The Courage to Connect 4 June 2008

I’m not sure where to begin. As I consider the flashback, Mike’s words echo in my ear, “Can you just get me from point A to point B? Is that so hard?” This year’s Oscar noms were not his cup of tea.

I’ll start at the beginning, a very good place to start. In October, 2004, I participated in “Courage Night” at the Betsey Johnson store in Seattle. I was in my eighth month of treatment for breast cancer, receiving radiation at the time. For my part of the program, I read an excerpt from Geralyn Lucas’ book Why I Wore Lipstick to My Mastectomy ; And promised to pen one of my own.

I moved to New York in May of 2006. Shortly thereafter, I passed Betsey Johnson walking alone on the Upper Eastside. I said nothing to her. Later, I wondered where my courage was when I missed that moment.

On April 12th, 2008, I went to meet friends at the Murakami exhibit at the Brooklyn Museum of Art. Given my preference for train-free Saturdays, subway construction schedules and the size of the schlep, this was a big deal for me. I sported my favorite vintage coat for the occasion – black with big buttons – and wore a smile to match. Once en route, I got caught on the #2, circumnavigating the right stop. I could not seem to sort myself out.

Well into the second hour, lost and laughing about it, a woman across from me asked where I was going, or trying to go. Then she, Leslie, her man, Kamau, and his son escorted me straight to the museum. It just so happened they were headed there too. We exchanged stories, cards and compliments as we walked; I recall she mentioned my big buttons. Leslie and Kamau went inside to find their friends while I sat outside, awaiting mine.

I found them and we took in some art but the place was too packed. Exhausted, my friends and I planned our escape from the mad-house museum. As we debated what to do, there were Leslie and Kamau. He called a local restaurant to secure real estate for “Miss Pixie” and her pals. A little later, he texted me to make sure we found the place. I knew by the end of the night that these two were keepers.

We’ve emailed in the time since and have tried to reunite. All busy bees, it’s not been easy. But last week, something told me to ask Leslie and Kamau if they wanted to see Stevie Wonder in Atlantic City. Within a few hours, they replied that they were up for the adventure. The three of us arranged to meet this past Monday night for the Stevie pre-planning and some post-work fun. While we initially decided on a bar, Leslie asked, instead, if we could make it coffee. Kamau suggested Pret A Manger on 42nd to add to my Bryant Park idea.

Despite a few spills, we reconnected over coffee. Leslie and Kamau are the kind of couple I want to be around: incredibly artistic, they are open and excited about life and their dreams, both individual and collective. He’s a photographer, event producer and soon-to-be-big-time-blogger. She creatively consults, sews and just launched her own spring collection! What a crafty cookie, eh? And they like me. They really like me!

When the Pret A Manger crew burned something, we headed outside. We noticed a crowd forming as we crossed to Bryant Park. It was a gala of some sort. While Kamau stopped to snap shots, Leslie and I scanned the crowd. And there, emerging from a sea of pretty people, was Betsey Johnson herself. I told Kamau and Leslie how I’d seen her before but been too afraid to say something. At that moment, Kamau pushed my back gently in her direction. The rest they say, is herstory:

I told Betsey I was a survivor, too, and had done Courage Night at her store. She asked me how many years it had been for me. As I said, “4,” she said “10,” and flashed me the tattoo blazed across her left chest. “I hardly think about it anymore, honey,” she shared. “Me either,” I replied, “me either.” I asked Betsey for her autograph and we went our separate ways.

All a-twitter, Kamau, Leslie and I resumed our evening. We hatched our Atlantic City plan and came up with big ideas – for business and pleasure – in the green New York grass. Kamau shot more celebs and we peed at the Cellar inside the adjacent hotel. Twice.

It was a night of connection and courage, nudge needed and all. I’m grateful for the divine timing of my do-over with Betsey Johnson. But more than anything, I’m glad Leslie and Kamau were happy to help me that night in Brooklyn and become my friends. Something tells me we’ve only just begun…

My Abreasted Developement 13 July 2007

While I’ve held back in the past on the cancer-chat, the Universe seems to be saying “Put it out there, Pixie.” This week, a friend asked me to share my stories with a man mid-chemo, in need of help & hope, woo-woo style. I know now that part of my journey is sharing my lessons learned & secrets of “thrival” with as many peeps as possible.

