Heading into my third week of recovery after my bi-lateral explant surgery, I have discovered the truth about myself:
I am an absolute utter and complete failure at the art of forced “resting”.
Now it’s silly
because after sixteen prior surgeries, I understand the importance of physical rest
in surgical recovery.
Rest equals healing. Healing equals getting back to life sooner than later.
But rest, true rest, is so much more than just closing my eyes. It’s about shutting off that internal motor that powers my brain around the clock, creating to-do list after to-do list, until it runs out of gas.
In my recovery, I have support and plenty of it. But I find myself day after day, night after night, pushing my mind at a fever pace to problem solve, to plan, to create, to design, to negotiate. As the lists in my head grow longer and longer, my stress level mounts.
Does this sound familiar
to any of you?
Now you might be thinking I’m talking about not wanting to let go of control of my routine. I’m am not.
I truly have no problem letting others take control while I recover from my latest surgery and I am grateful that I have people I can count on to do just that. It is a luxury I know not everyone is blessed with and I do not take it for granted.
But, somewhere in my wiring, I’m not good at shutting off the planning department in my mind: the forward thinking minions racing around in my brain looking ahead.
In other words, I never fully allow myself to live in the moment when I’m just plain ol’ me, with no agenda, nothing to do but rest, physically and mentally.
isn’t it? I mean I know people
understand I’m out of commission for a bit and they are doing their very best
to help me, expertly in fact.
So why don’t I just let them do their thing and leave the planning department shuttered in my mind while I heal?
Why does my mind race all the time, forever spinning through a growing agenda of imaginary problems and issues and things I should tackle? Why is it so hard for me to accept that shutting down and powering off for a bit isn’t a negative for me?
The other day my husband came home from work and asked if I had rested. I said, “Yes! I had a wonderful two hour nap with the cats.”
I then proceeded to tell him that before that nap with my fur babies, I had scheduled window cleaners, household painters, tree trimmers, sorted through some paperwork my occupational therapist needed, had a friend over, texted with my parents and my brother and one of my kids and worked on my blog.
He looked at me like I was …Well, let’s just leave it that he looked at me funny, shook his head and began to make dinner for us and a martini for himself! I honestly don’t blame him. What’s wrong with me?
Just as an aside, my husband is rock solid when it comes to housework and cooking and any honey-do projects. We are a team and when one of the team is down, the other team member steps up to the plate without asking. It’s worked for thirty-one years and so why I felt the need to push through an agenda of projects that would make the Property Brothers on HGTV sweat and my husband need a martini, I have no idea.
Later that evening, as my husband and I finished the absolutely amazing meal he had prepared, suddenly the weight of all I had done during the day began to feel like an anvil on my shoulders.
Yes, I had physically rested, had napped. But mentally, I hadn’t rested at all.
Uncertainty about whether or not I was going to be able to follow through on all I had scheduled, all I had planned, all of my forward thinking, was like an anchor around my neck, slowly pulling me into the abyss.
I began to cry. I cried as if a dam were breaking and it hit me that to fully recover from this surgery, I had to let go of this idea in my head that just because a part of me is on mandated rest, I needed to activate, full throttle, all of my other abilities, specifically my mind, to compensate.
No one is asking this of me, so why am I asking this of myself?
My wonderful husband pulled me close and told me not to worry.
“Everything is going to be o.k.!”
He also reminded me that I’ve been through a lot in the past three years and that it was perfectly fine for me to check out of the “agenda in my mind” while I recover.
Life would go on whether we painted the interior of the house, had dirty windows or an overgrown tree. He’s right.
I need to figure out a better way to push the pause button in my mind completely. I need to give myself the gift of healing not only physically, but mentally, emotionally and in all ways that matter.
Well, I’d like to say that I cancelled all of the honey-do projects, but I didn’t. The window cleaners have come and gone. The tree trimmer is scheduled to show up on Friday and as I write this, I’ve been sealed in my office by plastic and painter’s tape. The painters assured me they would let me out in five to seven minutes after they get the ceiling outside of my office painted.
It’s now been 45 minutes!
Damn, I really do need to pull the plug in my mind, power off and embrace my faulty wiring, let life go on for a bit without my input. Then maybe, I’ll be able to say truthfully that I’ve finally mastered the art of “resting!”
“Hey Painters, it’s getting hot in here!”
