Hair and Other Collateral Damage
I hope it goes without saying that my first priority in my war against breast cancer is saving my life. There is nothing that I wouldn't go through or give up in order to ensure that I can continue to be Ike's mommy and Seth's wife for decades to come. However, as I've begun to understand that my odds of survival are good, my mind has turned at times to some of the other, less critical losses that come with cancer.
Hair is an obvious one. For my most of my life, even as a baby, I've had a lot of hair - and even in the brief interludes when it was short, I've never had hair shorter than chin-length. If I am assigned to Arm B of the clinical trial, then I won't get traditional chemotherapy and will avoid many of the chemo-related side effects. Dr. Hurvitz says I won't lose my hair, which is nice, but for me it pales in comparison to the benefit of not having other side effects. Even with chemo, they now have something called cold caps, which have been successful in saving women's hair in some cases (about half). However, I've come to realize that I'm really not very emotionally attached to my hair. Since Ike's birth, I can count on one hand the number of times that I've actually done my hair, as opposed to throwing it up into a ponytail or a bun - partly because it's just too much work, and partly because Ike likes to grab it and pull - and he's strong! I've only kept it long because in my experience it's easier than having it short. Also, wearing ice on my head just doesn't seem worth it to me, especially since I'm easily chilled and hate being cold. Seth says I'll be "sci-fi sexy" with a bald head, and wigs actually seem kind of fun. And maybe I'm naive and overly idealistic about this, but I feel like growing one's hair anew after completing treatment is symbolic of starting one's life anew, cancer-free.
Although we have made no decisions about surgery and probably won't for some time, I am also contemplating the loss of my breasts, even though my BRCA negative results make it a choice and not a necessity. I've read that one of the things that makes breast cancer particularly devastating for women is that in our society breasts are so tied up with a woman's self-image, or even self-worth. Women with other kinds of cancer don't necessarily feel the same emotional response about their lungs, or their bone marrow, or even their ovaries, even though these cancers are more deadly. But to western women (and men), breasts are essential to beauty and sexuality and desireability. And for premenopausal women, they are also the ultimate symbol of motherhood.
But not unlike with my hair, I'm feeling all right about possibly losing my breasts. Mastectomy today is very different than it was in the past - in many cases, the skin and nipples can be preserved, and there are only small scars on the sides of the breasts. Implants are also much better today - much more natural-looking than in the past. I might have felt differently when I was younger, but there is nothing like breastfeeding - and pumping especially - to take the sexy right out of your breasts. Literally minutes after Ike's birth, my breasts were being handled like pieces of equipment by the nurses, and that continued until we were discharged. And ever since, they have been all about milk production. As a breastfeeding mother, I soon came to feel that the mystique that our society assigns to breasts is completely ridiculous. They're just a body part like any other. They are beautiful in their function - nourishing a child - but there is absolutely no reason why they should be either as shrouded or as fetishized as they are. I don't want to lose them, any more than I would want to lose any other part of me, but I don't feel for a second that I will be any less of a woman if I do.
By contrast, giving up breastfeeding is hard, one of the hardest things I've ever done. Over the last five months, the moments that Ike and I have spent together nursing have been some of the most pure and joyful of my life. The bond that breastfeeding has created between us is unbelievably strong, and while my mind says that our bond is just going to keep getting stronger, no matter what, my heart hasn't quite accepted this idea yet. On top of that, I truly believe that breastmilk is the best nutrition he can get, and I hate knowing that he will be deprived of that, even though I'm surrounded by examples of thriving formula-fed babies, not to mention my extraordinary nieces and nephew and my brilliant husband.
Hair is an obvious one. For my most of my life, even as a baby, I've had a lot of hair - and even in the brief interludes when it was short, I've never had hair shorter than chin-length. If I am assigned to Arm B of the clinical trial, then I won't get traditional chemotherapy and will avoid many of the chemo-related side effects. Dr. Hurvitz says I won't lose my hair, which is nice, but for me it pales in comparison to the benefit of not having other side effects. Even with chemo, they now have something called cold caps, which have been successful in saving women's hair in some cases (about half). However, I've come to realize that I'm really not very emotionally attached to my hair. Since Ike's birth, I can count on one hand the number of times that I've actually done my hair, as opposed to throwing it up into a ponytail or a bun - partly because it's just too much work, and partly because Ike likes to grab it and pull - and he's strong! I've only kept it long because in my experience it's easier than having it short. Also, wearing ice on my head just doesn't seem worth it to me, especially since I'm easily chilled and hate being cold. Seth says I'll be "sci-fi sexy" with a bald head, and wigs actually seem kind of fun. And maybe I'm naive and overly idealistic about this, but I feel like growing one's hair anew after completing treatment is symbolic of starting one's life anew, cancer-free.
Although we have made no decisions about surgery and probably won't for some time, I am also contemplating the loss of my breasts, even though my BRCA negative results make it a choice and not a necessity. I've read that one of the things that makes breast cancer particularly devastating for women is that in our society breasts are so tied up with a woman's self-image, or even self-worth. Women with other kinds of cancer don't necessarily feel the same emotional response about their lungs, or their bone marrow, or even their ovaries, even though these cancers are more deadly. But to western women (and men), breasts are essential to beauty and sexuality and desireability. And for premenopausal women, they are also the ultimate symbol of motherhood.
But not unlike with my hair, I'm feeling all right about possibly losing my breasts. Mastectomy today is very different than it was in the past - in many cases, the skin and nipples can be preserved, and there are only small scars on the sides of the breasts. Implants are also much better today - much more natural-looking than in the past. I might have felt differently when I was younger, but there is nothing like breastfeeding - and pumping especially - to take the sexy right out of your breasts. Literally minutes after Ike's birth, my breasts were being handled like pieces of equipment by the nurses, and that continued until we were discharged. And ever since, they have been all about milk production. As a breastfeeding mother, I soon came to feel that the mystique that our society assigns to breasts is completely ridiculous. They're just a body part like any other. They are beautiful in their function - nourishing a child - but there is absolutely no reason why they should be either as shrouded or as fetishized as they are. I don't want to lose them, any more than I would want to lose any other part of me, but I don't feel for a second that I will be any less of a woman if I do.
By contrast, giving up breastfeeding is hard, one of the hardest things I've ever done. Over the last five months, the moments that Ike and I have spent together nursing have been some of the most pure and joyful of my life. The bond that breastfeeding has created between us is unbelievably strong, and while my mind says that our bond is just going to keep getting stronger, no matter what, my heart hasn't quite accepted this idea yet. On top of that, I truly believe that breastmilk is the best nutrition he can get, and I hate knowing that he will be deprived of that, even though I'm surrounded by examples of thriving formula-fed babies, not to mention my extraordinary nieces and nephew and my brilliant husband.
Finally, there is the loss of time - all of the time in the next year that I have to give up to chemotherapy and surgery and recovering from their effects, as well as seemingly endless follow-up appointments and tests. This was time that I expected to spend living my life, working productively and enjoying my family and traveling and having fun. Cancer is so inconvenient! But Seth and I have decided that we won't put our lives on hold for this - we have to go on living, if for no other reason than that Ike is not going to stop growing, and we're not going to miss out on a year of his life. So we'll figure out a way. We'll figure out a way through all of this loss, and hope that a year from now I'll be writing about what we've gained.
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