I have just finished David Sedaris’ class, entitled ‘Story Telling and Humor’ and it is definitely one of my favorite writing courses. I have enjoyed his books immensely and find his sense of humor resonates with me, in similar ways Jenny Lawson’s does.
In his conclusion, David Sedaris says:
“I divide the world into two groups of people. There are those who pay someone to listen to their problems. And there are those who get paid telling people their problems. I am very fortunate to be in group number 2, and there is a spot here waiting for you, when you are ready. .. I can’t wait to hear about everything that’s gone wrong in your life.” (Masterclass App: David Sedaris, Lesson 13.)
I giggled. David Sedaris’ idea of wanting to hear everything that’s gone wrong in life is such a refreshing and inspiring starting point for writing. I think what I respect (and enjoy) most about both David Sedaris and Jenny Lawson is that they both write about all the weird and wonderful and frustrating and disturbing and confusing things that happen in their lives, and they make me think, feel and LAUGH while they do it.
Those who know me have heard me go on about how much I love Jenny Lawson and I just can’t say enough how she impresses me. She is the perfect example showing that it’s not what happens to you in life, but your attitude toward it. Jenny Lawson battles a number of medical issues that on their own are debilitating, and she handles multiple SO deftly, finding the humour all the while. I’ve never managed to connect with her personally but I hope she knows how many of us she TRULY inspires.
Both Jenny Lawson and David Sedaris write not just with wit, but with almost unfiltered honesty. Truthfulness is natural for me but I struggle with knowing where the line exists for over-sharing. I have also been told that given I’m a very private person, it seems an unintelligible choice for me to even have a blog in the first place. I get that. And I wrestle with it too. But like a dog who needs to chase a ball, or a clown who needs to try to make people laugh, I feel compelled to write.
What’s more is that despite not having a large group of subscribers, I keep getting messages to encourage me to continue to share. I’ve always been a quality over quantity lady so even if each post resonates with just ONE other person, I feel it will have been worthwhile.
I feel it’s also a responsibility for me to walk the walk and talk the talk. I have 3 teenagers I try to encourage continually to follow their BLISS….to follow their PASSION. I believe SO strongly that when you do what you love, the rest will follow….that when you do something that truly inspires you, it doesn’t feel like work, it just feels like you being you.
I’m certain David Sedaris would say I could write about the two life threatening illnesses that happened in our family as they are prime examples of things having gone ‘wrong’, but my challenge is that I’m not sure I can write the way I would like to about my cancer journey. I keep attempting it, and I keep failing.
It was a strange experience because my close friends say it appeared like I weathered it with relative ease but I can confirm that was NOT the case. Cancer brought me to my knees and I confronted monsters I didn’t even know existed for me.
The same way I found it easier to be a support system to James after his heart attack and subsequent illness(es) rather than be the patient myself, I find it easier to write about my experience of James’ illness rather than my own illness experience. When I try to write about my journey through cancer I get physical pains in my chest.
Even just the three months when I was awaiting surgery and didn’t have a prognosis were heinous. I could not eat. It felt like my brain and body decided to stop talking. My mouth was dry and when I put food in it, I had to spit it back out. I couldn’t chew it and make it soft to swallow. It was as though my mouth was on strike against my will.
James very thoughtfully bought me some Won Ton soups and I sipped the broth and thought of how many times he had told me stories of families bringing ‘congee’ soup in to the hospital to sick family members. Sometimes I could manage to swallow a couple of the accompanying wontons, but mostly I couldn’t.
No one except my immediate family ever saw me during those months. I did what comes naturally to me in times of intense crisis (I learned). I turtled . I didn’t get dressed. I didn’t write. I didn’t exercise. I didn’t speak to friends. I didn’t eat.
I read anything and everything I could find about breast cancer and reconstructive surgery, and I cried almost continually.
It wasn’t until they weighed me prior to surgery that I realized I barely tipped 100 lbs. My cheekbones stuck out and my skin was sallow and grey. I never understood what it was to feel at rock bottom until I faced the possibility of dying ‘young’ and leaving my children too soon.
I’ve always been a happy sunshiney person and to feel I was losing grip both physically and mentally felt insurmountable. I told James I was so frightened that if cancer didn’t ‘get me’, starvation and despair would.
