I see you

I wave at people when I drive by. It doesn’t matter where I am, in or out of my neighborhood, but if our eyes meet, I wave. Mostly they wave back, but sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they look at me with a puzzled look, as if because we don’t know one another we shouldn’t be acknowledging each other. That’s what a wave is, though, it says, “I see you,” and the wave back says, “I see you, too.”

It’s a funny thing, being seen. I spent most of my childhood not wanting to be seen. If I had Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak, I would have lived in it. I preferred to slip in and out of class under the radar, uncalled on and unacknowledged. Don’t get me wrong, I was a good student, I just wasn’t a very public student. I preferred to get my A’s quietly and sneak on with my life as though I were never there. That changed as I got older, grew up, hopefully got a little wiser. You can’t really go through life not being seen. Someone always sees you, even if it is only your fish (dog, cat, bird, fill in the blank with your pet of choice).

When I got my first apartment, I got goldfish. They were low maintenance pets for a gal on the go. They were fancy bubble-eyed goldfish, the kind with bugged out Marty Feldman eyes. One was gold with white trim on her tail and fins and the other was black. They knew I was there, that I shared some indefinable space with them. Sure, I fed them, but they watched me even when I wasn’t feeding them. They were in a 10-gallon tank, so they had lots of room to roam and certainly plenty of better places to spend their time than studying me through the glass, yet they did. They would hang there in the water and watch me move about, comparing notes on the daily activities of the being that brought them food. I had a connection with those fish; they were great listeners. Then the black one got sick and the gold one stayed  by his side until he died (the dreaded ich, which is apparently a goldfish disease). The gold one died about two weeks later, I am convinced of a broken heart. Her companion was gone and she was alone. There was no one to see her anymore. I saw her, but I’m not a fish. She needed something more. She needed someone to really see her, she needed the one who mattered to see her.

It is an interesting notion that who sees us is as important as being seen, that those who are close to us carry more weight than those who hover around the fringes of our lives. Praise from a parent, significant other or supervisor carries more weight than that of a stranger or co-worker. Sure, there are some social consequences as to whose opinion we pay attention to, but in the end, there is only person’s opinion that should really matter, and that’s  your own. I wish I could take credit for coming up with that, but that one belongs to Dr. Wayne Dyer. I saw him speak several times, each time coming away with a life-changing epiphany. One I have never forgotten is his talk about “the good opinion of other people.” You can ask 100 people what they think about something and you will get 100 answers. The only opinion that matters, though, is your own. Only you have to like the way you look, the way you think, what you eat, what you do. Everything else is just “the good opinion of other people.”

Over time, I have stopped trying to mold myself to seek the approval of other people. Instead, I have chosen to revel in what is uniquely me. It was hard at first, trying to find myself under the layers upon layers of adaptation to the whims of the world, but I was under there, and trust me, so are you. Glorious, unique you is waiting to be seen. And the world is waiting to see you, and wave.

Coddling myself like a wounded bird

It has been a while. Sorry about that. I had to take a step back, do some thinking, set some priorities. What I determined during my hiatus is that enough is enough. I am over a year out from any kind of treatment (I’m not counting anti-hormone therapy, as that will go on for some time) and I am still limping along, coddling myself like a wounded bird. Funny thing happens when you do that, you become the wounded bird! So, enough is enough.

It started when I went to see a potential new primary care physician. My prior doctor and I weren’t quite seeing eye-to-eye anymore. I don’t like  doctors that encourage me to do things that I don’t see the point in, especially when they have not done a good job of convincing me otherwise. I am not the sort that follows the herd. I need facts, data, a reasonable explanation that doing something will indeed have a benefit, not just that they hawk supplements in their office and here’s the latest one, so take it. So, I found myself someone new. She is very knowledgeable, very thorough, and she listens. In my mind, that’s a medical trifecta. Plus she is a woman, so she can relate.  A trifecta+. In the course of our conversation (yes, we actually had a conversation!), she mentioned that she likes to read self-help books and the book she is reading now talks about people who are task-oriented having trouble letting go and having fun, which can be tiring. She didn’t say me, per se, but since I had mentioned to her that my energy level isn’t back to what it used to be, and since I recently worked three weekends in a row (both Saturday and Sunday), I’m pretty sure it was aimed at me.