“Guys…c’mon guys…anyone there???…Hello???”
All are Welcome to like and follow PositivelyAnne.
Heading into my second week, post bi-lateral breast implant “explant” surgery, I’ve discovered that recovery, whatever we are recovering from, in my case recovering from yet another major surgery associated with my breast cancer journey, takes an enormous amount of faith in an outcome that is at the mercy of a lot of things beyond our individual control.
For someone like me, who likes their life rather tidy and
orderly, it is a difficult thing to have to ride a roller coaster of pain,
emotions, and uncertainty in yet another surgical recovery, and it becomes even
more complicated when “doubt” creeps in to cast a shadow on what has, in
essence, been a text book recovery for me so far.
I want to talk about my “doubt” because it has little do with recovering from an actual surgical procedure. It’s more complex than that.
My “doubt” has never stemmed from a decision to have a
particular surgery, no matter the complications. Nor has my “doubt” ever been due to a lack of
trust in my surgical team’s competence.
I have been blessed with the best and brightest the medical community
has to offer in every single instance.
Lastly, and most importantly, my “doubt” has never been about a lack of
faith that God will help me or that He will put others in my life to help me. My eyes have been opened to the miracle of
God’s grace time and time again in each of my surgical journeys and in all
aspects of my life, so I don’t for a moment doubt God’s existence in my life.
But I’ve noticed a pattern of “doubt” that manifests within
me during each surgical recovery, that instead of just embracing these things
as my truth, I spend an awful lot of time questioning God as to whether or not
I am worthy of continuing to being blessed with yet another chance at this
crazy life of mine.
Despite my faith in God, I’ve discovered that my “doubt” and
“worthiness” over receipt of God’s amazing grace, time and time again, weighs
on me because I am very aware that there are so many people out there suffering
all sorts of ailments who have not been equally blessed.
And the fact remains, that regardless of being a good person, many people do not have the opportunities that I have had, with access to the best in healthcare, a loving and supportive caregiver in my husband, the best support team in my kids, friends, church and extended family, and all sorts of strangers, who, along the way, have blessed me over and over again and helped me quickly get back on my feet.
So, my “doubt” centers a lot around, “Why me?” What is so special about me that I should be
able to test the surgical hands of fate time and time again and recover in a
way that affords me the opportunity to get back to life rather quickly and
share that story with others, when so many others are not able to do so?
In the quiet of the night, I lie awake and ponder this
question and maybe because this was surgery number seventeen, I’m pondering it now
a bit more. I mean it’s quite reasonable
when you are coming close to running out of fingers and toes to count your
surgeries on, that questioning God about how much longer this gravy train is
going to last is a rather human thing to do, right?
Then again, I wonder if in questioning God, I seem
I am very grateful.
Grateful for each new day and I don’t take for granted anything about
being able to wake up and go to sleep and wake up again. There is a satisfaction and peace that comes
with knowing that’s possible for me and yet, the “doubt” comes.
Although I am grateful, I feel “unworthy” of all that has
been afforded me and my mind races trying to pinpoint the exact moment when God
“Here is Anne, someone worthy of saving, over and over
and over again.”
I have been blessed to live a privileged life and I know it. But I am also keenly aware that I’ve worked hard for it and continue to work hard for it. It hasn’t always been easy and trust me, after seventeen surgeries, I don’t think anyone will have a problem with me saying that I’ve grown weary of hospital gowns and handsome anesthesiologists and even medical miracles.
I’m kind of over the excitement of the operating room,
grateful as I am for it.
As I was pondering what I would say in my blog, a thought
came to me last night that maybe I’m looking at this whole thing the wrong
way. I mean a lot of times when life seems
complex, God points us to the fact that things really aren’t as complicated as
we humans tend to make it, so, maybe that’s the case in this instance as well?
Maybe, my health journey and my role in sharing my journey, including
discovering my possible, is not rooted in the details of my own personal success
Maybe it has nothing to do with my start or my finish. My beginning, my middle, my end.
Could it be that it is as simple as one human planting positive seeds of faith by openly sharing their story of being a broken, vulnerable human with other broken, vulnerable human beings?
Is it plausible that God is using my journey, including my “doubts”,
my wrong turns, my fears of “unworthiness” and lack of value and the sharing of
the crosses that I bear, to somehow allow others to see more clearly through
their own doubts, and fears, giving them the courage to share their own stories
of hope in the face of despair?
