Cancer Math

Second Exams and What it Means to Lose 20 Years

The unedited journal. There will be typos.

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I found two lumps near my armpit. They hurt. But despite what we often hear about that being a good sign, I know now that sometimes cancerous lumps do hurt.

The oncologist pressed and pressed and said he didn’t think it was a lymph node. I was too stunned to remind him he’d removed those lymph nodes. He told me not to worry. It is probably scar tissue. But he made an appointment for an ultrasound.

In three weeks.

I keep hearing Adam Ant in my head: “Don’t drink, don’t smoke, what do you do? Subtle innuendos follow…” This is not my fault. I mean, not knowing if “this” is anything, I still need to tell myself that if there is a “this”, it’s not my fault.

Don’t drink. Don’t smoke. I’ve taken my medication without fail. I’ve exercised. I’ve tried to find a kind of peace with my body. I’ve tried to see my ageing face as a kind of accomplishment. I’ve tried to understand that the exodus of people from my life during cancer treatment wasn’t personal. That the cancer wasn’t my fault. Cancer as karma is a deceitful way to get out of feeling empathy.

Maybe some things are written into our DNA, in such a complicated language we’ve no real hope to understand everything.

Fate in ancient Greece was personified by three sisters. Clotho spins the thread of life. Her sister Lachesis determines a life-span as well as the tribulations one will face during their lifetime. Their sister Atropos, known for being resolute, cuts the thread of life.

There is a protein that the scientists have named Klotho (Clotho). There’s some research out there about it slowing the growth of breast cancer tumors. But at the moment, it means nothing in terms of treatment. There are dozens of these kinds of projects online that laymen can pick apart and interpret. And there are dozens of projects that will counter the evidence of the one you got excited about.

At this point I am drawn to Clotho. Although I am actually walking with Lachesis these days. Taking the hits, so to speak, that everyone who lives long enough, loves hard enough, will take.

I’ve read that chemotherapy ages you 20 years. I’ve wondered what exactly that means. One article says my heart is 20 years older. That’s a frightening thing to consider. I’m not yet 60. I lift weights. I do yoga. I ran through most of my chemo. Is my heart really close to 80?

I want to ask Lachesis: what does this mean for my lifespan?

And if I have to go through chemo a second time? What then? Will I have the heart of a centenarian? How can that be? I met a woman in the chemo chair who was going through chemo a third time. She was retired. She didn’t appear to be 100. I kept wondering if she was just 5 years older than me? 10? The same age? When she left the room, she was digging her cigarettes out of her purse.

Don’t drink. Don’t smoke.

I’m ashamed to admit I’ve been looking at my face way too much. Mostly my neck, actually. I had a pouty little thought that if I couldn’t have a breast reconstruction because of radiation, they should give me a neck lift. Do I look 20 years older? One article said it ages your skin. Is this crepey decolletage cancer’s doing?

When I google what to do about a turkey neck (I actually typed that), or crepey skin, everything is presented with the concern and earnestness of a life-threatening illness. I wish I could say that after having gone through cancer, and knowing how close cancer always is, appearance doesn’t matter. No, if I had money, I would run to the nearest plastic surgeon to “fix” my neck. But where would that end? Lift my eyes? Jowls? Lipo my waist?

My son once said of Simon Cowell after his surgery: “He doesn’t look younger. But he does look richer.” I suppose we need to admit that that is a discrete form of beauty.

But even if I had all the nips and tucks, underneath it all, no matter what: my heart… my heart is pushing 80. And all I can do is hope that this means my heart is 80 years-full of love, compassion, and wisdom.

Warmly,
Ren

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In Norway the breast cancer organization has an arrangement called “likeman” support. It’s just what it sounds like: peer support for people in a position that is (or has been) like your own. If you want to sound off, I’m here and will witness and support you. You’ve got this.