I won’t admit to having  trouble having fun, but I will readily admit to being overly responsible and putting responsibilities (real or imagined) before having fun. It doesn’t help being married to an overly responsible husband and having an overly responsible best friend. Who is there to drag me off task? Now I have that responsibility on top of everything else!

I could give dozens of excuses as to why I do it, put responsibilities before play, but in the end they are just excuses. In the end, I’m an adult and I can do whatever the heck I want (within reason). Granted, too much play has its repercussions too, but I think I could achieve a healthier balance, if I were to be honest, which I am trying to be. Plus, my doctor wants me to, and she gave a pretty sound medical argument as to why I should goof off, I mean play, more.

Okay, I’m off topic. Enough is enough, though, no more babying myself. A year out of treatment and I am still wafting through a 30-minute Beginner 2 yoga class (Down Dog yoga app – awesome!), because I don’t want to overdo it. Screw that! In the spirit of “enough is enough,” I dialed it up to a 45-minute Intermediate 1 class and it felt great! I did the same the next day, and the next, and guess what, I’m still standing. The world didn’t stop. I may have sweat a little, but nothing to get excited about. In the end, what probably made me feel more lackluster than anything else was those darn beginner yoga classes!

I love yoga. It is freedom, poetry for the body, a dance of the spirit. Bridling that expression, forcing it into a box that was too small for it, well, maybe that wasn’t the smartest. Lesson learned.

Are you happy?

Are you happy?

It is a tough question, isn’t it? It sounds like it should be simple, like a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ should roll off the tongue with barely any thought, but doesn’t. We end up paused in what amounts to useless thought, goaded by impromptu panic at the thought that we have paused to think about a question that should require no thought.

Still, are you happy? Better yet, what makes you happy? Food, sex, a glass of wine … Or do they just numb the pain of a hard day?

We wrestle with these questions, or we stop asking them. One or the other, take your pick. I have bouts of backsliding, to asking old questions I know the answers to. Am I happy? Some days yes, some days no. That’s life, for now. What makes me happy? That’s an easy one. Nothing can “make” me happy, I am either happy or I am not. It’s at my discretion, my whim. Sometimes it’s chemical, eating food I’d rather not confess to here. I don’t drink alcohol or smoke, so that’s not it, and the only  drugs I take are prescribed to bind with hormones, so they can hardly be considered recreational. If I know why I am not feeling like I can conquer the world and I know how I might have gotten that way, I guess that doesn’t make me completely happy. It’s a trade off, a moment of bliss on the tongue for a food hangover tomorrow. Seems like an obvious choice, doesn’t it, when I put it like that.

Other days are just one of those days. Maybe it’s the arthritis in my right knee that as of late wants to be remembered, or the aching in my fingers and toes each morning that turns my get-up-and-go into more like walking the plank. Still, I am alive. Very much so, in fact, with no signs of ceasing such state any time soon. And that, my friends, makes me happy. The rest is just fluff and circumstance.

Nope, no typo there, it is the fluff we concern ourselves with that clouds our judgment about what really matters, the everyday circumstances that we blow out of proportion and let take over our lives. So what, I say! You are alive! Revel in it, thrill at it, enjoy it. And for God’s sake, be happy. There is only one you and only you get to experience your singularly exceptional life, so make it your own. Do it your way, on your terms. Live bold and beautifully, or as quiet as a mouse. Take on the world, or leave it to others. Bask in your glory, celebrate your greatness, admiral your own destiny.

No matter what the aches and pains, heartache or heartbreak, create your own happiness, be your own happiness, and you will find that happiness will follow you like a kite, ever more.



image credit – no rules, no limitations, no boundaries it’s like an art. © All Rights Reserved by ajpscs

The sensational sensation of touch

Nothing makes you appreciate something like the potential to lose it. Take the sensation of touch, for instance. The second chemo drug I was given – Taxol – has the potential effect of causing neuropathy, or nerve damage, in the hands and feet. I remember the night before my first Taxol treatment, I lay in bed and stroked my cat with my fingertips, trying to embed the sensation in my brain so I could recreate it should things go south with my fingers. I spent a lot of time dismantling the components of the sensation, I even compared what it felt like to stroke her with my palm, my fingers, even my wrist. It works, but it isn’t the same. There is some kind of divine hotline that runs from the fingertips to the  brain; one, I would hazard a guess, we take for granted and don’t really give a second thought to, until faced with the possibility of having to live without it.

