I Kissed Banana Pudding, and I Liked It.

I eat sugar. This has nothing to do with triple negative breast cancer, or maybe kind of, but I thought I'd put it out there that I do eat it, in moderation. That hoo-ha about "cancer feeding on sugar?"

Tobacco-in-a-spittoon pt-ting!

People with cancer are robbed of a whole world. We are robbed of safety, of comforts, of the ease of eating anything without worry. We are robbed of a sure future (and I know that's illusory, but health allows you to take tomorrow for granted) and we are robbed of time. With stage three triple negative breast cancer (TNBC), the risk for recurrence is higher than average.  Life's urgency increases and the recipe magazines - they call my name.

And so, one of the lifestyle changes I have made is to increase my intake of fruits and vegetables, as well as green tea. I have exercised my whole life. Reader, these do not make me special and cancer could come back anytime, even with these changes. I point these out to highlight that there's nothing unique about what I'm doing. Thousands of people make dietary and lifestyle changes every day; thousands of people get cancer, thousands go into remission. Ebb and flow. Ebb and flow.

Which brings me to banana pudding. I was salivating over old issues of Taste of Home magazine and found one with a recipe for banana pudding with - get this (eyebrows up and down, up and down) - Cool Whip, sweetened condensed milk, cream cheese, and SUGAR. Also, bananas. And vanilla extract. Gathering all my pastry mouth and lick-the-bowl anticipatory mojo, I baked and whipped up a glorious feast of cloudy sucrose, underscored with the yellow banana sweetness and capped with sweet cream. Dante Alighieri, you would not live here.

Bliss.

Thus, the point. Do not, in this short earthly measure, deprive yourself of pleasures. Hell has levels enough, and baldness makes no saints. Push off the tire swing and lift your feet; eat and savor and whirl at the bar, because you know, you know, after all the crazed spinning, you will always return to stillness, to the ground.

Cancer Didn't Make me a Better Person.

It didn't make me nicer.
It didn't make me suddenly brave.

And if you were to ask me if there were positive lessons, if the universe were sending me a message, I might:
a) Give the finger.
b) Laugh maniacally (cue plastic wind-up teeth).
c) Drive over a rodent quickly.

Which is to say that no, there are no messages. The positive lessons are mostly in your head.

Is this bad? Dear reader, the danger in this thinking is the implicit blame: if there is a message, then somehow you were "selected" to receive it. If there is a lesson, you must be The Student Who Hears. But these are fallacies: cancer is a random selector. It is secular, it is true science. Hear me: You are not special for having had it. This is not so terrible. For me, it was a relief.

And the last thing any patient wants is more health advice, more despair. Walk very gently before you pile any more "shoulds" on the cancer patient's list. She or he has had enough already.

Cancer didn't make me more spiritual. If anything, I'm a bit more petty, a bit more remembering. I look at swimsuit catalogues and envy two-breasted women. They are like birds to me now, elusive, robin red-breasted winged creatures, flitting from branch to branch in a world where it is always spring.

Cancer didn't make me kinder. But it did make me more real. Authentic. Mortality's door, one that before was in a room in my life's attic, is my front entrance now, and it is open and a strong wind is blowing. I walk through this door every day. It tells me not to hurry, but to hear.

And cancer never made me a warrior. It made me face choices and proceed. It made me ill, made the daylight dim, made me weep. These are not the stances of a soldier. They are the stances of suffering, and I do not wallow in them. But I will tell the truth.

What did cancer do for you? Did it change you?

Statement of Limitations

In which we resolve that: "Cancer is fucked."

If you want to talk about how unresolved anger causes cancer, fuck off.

I'm not going to mince words. Cancer. Is. Fucked. And I'm writing with a pseudonym which provides me some freedom to express the not-so-nice lady sentiments, in a forum that I hope helps some of my sisters and brothers with breast or other cancers to allow in the full range of emotions, from the pissed off table slam to the full on crie de coeur. 

My intent with this blog is to document not the "journey" but some small vignettes, pros and cons, and thoughts and impressions as I deal with this disease.  I'm not against alternative therapies.What I resist is the implied blame inherent in many of these: that if only you'd taken more cannabis, if only you'd been a kinder person, if only you'd done more of this and less of that, well....

You know. That is a road that will take you to despair. And that, dear reader, is not anything you need more of. Especially if you have, or if someone you love has been diagnosed with the dreaded rhymes-with-dancer crab.

As for the title of this blog, Chesty Puller is the most decorated marine in all of American history. He also said, "They are in front of us, behind us, and we are flanked on both sides by an enemy that outnumbers us 29:1. They can't get away from us now!" I normally resist military analogies, but this one speaks to me. 
Also, there is the obvious nod to the physical manifestation of the mastectomy. Chest, pull. The side of the chest that no longer has a breast is a line, two pulled segments of flesh stitched tight. Like a tight-lipped smile. 

Or grimace. 

Posts will vary in length and content, and will probably be occasional.

Your comments, feedback, experiences with cancer are most welcome.