“Here is Anne, someone I am using on earth to tell her
story so that others may find happiness and joy in their own journey of
I had a text from a friend this past week that, and the more I think about it, confirmed this theory. She had shared my blog from last week with a family member who was struggling with her own breast implant reconstruction and my friend shared the response text from the family member with me. I will leave the contents of it private except to say that the text was not about the further sharing of details of this person’s health issues, or exchanging medical advice, or about wanting any sort of resolution for this individual. Instead, the text simply shared that my words brought this person comfort. That my words would be shared by this person with other individuals they knew when the time was right and the circle of comfort would continue because I had chosen to share my journey in a public way.
That’s powerful and humbling and huge.
No wonder I feel a bit unworthy of it all!
But there it is. This must be how God is using me. Using my situation, every surgery, every stumble in my recovery, every scary monster that I have faced in the past few years to encourage me to help others to put one foot in front of the other and fight.
I really do need to accept this challenge from God and move
on from my “doubts.”
An image of human hands holding human hands comes to mind. Each individual hand cold, full of doubts, and fears and feelings of unworthiness. But join these hands together and suddenly where once flesh was cold, there is now warmth. The warmth of human kindness. God’s gift to us.
A circle of comfort!
I am excited to share this warmth with my readers, with anyone
in need. I am excited that though I
could have done without seventeen surgeries, if this is what it takes to help
me find my path, my possible, my voice in the world, and in doing so, I help
others, then God has served me
I can only hope I remain a worthy, humble servant. No more doubts!
It’s a strange thing when life hands you curve balls you think you can handle and then come to find out that no matter the fortress of positivity you have built around yourself; no matter how much you have stacked the deck in favor of hope verses despair, that sometimes, you just have to give in to the fact that you are human and your life story isn’t one hundred percent yours to control.
I’ve been coming to terms with this new narrative since this past April, when after another reconstructive surgery to remove and replace (AGAIN), a contracted breast implant and then a subsequent lymphedema diagnosis, I was still in a whole lot of pain in my chest region and frankly, most of the time I felt like a truck had run over me. In addition, I was emotionally drained and felt the rock of my faith crumbling.
My happy go-lucky self had become a sort of hollow shell. You know, the kind of shell that covers a piece of candy…the chocolate rich and decadent, but the inside is a concoction of everything you hate.
For a positivity blogger, that’s a death nail and something I needed to get my mind around and around pretty quickly, because as I’ve said all along, I do not like to wallow in negative space, not ever! At first, I focused on working on a children’s book my friend and I are putting together. But I couldn’t focus on that either. I felt absolutely zero joy…and that was not acceptable to me, if only for the reason that the book is too damn good and deserves a joyful launch. I also deleted my Instagram where I was posting daily positivity photos. I felt like a phony pumping positive photos into the internet stratosphere, when I was feeling so negative about life and myself. My camera lens no longer automatically pointed to magical images of positivity. Words of wisdom no longer popped automatically in my head.
felt, well, I felt kind of dead inside.
I decided to take a break from blogging and writing and spent my time instead on
a quest to find out what the hell was wrong with me.
Now a whole lot of people, and I mean a whole lot of experienced medical professionals, had told me over and over again that my body had been through a lot and it was going to take time to recover. Cancer, the bi-lateral mastectomy, colon resection, gall bladder removal, blocked bile duct repair, hernia repair and hysterectomy, in addition to radiation and reconstruction, not once, twice, but three times, all, were equally capable of taking a major toll on me. It was normal to feel tired, anxious, impatient, wanting for life to go back to as it once was. I had things to do, places to go, this was all so inconvenient.
“You need time to heal Anne,” they would say. “Each surgery is like setting the clock back in your recovery process and you aren’t being fair to yourself expecting things to move so quickly.”
But they had moved quickly for me and that was the puzzle. The physical things that needed fixing I could get my mind around and seriously, those things, while not all easy to recover from, seemed for the most part, at least manageable. You prep for surgery, you have surgery, you are given a list of things to do and not to do in recovery, you obey the list and poof, in a matter of months, sometimes sooner, you are on your way, to a less dysfunctional body. I bounced back from each surgery like a rubber ball…over and over I’d take a pounding and I just kept bouncing.