I remember wondering how odd it would be to not be able to pick up a dime, then wondering at the amazing mind – fingertip dexterity at play so that I can pick up a dime. Or hold a pencil, or tie a shoe (for those who still have tie shoes).  I also remember looking at my red swollen fingertips the day after my first treatment, thinking it was probably a bad idea to insist on doing the dishes the previous night, before I knew that hot water was my new Achilles heel. Or maybe it was the best thing I could have done, because I took it pretty darn seriously after that, protecting my two precious hands and each of my ten precious fingers as fiercely as a mamma bear does her cubs.

And so it was of no surprise yesterday, as I gazed at the cloud-strewn sky, that I saw a bevy of bears. A large white bear floated by on her back, her head turned toward me, left paw raised in a nonchalant wave. To the west, one cub cavorted with all four paws in the air, his hind legs kicked toward the heavens in glee. His brother sailed in from the west in super hero fashion, paws stretched out in front of him like Superman, both under the protective eye of their mother.

And so here I sit, sixteen months later, remembering. So far so good, I do not have signs of neuropathy. Whatever symptoms I did have during treatment have faded away. I credit a dedicated oncologist (Dr. Regan Rostorfer), lots of frozen peas to keep my hands and feet cold during treatment (less blood flow to the hands and feet equals less Taxol in the extremities) and lots of fish oil post-treatment so my nerves and brain can repair themselves. Also, and this is an important one, I never, never, never put my hands in hot water, even now. Heat still feels exponentially hotter to me and my hands react as though it is as hot as they think it feels. Eh, so what. It is a small price to pay to be alive, and to be able to feel the world beneath my fingertips.


A new-found sense of self

The other day I opened the door to the ladies’ room at work to find a young gal facing me. She was about to open it from the other side. We spent a few seconds with the prerequisite looks of surprise, before she smiled sheepishly and said, “Sorry.”  I ushered her out as I walked in, my mind buzzing in thought. Had I been quicker on the draw, which I am not these days, I would have said, “For what?” She did nothing wrong; I did nothing wrong; what did either of us have to be sorry about?

If I let my mind wander I can find a place where I might wonder if I should have apologized for whatever unknown, potentially perceived wrong I might have committed for taking up that bit of space at exactly that time, or for opening the door when maybe she wanted to open it on her own. Then again, it is also possible that I just might have reached a point in my life where I am emotionally stable enough that it doesn’t make sense to me. Even if she frowned, scolded or glared, apologizing still would not make sense to me. I did nothing wrong; she did nothing wrong. Neither of us has anything to be sorry about.

I am fascinated by this new-found sense of self that has taken up residence within me. For the first time in my life, I feel sure of who I am. It has also made me much more accepting of who everyone else is.  I am no longer driven to fix anyone or anything, preferring to let them walk their own path (okay, maybe I offer guidance here and there). I am no longer defined by my work, but rather accept it as one of multiple layers of who I am. I no longer strive for perfection, but rather excellence. I put more effort in being kind than being right, and believe that no matter what your belief system, be it in an after life, reincarnation or that this is all there is, there is no reason not to make it count. Long after we have turned to dust, we can live on in the hearts and minds of those we touch, to live on through the legacy of our deeds and actions.

Crazy, right?! It took breast cancer to screw my head on straight. I really do think that chemo gave me a complete emotional reset of sorts. I don’t know how or why, but somehow as I lost the sharpness and lightening-fast thinking ability that I had let define me, something else broke free. It’s as if as the analytical side of my brain became more and more muddled, the creative side, well, got creative, and muscled in and staked a stronger claim for itself. As the chemo worked its way out (helped along by lots and lots of good quality fish oil), the two sides seemed to settle in and work together quite nicely. One steps forward where the other is lacking, the other tempers its mate when it gets to clinical. They are operating as they were always meant to, in harmony as two halves of a whole.

