This is me. Circa 2000. After a day-long ascent up the Inca Trail en route to Macchu Picchu. At that point in my life, the hardest thing (mentally and physically) I had ever done. Because it was all me. It wasn't about dealing with something someone else did to you (chemo, a bad break up, etc.) It was a situation I put myself in and the only way I was getting out was by my own legs.

There were moments where I seriously was not quite sure I would make it to the top. Even gnawing furiously on coca leaves, the altitude was draining. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't feel my feet. And I couldn't understand why everyone else was doing ok and I wasn't and that was beyond discouraging (later M. reminded me that one cannot have a chestful of scar tissue and bleomycin and assume their lungs are fully functional. That helped the sting a little, but not enough) I found it harder and harder to resist the urge to fling myself over the side of the cliff. I remember thinking through an existence in Peru and how I could sustain myself if I had to linger there.

Even with the crest of the mountain in sight, I could not put one foot in front of the other for more than a few steps. I was immobilized. I just can't explain it.

And then M. who had been hanging out at our destination for at least an hour. Who had already done this gruel of a hike and was (rightfully so) resting his own sore legs and waiting patiently for me, realized that his shouts of encouragement just weren't working. And neither were his prods.

So he ran back down the trail, dried my tears, held my hand, took my pack and walked the rest of the way with me.

And then it was over. And then I realized I had done it. We had done it. And OMG the relief, the joy, the pride. It was overwhelming.


This could be my favorite picture of me ever. I keep this photo on my desk at home, which is why you're getting a sun-faded, crooked, photo of a photo kind of shot here.

And yes. This is the very first photo of me that has appeared on this here blog.

Day 6 - 20 Things

Day 6 - twenty things that calm you.

1. Exile in Guyville
2. Cooking when I’m not hungry
3. Knitting when there’s no urgency to finish
4. Kayaking when I’m not busy drowning
   
5. Poodles on my lap
6. Galaxie 500
   
7. Laps in the pool
   
8. The sauna when I don’t have to share it
9. M’s laugh – not his snort, not his guffaw, not the nervous chuckle that everyone else in the world adores, but his full-bellied, rarely heard, eyes tearing laugh
10. Running along the river
    
11. Walking along the river
12. Staring at the river
13. Mogwai
14. Putting the kettle on for tea
15. Fresh sheets on the bed
16. A new notebook (for my lists, see day 12) and a nice pen
17. Reading Lucky “the magazine about shopping”
18. Riding the train by myself
19. Sunday afternoons at my in-laws’ house, watching football on the oversized couch eating bbq chips with poodles on my lap
20. M’s embrace