But I had had a lot of surgeries by anyone’s standard, sixteen in 36 months, the process of prep, surgery, recovery was exponentially adding up to a whole lot of body dysfunction for me, so it was very reasonable that I was hitting a wall of sorts in my recovery process.
Depression came to mind and well, I had days when I did personally acknowledge that is how I felt, “Depressed!” But what I was feeling seemed to encompass so many different things…it wasn’t one specific thing…it was a whole jumble of things that had just felt off since June 2016. I’d have good days, truly good days, followed by bad days and none of it, given how quickly I’d recover from each surgery made sense. When I felt sad, I talked about it. I embraced it, acknowledged it and then turned it over to God. I wasn’t walking around feeling sorry for myself. I truly felt like there was something obvious I needed to change and if I could just figure out what it was, it would set me back on the right path.
Maybe I just wasn’t giving myself enough time to heal properly on an emotional and spiritual level? Maybe I had too quickly jumped into focusing on the blessings, instead of dealing with the real realities of what it takes for a middle-aged woman to recover from so many major surgical procedures? I mean cancer is a big enough battle alone, and I had tossed stones at Goliath’s forehead time and time again in the surgery room. I mean it was possible that my humble version of David had merely run out of stones to throw at Goliath, right?
Maybe. Maybe so. But as I carefully dissected each and every medical procedure I had had over the past 36 months, it seemed that the source of all of my setbacks to complete recovery seemed to have something to do with those two fake orbs resting on my chest.
I should have recognized how I thought of them from the beginning…they were fake. They were not me.
I thought back to June 16, 2016. I remember that day so well. For fifty-three years, I had gone without having a major health mishap. I had a few diverticulitis attacks that were not fun and once had a bad case of bronchitis, but for the most part, my health was pretty much normal and my hospital stays limited to having babies. In my world, you get sick, you see the doctor, get an antibiotic and back to life you go.
But a bi-lateral mastectomy was different. I was going to be losing a physical part of me. An important part of me that had been with me for over half a century. A part of me that cancer had stolen.
The idea of not having any chest at all was really hard to get my mind around given how overwhelming just coming to terms with having breast cancer is. I initially scoured the internet looking for articles on what it was like for women who had a bi-lateral mastectomy and no reconstruction. I had no basis to understand what that meant in real life. But, out there in internet land, there was pretty much nothing about anyone who chose not to have reconstruction. I mean, “why would you do that”, when in fact, even the language used on respected sites like breast cancer.org pushed reconstruction as a way for a woman to “get her body back”.
almost as if in a trance, I began to click on reconstruction articles and
suddenly ads, tons and tons of ads for Plastic Surgeons scrolled across my
screen…fake boobs were everywhere. Whatever I wanted for my chest was at my
disposal. Size, shape, type…you name
it…for a fee, I could look like whomever I wanted to.
Cancer, schmancer! Girl, you are going to be better than before. No one will know. No one.
My eyes were dazzled by the ads. I remember wondering what my chest, the chest that nursed my three babies, would look like if I didn’t have reconstruction, what would it feel like? Would I be able to face myself in the mirror without breasts? Would my husband still find me attractive or repulsed by my flat disfigurement? Would my kids be embarrassed looking at me? My friends find me freakish?
Dreams, night terrors really, would plague me with strange faces all laughing and pointing at my missing chest. I descended rapidly into a world where, for the first time in my life, what strangers thought of my chest, actually mattered to me.
And it was in this state of mind that I was asked to choose whether or not I wanted reconstruction to be a part of the bi-lateral mastectomy process.
To back it up a bit, after a couple days of internet scrolling, I chose reconstruction pretty much without hesitation. Specifically, because I felt it was somehow what was expected of me. Oh certainly, not by my husband, not by my kids or extended family or by anyone I really knew and to be fair, not by my general surgeon either or the multiple plastic surgeons I interviewed. Even the plastic surgeon I ultimately selected said over and over again that the choice to reconstruct was up to me. But as I said, I had no female role models with which to compare to reconstruct or not to reconstruct. The only thing I had in my wheelhouse was the internet images from various plastic surgeons of successful reconstruction procedures and multiple conversations with my chosen plastic surgeon. And all of this at the same time I was processing actually having breast cancer, leaving a job I loved and figuring out how to keep life as normal for my family as possible.