And so it makes sense why, when I was lazing in the pool last weekend and I cast an inquiring eye toward the sky, I found a flotilla of clouds making its way ever-so-slowly across my backyard. A glance to the west revealed the profile of a serious young hipster, his lips puckered in a thoughtful frown, his eyebrows knitted in thought with a fop of cloud-hair shagging over his eyes.  To the east, a lioness stared me down, her large velvet nose testing the air to confirm what her eyes had seen. So different these two, the hipster and the lioness, yet so alike. One no nonsense, steeped in tradition and responsibility, the other, bucking authority at every opportunity to live a life driven by creative passion and emotion, yet each limited by the small box they have created for themselves. Separated by a sea of sky, it is my work to ensure that the serious analytical me and the creative, nurturing me never face such a wide divide again.


I take the stairs

I take the stairs at work. Each day, up and back; twelve steps, around the corner landing, then twelve more to the second floor. I could use the elevator, but I don’t really like elevators. They have a nasty habit of getting stuck, and I’ve seen way too many movies where it doesn’t end well for people who try to rescue themselves from stuck elevators (which I would definitely try to do), so I take the stairs. I’ve also seen too many movies where people plunged to their death in elevators. Granted, it’s only one floor so it isn’t likely that I would die, but still, it is a possibility, the plunging elevator thing, so I just pass and take the stairs.

I cannot remember the last time I took the elevator in our building. When I had knee surgery for a torn meniscus, maybe then, once or twice. For the most part I plodded up the stairs. Bend one knee and place your foot on the next step, lift the other foot to the same step. Repeat. Fun times. It wasn’t long before I was tentatively trying a more traditional climb, placing each foot on the next step ahead of the other. It was uncomfortable at first, but each day I got a little stronger, a little faster, until I was back to a normal climb in no time.

When I went through chemotherapy, I took the stairs in the parking garage. My husband drove me and we  would walk down the stairs from the fourth or fifth floor to make our way to the chemotherapy center.  After my first chemotherapy session, I can remember my husband guiding me to the elevator, but I wanted to take the stairs. I wanted to try. I reasoned that I could exit the stairs on any floor and bail out and take the elevator, so why not try? I remember taking breaks on the landings as my husband waited patiently for some signal that it was time to exit, but I pushed on. I am not a quitter, and so I clutched the railing and dragged myself up the stairs, taking breaks to catch my breath, but I did it. I climbed the stairs, like I would have when I was healthy and not pumped full of life-saving poison. For fourteen weeks I climbed those stairs, my breaks coming more often, my breathing more labored as my body weakened, but still, I climbed the stairs.

I’m sure there is an inspirational metaphor in there somewhere, or maybe we just cling to the things that make us feel whole, that affirm our normalcy in the most abnormal of times. For me, I climb the stairs. Come hell or high water, I climb the stairs. And you?

The magic of down dog

I love yoga. I’d love to come up with a pithy intro as to why, but when I tried to boil it all down, I wrote sentence after sentence only to delete them again. The reality is, I love yoga because yoga shows me how to love myself.

When people ask me what yoga is, I am usually at a loss for an answer to that too. I know yoga has a history, a lengthy genealogy of yogis that dedicated their lives to perfecting each of the eight limbs of yoga, and I know that extensive scientific research has shed light on why yoga works. All that technical stuff is best left to the yogis and scientists, though. The way I see it, when someone decides to do yoga, they are taking the first steps toward having an intimate relationship with themselves, to building a bridge between their mind and their body through their spirit.

Yoga is a personal journey and so has an infinite number of paths. Breathing, meditation, physical practice … the combinations are endless, and timeless. What works at one point in your life may not work in another, and then circles back to work again later on. Take me, for instance. I wasn’t really a big breath gal, preferring to challenge my body through physical poses and let my breath keep up as it could. Then came breast cancer. A funny thing happens when you find yourself short of breath; you pay attention!  All of a sudden, it was all about the breath.  It was my time. Breast cancer was also the start of my meditation practice. Every day, first for five minutes, then seven minutes, now until I’m ready, until I’ve heard what I need to hear. And so you see, there is no simple answer to what is yoga. It is whatever you need it to be.