Looking back on the below story, written in 2005, I see how it yadda-yaddas past the pain en route to the positive point. I’ve done an additional two years of deep digging since & am now ready to write more from “the fire” that I was too afraid to feel, much less share, back then. But for now, I offer you this…

 

Abreasted Development
My own father doesn’t recognize me anymore. It’s not like I’m trying to hide from him or anything. I just look different. Back in the old days, sallow skin covered my fat-suit frame. My black-coffee eyes avoided others, and I put more breath than boom behind my vacuous voice. Yep, that was me at thirty-three, pretty as a picture.

An office manager, I’d bounce from accounting to payroll to party-planner all in one day. Gal Friday, at your service. Sure, I had big dreams of being a writer or a talk show host. A sexpert really. Advice cum humor. Watch out, Dr. Drew and Adam Corolla. I’d dabbled in creative communications: a comedy class here, a volunteer day at a radio station there. And nothing in between. I believe they call this dicking around.

My latest man and I had just done the friendly-break-up thing. We dug each other but our six-month relationship had dead-end written all over it. He had enough baggage to fill the overhead bins. I thought if I cared enough, he’d abandon it on the carousel. Yeah right.

But it was always happy hour somewhere. Believe me, I knew when and I knew where. I’d churn out the Evites, assemble my posse and welcome in the weekend. That meant drinky-drinks, smoky-treats and beautiful blurry nights.

Off the party barge, I spent quality time with my family. My parents were there when a picture needed hanging or IHOP beckoned us to breakfast. They all longed for me to find “the one,” especially my brother-in-law. He and my sister had two adorable boys and I played the part of the fun Auntie. I loved the little buggers but each trip to their house played like an episode of Scared Single. Lego-land’s a nice place to visit but I didn’t want to live there. And motherhood’s the toughest job you’ll ever love one moment and want to run from the next.

So there I was, thirty-three and free to be me. Livin’ for the weekend with a whopping two weeks of vacation. Searching for a soul mate so I could end up at home, cranky with two kids. Bored with the rat race, I had no faith in the American dream. It wasn’t like I planned to off myself or anything. I just didn’t know if I wanted to do it anymore. This whole life thing. I had nothing to look forward to and was tired of trudging on. Little did I know, life was about to call bullshit on me.

* * * * * *

We’d noticed the lump in my breast in December. “Mac” and I were on a Christmas casino vacation – an exercise in escapism given our relationship’s imminent demise, but that’s why White Russians were invented, isn’t it? We’d felt it, fretted about it and forced the scary sucker under the rug. Back at the blackjack table, we resumed the roles of happy high rollers. Hit me baby one more time!

At my annual exam in January, my GP dismissed the lump as harmless. She casually called it a fibroid without even feeling it and sent me on my merry way. When spring came, Mac had disappeared into the sunset, but my lump had not.

In early April, I made another appointment. I wanted the doctor to take a real gander at it and put my nagging fears to rest. But instead, her assistant sent me for a mammogram and ultrasound “just as a formality.”

The mammography tech said, “it’d be really weird” if someone my age had breast cancer. She was wrong. In fact, at stage three (out of four), mine was a locally advanced and aggressive cancer. Leave it to me to have one motivated malignancy – an overachiever even if I wasn’t. He’d already spread to my lymph nodes. I was sent for a CT scan to see if he’d gone further. And just like that, I got pushed down the crazy chute that is cancer, without a ladder in sight.

Initially, I wished the cancer were everywhere. I wanted to hit Mexico’s margaritas and live my last days to the fullest. I didn’t want to do it, that cancer patient thing. I’d seen the movies – chemo, baldness, mastectomy and mutilation, all of it seemed so horrible. I was no Lance Armstrong. You didn’t have to be a doctor to diagnose that.