Wow, who wouldn’t want a chest that looked like the images I saw on the screen. It was a no-brainer, or so I thought.
In fairness to the process, my general surgeon did have me watch a 45-minute video where a cast of mastectomy survivors paraded across the screen, their stories meant to sound comforting and similar to mine, and designed to connect with me, “woman to woman.” Sitting there watching that video I remember feeling terrified and strangely connected to this cast of characters on the screen for whom were my only source of comparison.
All of them had chosen reconstruction, but one. The one who hadn’t reconstructed seemed dowdy, dated, and older than the other, more stylish women, all of whom were proudly wearing clothing that displayed their new chests to their fullest advantage. They looked tasteful, refined, just like beautiful happy women should look.
I wanted to be them. Take that Breast Cancer!
Watching the video, I do remember a fleeting thought, “Why is this video so one sided, with women being filmed in full make-up, professional dress and the camera lens filtered to show each woman in all of their gossamer beauty?”
“Why does it sound like a walk in the park to get a new chest?”
But overpowering those thoughts, was this imaginary cast of characters I had created in my dreams who would call me a fool for passing up such a wonderful opportunity to have life return to normal for me.
My new chest might be fake, but hey, it was a chest after all and from that standpoint, everything seemed logical, rational and straightforward as to how to proceed. I had experienced professionals lined up who had done these reconstruction procedures hundreds, if not a thousand times, and they knew what they were doing.
But here’s the thing. In my vulnerable state, I DIDN’T HAVE A CLUE WHAT I WAS DOING!
Yes, I had selected a terrific, outstanding plastic surgeon. He is the best! But I was not basing my decision on my candid conversations with him.
Ladies, note to self: If you don’t ask the questions of your surgeon, you can’t expect them to read your mind.
Instead, I was basing important decisions about my body on a half hour video, sliced and diced to promote reconstruction in a positive light. I was basing important decisions about my body on page after page of Plastic Surgeon ads, all targeting vulnerable women like “me”.
I had zero conversations with real bi-lateral mastectomy survivors who chose not to have reconstruction, although I met many after I had already gone through with it. I’m sure if I had asked my plastic surgeon to connect me, he would have, but I didn’t. So I didn’t really know or understand what questions to ask. I was dazzled by the images I had seen on the screen.
Better than Before…BYE BYE BREAST CANCER! VA VA VOOM ANNE!
didn’t know enough to ask myself why it suddenly mattered what the stranger on
the street thought about my chest? I didn’t know enough to ask what it would be
like to have a reconstructed chest that while normal to the outside world, on
the inside, felt null and void and strangely foreign?
I didn’t know enough to understand that after reconstruction my chest region would no longer feel warm and natural, but cold, sterile, as if my breasts spent all day encased in a freezer. I didn’t know enough to understand that my muscles would no longer work the same way with the implant under the chest muscle and that my range of motion would forever feel like I was a marionette on a string. I didn’t know enough to understand that I would no longer be able to sleep on my stomach and that sleeping on my side would cause pain and discomfort as the implants became increasingly hard and inflexible. I didn’t know enough to understand that implants move and shift when you are active as I am, and that I would not be able to do a lot of the things I love, without having to pause mid-motion to acknowledge the limitations the implants created. I didn’t know enough to understand that I would be in pain every single day and every single night, in my hips, my upper chest, under my arm because my body didn’t like silicone. I didn’t know enough to understand I would feel foggy, almost dysfunctional, day in and day out because I was not ever getting a good night sleep. I didn’t know enough to explant sooner, after the first implant shifted into my left arm pit and was replaced, and again, after the right painfully contracted due to radiation, and then contracted again almost immediately after it was replaced for the second time.
didn’t know enough to understand that despite outward appearances, I would be a
physical and emotional wreck for going on three years, as day in and day out,
what was going on with my chest dominated my daily landscape.
didn’t know enough to understand that my faith was being tested, as while God
was busy answering blessing after blessing and I certainly was blogging about
all of them, the one thing that didn’t seem to change was that privately I was
forever dealing with my chest.
“God, you have been with me every step of the way…I know it, but what is going on here?”
it so wrong to want to wake up in the morning and just be me and not have to
deal with my stupid chest day in and day out?” I felt a deep loss, as if God didn’t
understand and guilt because I knew I had been blessed time and time again and
I should just shut up and deal with my lot in life.