Sit in a chair, close your eyes and take a deep breath in, slowly, through your nose, pause, then exhale slowly through your nose. Congratulations! You just did yoga.

I heard someone say once that the difference between prayer and meditation is that prayer is talking to God (the universe, whomever you wish to talk to) and meditation is listening. I like that, although when I meditate I do both. I talk to the universe, and then I listen for what the universe has to tell me. It is subtle, but it is there, if you pay attention. It has also helped me to pay attention to and appreciate other things in my life. For instance, several weeks ago we had a 90th birthday party for my mother. Wow!  90 years old! Right?! She is still with me, as vibrant and amazing as ever. What a blessing! The room was packed with 100 family members and friends. Our family binds together five family trees and four generations. With friends and family members from 4 months old to 97 years old, my mother’s life is rich, and so is mine. I saw people I had not seen for 40 years. It is mind boggling, the great gift of family she has, that I have. Think about it the next time you are with family or friends. Forget about the minutia of negativity that usually peppers these gatherings and take a step back and absorb the gift of friendship and family that enrich your life. Pretty cool, right? Your family or circle of friends doesn’t have to be as large as my mother’s, maybe it is just a handful strong. It is yours though, and you are blessed by it.

I wake up every morning with more aches and pains than a person my age should have. My bones creak under the strain of staying healthy, staying dense, as my anti-hormone pills leach at them. I am slower, much slower, to get going in the morning, to work out the kinks, to claim my spot on my yoga mat. Some days I opt for restorative yoga (fancy way of saying stretching), a gentle warm-up to my day. I take it day-by-day, feeling my way through this new chapter of my yoga journey. The universe says it’s okay, this new subroutine of wait-and-see. The old me wants to forge ahead and work through the pain, but the new me says wait and see. I am taking a page from my husband’s playbook, his tortoise-like approach to life, where slow-and-steady wins the race. Who knows, maybe you can teach an old hare new tricks. I will wait and see.

Yes, there is magic in down dog. It is awkward, uncomfortable and physically, mentally and spiritually challenging. I can remember when I was new to yoga, when downward facing dog felt like torture. Eventually the body yields, the mind softens, the spirit steps in and down dog falls into place. It is an amazing feeling, to finally melt into a space that feels utterly familiar, yet you don’t know why or when. It is the magic of down dog. It is the magic of yoga.

Give yoga a try. There are dozens of kinds, each have a different flavor, a different feeling in the body and mind. If you go to one studio and don’t care for it, go somewhere else. If it irritates you, that’s a different story, then you are probably right where you belong (yoga has a way of working out your emotional kinks along with your physical ones). Here is a link that briefly explains the different types of physical yoga practices. The most common are Hatha, Vinyasa and Bikram (hot yoga). If you have trouble getting up and down off the floor, there is chair yoga. Lately the trend is to do all kinds of yoga in heated rooms, so be sure to ask about that if sweating profusely is not your thing. If you prefer to practice in the privacy of your own home, the Down Dog app is excellent. You can choose your pace, the length of time you want to practice, the kind of practice and even select special areas to work on. I started out doing twelve minutes a day. Anyone can muddle through twelve minutes, right? Now I’m up to thirty-five minutes and I’m having a blast, aches and pains and all.

For the record, down dog still sucks, but less than before. It’s not magical again, yet …

Love the hair

“Love the hair!”

I hear it just about every day. It doesn’t matter where I am or what I’m doing, someone will tell me, “Love the hair.”

Last December, I took the plunge and had teal and purple streaks put in my hair. It wasn’t a whim, it was a post-cancer treatment fling, or so I thought. I survived chemo and radiation, what’s a little hair color going to do? When Jeffrey, my hairdresser, asked me if I wanted teal or purple streaks, I said both. What the heck, right? If you are going to go bold, then be bold! That said, Jeffrey is a master at his craft. They are subtle streaks; layers of purple and teal zig-zag  through the top and longer side of my stylishly short, dark hair. I make no effort (never have) to hide the sprinkles of grey. They are free to do as they please, to cavort alongside the dashes of color. A trick of the light, that’s what most people think, until they get close and realize that the color is really there, and then they smile.