Word of my disease raced around town. Even Mac came back to support me in the shock. All of a sudden it was “read this,” “take that.” A cancer captive, I soaked it all up like cereal going soggy. So when my sister suggested I call a psychic, I smiled and dialed before I could say “new-age nonsense.” My very own psychic friends’ network. Who knew?

Cindy the Psychic started our chat with guru guns blazing. She said my cancer wasn’t about me dying. She said I’d been asking myself if I really wanted to be here, to be alive at all. This girl was good. The old me would have called it all crap. What a difference a disease makes.

Cindy painted the colorless panorama that was my life. At rock bottom, I remained blocked to loving myself, she said. She called the cancer a wake-up call. She encouraged me to consciously decide to be here. Just like that. Decide to live. Suddenly, my mission seemed possible.

I became an “alternative therapy slut.” I read every book I could find and if they built it, I came. I had a SynchroZapper to change my electronic frequency and kill the cancer. I hopped on the Migun massage bed train and felt the healing power of its mighty jade wands. I got Reiki and meditated like a mother-fucker on Ms. Pac-Man chomping her way through my tumor. Once a fainter, I got “Zen” about all things medical. Test after test, machine after machine, needle after needle. I never let it see me sweat.

A good little soldier, I marched into chemo hell. I lost my hair and killed all the eggs in my baby basket. I night-sweated my way through four months of absolute agony. But I got myself a couple of long and luscious wigs. And morphed the chemo cocktail into a “magic elixir” with my mind.

Then they came: the desert days of disease. Flopped in bed, drapes drawn in beautiful blackness, I floated away on my percocet pillow. Had I been a horse, I’d have been put down. But Cindy said it wasn’t about me dying, didn’t she?

I made it through that grueling gate; the chemo worked. My tumor had shrunk; the surgeon could save my lovely little nipple. Woo-hoo! During the lumpectomy, they’d take a chunk from my right boob and scoop lymph nodes like pumpkin seeds from under my arm. I covered my Kojak crown with a “Fuck Cancer” cap and sailed into surgery. I did want to be here. If that meant a few scars, so be it.

My oncologist direct-dialed me a few days later. According to the post-op biopsy, not a trace of cancer remained. The elation in her voice told me she was thrilled; I knew she was really relieved. I’d started with some scary stats, which I chose to ignore. Thanks, Cindy, for the wise words: “Don’t worry, be healthy.” And I was.

I got a month off disease-fighting duty before the prophylactic radiation treatment would begin. I spent the first two weeks resting, draining raspberry-red chunks from the plastic tube sewn into my armpit. By the end, I’d returned to work almost full-time, just waiting to be worn down again.

Then it started. Everyday at three o’clock, my Outlook reminder flashed, “Radiate good times, come on” (to be sung to the tune of “Celebration.”) I spent six and a half weeks hog-tied to a table: gown wide open, hands above my head, grabbing on to a pole. In mere minutes, the modern machine penetrated me with ultraviolet electrons.

Finally, at Thanksgiving, I threw myself a “radiation graduation.” Turkey never tasted so good and Cindy the Psychic graced my gratitude list this time around. My energy rolled back into town and baby-soft hair sprouted from my scalp. I was a wigless wonder for Christmas and debuted a sassy new do. Santa brought me all the presents I needed.

Almost a year later, here I am back in business at the office. Cured by cancer, and living the examined life. My free time’s spent being a Yogi, becoming a real writer and figuring out what makes me tick. It’s a full-time job and I can’t get enough. I‘ve traded the pub crawl for coffee talk. My good friends have evolved. My drinking buddies have eroded away. I’m not saying everything is perfect or that I never cut loose. Come on, I spent thirteen long years perfecting the art of a good buzz. But instead of being a permanent resident, now I’m just a tacky tourist in that wasteoid world.

My younger nephew turned two last month. Wearing no mask for my emotions, tears flowed freely as I neared his party in the park. I sported a hot new number instead of a hangover. My head held high, I found the family and headed straight for cupcake central. I spotted Dad first. Well within fifty feet of him, I waved. No response. I kept walking until he finally figured out it was me. “I wondered why that pretty young girl was waving at me,” he said, smiling. So take it from dear old Dad. It doesn’t take a psychic to see there’s a new me.