There are so many people who are worse off than me and my stupid fake boobs, right?
I began to withdraw from my family, friends, life in general, and sort of hermited myself away in the house all day. I tried my best to engage at church and with my book club and some close friends and of course, my husband and kids, but more often than not, I felt as if my writing was my only friend. And then at some point, as I said, even that stopped being important to me. I was in pain. Literally yes, but more figuratively, because I had done everything right and yet, my life wasn’t right. I felt empty.
You see, I did what most women of means do when confronted with breast cancer. I found one of the best plastic surgeons in the business, a breast cancer reconstruction specialist who would work in tandem with my general surgeon and out would come the cancer tissue and in would go tissue expanders that would prepare my chest for new breasts. I would wake up from the anesthetic still with some form of a chest and yes, it would be painful for a moment, maybe a long moment, but it would be worth the pain in a few months, when my new chest was healed and new implants in place, and life would go right back to where it was June 2016.
it didn’t go back. Not at all and I was
really feeling pretty lost. Like I had
made this terrible decision to do this reconstruction thing and it hadn’t
worked out so great, but so many people looked up to me as a role model and I
had set myself up for that with my positivity blog. I wanted to be a great example not only them,
but my mom was now battling breast cancer for a second time. Although she would never ask it of me, I
wanted to be strong for her as well. A
pillar of strength. A beacon of hope. But I
Although, I couldn’t quite articulate what was happening to me, I felt everything: the physical pain, the emotional scars, the loss of interest in my faith, all seemed somehow tied to the problems with my chest. I had some friends who had had reconstruction and everything was fine with them. What was it about me that made me different from them?
Now, I believe God works his blessings in our lives in ways we never expect.
Mine came in the form of getting lymphedema after my April implant replacement surgery and a recall notice from Allergen about my implants possible link to lymphoma.
Huh? Lymphedema and recalled implants a
Yep, because when I got lymphedema, God put in my path three amazing women, lymphedema occupational and physical therapists, who turned out to be my angels. I was to meet with them twice a week.
My very first session, the first therapist took a look at my chest and said, “Hmmm…yeah I can see the fluid build-up, but seriously I think you have contracture again and that’s probably why your chest hurts and implants sometimes don’t work for certain women despite their surgeons best efforts.”
Another therapist said, “Anne, I have had clients who have had all sorts of pain, tissue dysfunction and emotional issues from breast implants and removing them did the trick.”
My third therapist said, “Radiated tissue causes contracture. It’s a given. It’s really difficult to get implants to react normally once you’ve had radiation.”
I do recall my plastic surgeon telling me how much he hates a radiated chest…what a battle it will be and oh, yeah, I do recall him telling me this would take a long time to get right.
“If only you hadn’t had radiation, things might not be so difficult for you…chest radiation always, always affects implant success.”
As I said, I have tremendous respect for my plastic surgeon. He has given it his best shot to help me every single time. But I had no control over the fact that no one raised a red flag and I mean a huge red flag when I chose to have reconstruction as a part of the cancer tumor removal process before it was known whether or not I would need radiation. Not my general surgeon, not my plastic surgeon, not my radiation oncologist, my general oncologist, my primary care physician, the video I had watched about reconstruction, or anywhere obvious on-line.
No one said, “Anne, you seriously need to think about this and I mean THINK ABOUT IT because the risk of implant failure with radiation is almost certain!”
I mean, I’m reasonably intelligent and I think a simple, “You know Anne, if the surgeon doesn’t get all the cancer (as was my case with an unclear margin), you will need radiation and that will definitely impact the success of an implant.” I’d like to think I would have said, “Well o.k. then, lets get this cancer out first and see what happens.” In fact, I know damn well that’s what I would have said.
So why wasn’t it said and said over and over and over again?
I came to understand some of the reasons why in conversations during the twelve sessions, 360 minutes in total, I had with my lymphedema therapists as they massaged and prodded and poked at my rock hard chest to get the fluid to move. Let me be clear, they were extremely professional at all times. They never crossed the line with information out of their realm or scope, however, during my time with them I felt like for the first time someone understood what I was going through. They understood that I didn’t like how I was feeling, that it wasn’t o.k. for this feeling not myself to be my new normal and in turn I came to understand a lot about my body and that other women they treated had similar issues, that I was not alone in my suffering.