This is a new experience for me, for people to approach me and initiate conversation about my hair, or anything else for that matter.  I’ve always been rather reserved, quiet even, slipping through life under the radar. Now, the day doesn’t seem quite right if someone doesn’t comment on my hair. The grocery store is a hot-bed of people who love my hair. Check-out gals and guys and shoppers of all ages (I knew I got it right when a doting elderly man tore himself away from his wife for the briefest of moments, turned to me with a twinkle in his eyes as I passed by and, pointing to his own hair, nodded his head with approving glee.) Then there was the sign installer on Orange Avenue as I walked back to my car from Orlando Health, and the waitress at my mother’s 90th birthday party who broke club protocol long enough to smile wickedly and proclaim her adoration for my coif before returning to her Stepford-esque serving duties. Corporate titans that populate the Board of the nonprofit I work for and even someone in the rows behind me at the church I recently started attending, all fans. They pop up out of nowhere, all sporting smiles, their day having been brightened by the peacock colors in my hair.

It’s interesting, really, that something that I did purely for myself can have such an impact on others. Isn’t that the way, though? Like pebbles in a pond, our actions ripple out and touch people far and wide. We all know that, even if we don’t always pay attention to it. It is nice to know, though, that I am leaving swells of smiles in my wake.



Fluffy clouds and tea leaves

With the balmy spring weather upon us, I am drawn once again to our hammock. The shifting breeze toys with the wind chimes, coaxing out errant melodies much akin to a pianist noodling on the keys of an irresistible piano; unidentifiable, but pleasing nonetheless. And so, relaxed and mesmerized by the free-form concert, I turn my face to the clouds to see what the universe wants to tell me.

I will admit that over the last year and a half I’ve spent a lot of time studying the clouds that float over my backyard. I have no idea what type of clouds they are, because their meteorological makeup is of no real concern. My interest is in their movements, their layout, the images they present. Yesterday an elephant calf scurried along the sky on his knees, nose extended out in front of him along the ground, in a curious game of who-knows-what. He scampered around up there for quite a while (a still day will do that), before drifting away. There is a veritable ark of animals and people up there on any given day, waiting to be discovered, to merge their stories with mine.

Let me back up a little. Recently, my mother told me that when she was young she read tea leaves. When I asked her if she really could read tea leaves or if she just read tea leaves, she honestly admitted, “a little of both.” I don’t doubt it for a moment. Anyone who knows my mother knows that Maria is a treasure trove of interesting experiences and this is just the most recent tidbit to pop out of her bag of tricks. It got me thinking though, are tea leaves so different from clouds? I can’t honestly say I read clouds, but I will say that I see an awful lot of stuff going on up in the sky, and it more often than not is a guidepost for what is going on in my life.

For instance, last week I saw a Chinese dragon parading across an otherwise blue sky, and earlier this week a wizened old man, his face turned to the sunlight, made a brave final stand before dark rain clouds overtook him, obscuring him from my curious eyes. Long after he was gone from sight, I envisioned him still up there, face basking in the warmth of the sun, while the world beneath retreated indoors to avoid the rain. And to this day, I have not forgotten the pointy-eared goblin peering at me from his perch in the clouds, his gaze as firmly on me as mine was on him. Each of these fluffy flashes of imagery stir something in me, spur a thought I can explore or an emotion I can tease apart. They encourage me to look at things, look at myself, more closely, to act with more purpose.

I know what you are thinking, clouds are just clouds. But are they really? What had to transpire for me to be at my house in exactly the right position and to turn my face to the sky in the exact 30-second span that would result in me seeing that dragon, or the wizened old man, before they melted away? It makes me think, not just about clouds, but about all the things that happen each and every day that result in experiences that would not otherwise have happened. I think of my cancer treatment and the events that transpired that got me to Orlando Health, even though a perfectly okay hospital was just 15 minutes away (note – when being treated for cancer, you don’t want a “perfectly okay” hospital.) All the decisions I made regarding my treatment were a culmination of a vast number of people and events, of information that came at just the right time to provide just the right sense of comfort for me to make an informed decision that took me step-by-step through a process that could have gone south at any given time.