James asked his psychiatry friends if there was someone they would recommend. There was. And she saved my life.
While I truly love my reconstructive surgeon who is entirely credited with resurrecting my body, and making the arduous and painful process less so, it is my equally amazing psychiatrist with whom I credit saving my mind. My fear of my diagnosis affected my ability to cope, and the medication she recommended and support she provided gave me the reboot I so desperately needed.
I made it through surgery. The goal was to use fat from other places in my body to add some fullness to edges of the breast implants but there wasn’t much there to harvest. James, always keen to make me laugh said he would happily donate the extra he felt he had but that’s not how it works my surgeon said with a wide grin.
After needing to wait a further few weeks, pathology revealed the cancer had been removed entirely by surgery. I was euphoric. Could this journey really be over?! My lovely reconstructive surgeon told me to celebrate, and to EAT.
After almost 3 months of eating so little, I had to ease back into eating and inadvertently created what I jokingly refer to as the “C”arter recovery diet, where two main items started with a ‘C’. It is NOT the diet of champions, but for me it was perfect. I started the morning with a (hot) chocolate that tasted like a melted dairy milk bar, and then in the afternoon I would pick at something very light and have a glass of the only alcohol I ever (rarely) drank: Champagne. Drinking Champagne every afternoon is decadent for certain but if ever there was a time for decadence and celebration, that was it.
After almost a month of recovery, I felt like I literally had a new lease on life. I didn’t need chemo and I didn’t need radiation. And I was being cared for physically and mentally by the two most wonderful doctors. Life was good.
I had started to gain weight and didn’t look so gaunt. Feeling like I had life to enjoy, I wanted to leave the house and engage with the big wide world again. But I needed an outfit. Or maybe it was a costume. I needed a ‘costume of coping.’
I went to the basement and pulled out what I called my ‘skinny clothes’ basket. I put on the jeans and was crestfallen to see the curves I needed to fill them were gone. They were the same curves I had cursed over the years, wanting instead to be a ‘fashionable’ stick person.
James once again rescued me and took me to buy new jeans. Banana Republic supplied me with their smallest size and though nothing could dampen my ‘all-healthy’ glee, I had a new sensitivity, thinking my head and feet looked gigantic. I was a human bobble-head.
Christmas was coming and though I was still lacking the energy to do much, I was excited to have my extended family come for the holidays. James was hilarious in his enthusiastic and dramatic handling of all things Christmas. By his own admission, it looked like Christmas threw up on our house. But I was happy.
Then I saw my surgeon and learned my skin wasn’t healing in an one area where I had lost so much vascular supply. Skin cannot regenerate without adequate blood flow and he told me he needed to take me back to the operating room.
Life was a bit of a blur at that point but I remember feeling so lucky that although there were still so many things that frightened me, anaesthesia was no longer one of them. But it was mid-December and I was worried that if something went wrong and I didn’t come out of surgery, Christmas would be forever different for my family.
Surgery went just fine and I came home ready for Christmas and healing. I caught the C-Dif infection which is no picnic but I still felt like all was finally becoming right with the world. All the super scary stuff was behind me. Plus, I felt like I was looking pretty presentable.
Family arrived and it was a happy scene of holiday jubilation. Hugs abounded and everyone said how well I looked. Then, in that very audible whisper of which only children are capable, my niece, looking at me, asked her mother “Is Auntie Carter going to die?”
My sister in law swiftly clamped her hand over my niece’s mouth and looked like she wanted the floor to open and swallow her.
But I didn’t die. I required further reconstructive surgeries and healing in all ways takes years. The psychological affects of dealing so intimately with mortality has forever changed me.
But I am one of the lucky (unlucky) ones. And what felt like hell on earth was NOTHING compared to the cancer journey of others. For this reason I’m a little reluctant to use the term ‘cancer survivor’, and have often used the phrase ‘my cancer debacle’ which has garnered unintended giggles.
But if the naming of my cancer journey can elicit even a tiny bit of humor, I would consider that an immense win. And if I’m ever offered a seat beside David Sedaris who wants to hear a story of ‘what’s gone wrong’ I’m currently working on other stories to tell. ;0)
Note: I’ve turned comments off on my blog because I was being inundated with spam comments so if you would like to comment please email me. Carter.helliwell@gmail.com :0)