But it didn’t.

And so I turn to the clouds, and I follow the signs, wherever they may lead me. And that, I think, is the most important part of it all. If we are open to knowing, to listening, to understanding, then in some way what we seek will find its way to us, sometimes in ways we could never imagine.


The magic of Stouffer’s lasagna

I am still fascinated by my post cancer treatment see-saw life. This past week I had another of my yuck spells. They come on suddenly, lately for no apparent reason, and are rife with erratic sleep and achy mornings (actually entire days).  Nausea becomes my constant companion, as does ginger-ale and Starlight Mints. Vigilance, resignation and routine get me through the day. I have always held to the motto that I can feel like crap at work as easily as I can at home (non-contagious feeling like crap only) and so off I go, to stare down another day. I’d like to say with a smile on my face, but that would be asking too much. As of late, though, I have found a magical cure for the nadir of my yuck stints, one that catapults me back to the zenith of vibrant activity and nausea-free jubilence. Enter Stouffer’s  Lasagna.

Strange, right? That a food I have turned my nose up at for the majority of my life would be a cure-all for post cancer treatment body burps. That’s what I call it, when my body occasionally burps free some radiation or chemo leftovers that are then left to wend their way through and eventually out of my body and make me feel like crud in the process. It starts with what is an actual body burp. Not the vocal kind, but a silent burp when your body does this weird heave and you pause thinking, what was that? Then go on your merry way, sort of, with the exception that it rapidly become less and less merry. There is this sudden unpleasant foreignness about yourself, which there is, in that there is now something free inside you that wasn’t before. A chemical jailbreak, as it were, because whatever poison my body had sealed away in a fat cell, or wherever my body stows such unpleasantness, is now free, and it is all hands on deck to get it out. Intermittent hot and cold spells, nausea, coughing, aching bones, tiredness with wrestless sleep (not sure about the point in that), it all comes home to roost. It’s like my body is in rebellion, having already gone through all this once with flying colors it is now having a mini-tantrum at being subjected to it again, even though it is in a much milder form. There’s a fly on  the wall and I am steamrolling the house, or so it seems.

And yet Stouffer’s Lasagna – Meat Lovers Lasagna at that – can right the ship. Maybe it’s the comfort of it, soft noodles in tomato sauce with a conglomeration of meaty flavors, which by all rights should give me worse nausea and indigestion, but it doesn’t. It makes everything all right and is followed by a good night’s sleep and pain-free morning with energy to spare heralding in a productive day. Who would have thought it? I could wrack my brains over the science as to why it works, but honestly, I don’t care. Cancer does that for you. I’m not looking this gift horse in the mouth, I’m just eating it.

If I were to turn the tables on my cancer treatment, I would have to admit that while I had a life-changing adventure, it could not have been much fun for the cancer, not that any of us really spends a lot of time thinking about what the cancer thinks or feels while we are trying to kill it. Yet in reality, while I am not my cancer, my cancer is definitely me. It is comprised of my cells, my DNA, albeit aberrant and most definitely black sheepish, yet still, in its purest form, most definitely me. For some that may be hard to wrap their heads around, but to me, it is just science. Cancer is like the bad apple in the bushel, rotten but still an apple. Or maybe I have watched too many sci-fi shows to think completely ill of cancer. There are plenty of stories where the parasite and the host live symbiotically in a happily-ever-after scenario, but that’s a parasite, not cancer, so we are back to the rotten apple. It will spoil the rest of the bushel if left where it is, so out it comes, worms and all, as does the cancer, hopefully.

And so Stouffer’s Lasagna is another happy discovery on this adventure called breast cancer. I can’t say it will work for everyone, but the point is more that if you crave something strange that you normally don’t eat, then maybe give it a try. Make sure it’s not on a do-not-eat list if you are on a special medication or protocol, but otherwise, why not? I don’t eat lasagna when I’m feeling fine, or pasta of any kind for that matter. It makes me tired. When the world turns upside down, though, and everything is standing on its head, I turn to things that normally don’t fit and find they have an amazing way of bringing balance back to a life that is learning the rules to a new form of normal.