I came to understand that the push to attach foreign bodies to a woman’s chest has virtually zero to do with her making a quick recovery from breast cancer and everything to do with the fact that breasts sell. Breasts sell magazines, television shows, movies, clothing, and that means advertising dollars up the wazoo. There is a reason why there is not a lot of information out there on choosing to remain flat. Who’s going to push the media algorithm to not reconstruct if the money is in the reconstruction?
It’s like going flat is a secret society and we’ve been conditioned to say it under our breath or apologize if that’s our choice, as if it’s a bad thing.
I came to understand that my body, for whatever reason, just didn’t like being invaded by blobs of silicone and that it was a lot more common than the medical community wants us to know. In fact, 25 percent of women who get breast implants have them removed and 46 percent undergo a revision operation within the first 3 years , another 6 percent have them removed due a variety of issues ranging from contracture to chronic pain and all sorts of other physical and emotional issues. Ding, ding, ding!!!
I came to understand that the choices women are pushed towards when facing a mastectomy, are not focused on quickly enabling her to live her life cancer free, but about making sure that a woman is restored to her previous “expected” appearance aka, with boobs. The video I watched prior to making my reconstruction decision was proof of that. The literally thousands of plastic surgeons and images of reconstruction on the internet is also proof. But trust me, there are loads of women, more than you know, who quietly live their lives without a chest and you know what, life goes on. They are beautiful, they are worthy and they are just as sexy.
I came to understand that literally thousands, if not tens of thousands, of women who have undergone reconstruction after a mastectomy are suffering in silence with a whole host of symptoms like constant nerve pain, fatigue, depression and an overall lack of well being. That there is an actual name for it called, “ Breast Implant Illness” and while it is now considered a real thing as there has been an FDA identified link between implants and a rare form of lymphoma, leading to an implant recall, the actually spectrum of Breast Implant Illness covered every symptom I had been experiencing since June 2016. Every symptom! My gut instinct was correct!
I came to understand that the lymphedema that I had experienced was most likely, in their expert opinion, caused by the implant contracture blocking the fluid from moving freely in my body and I had a terrific chance, if the implant was removed, of putting lymphedema, at least for the most part, in the rear view mirror.
I seriously can’t thank my lymphedema team enough for opening my eyes to the realities of what I was putting my body through with implants. They helped me in so many ways and I will always regard them as my angels. But, they never said my immune system was rejecting the implants outright, they were all too professional for that, my blood work was fine, I was the bouncing ball remember? I was the role model, the poster child for surgical recovery.
Still, I needed more substantial proof that the implants were the source of my problems. I prayed and God answered my prayer almost immediately and it came in the form of a letter.
My implants were recalled. EVERY SINGLE ONE. The recall letter from Allergen, the manufacturer of the textured implants I had, listed over 40 recalled implants, plus a bonus surprise, the tissue expanders I had had initially were also on the recall list, along with 13 others tissue expanders. France and Canada had pulled these products off the market in 2015-16, prior to my first surgery and yet, here I was a United States guinea pig for a product that had already been deemed a known cancer-causing harborer by two world superpowers, not once, not twice, but three times, not including the expanders which were in my body a whole three months.
“Anne, you shouldn’t worry, you only have a 1 in 30,000 chance of getting this rare form of lymphoma from the implants!”
sorry, rare or not, I’d prefer not to get cancer again thank you very
So, I had the information I needed. Some was speculative, some proof positive and I had explant surgery last week.
Prior to this decision, I met with my plastic surgeon. He obviously was a bit disappointed. I get that, he’s earned his medical stripes diligently trying to salvage my chest and like I said, he’s the consumate professional. He offered me some options like implant exchange or on the radiated side, having a muscle removed from my back. The latimus dorsi muscle, the one that I use to swim, to paddle board, to push and pull and lift…but hey, who needs a latimus dorsi muscle when it can be a foundation for yet another implant, all be it smaller, but still another implant. But it would be soft. No more contracture.
I didn’t have to think twice. I said, “I know you have tried to help me, and I value that more than you will ever know, but I want them out!”
So here I am 6 days into explant recovery. It hurts like hell and it doesn’t look pretty at the moment. I have drain lines in, so sleeping is a bit of a challenge, but I saw the plastic surgeon today and he’s very pleased with the healing and said the drains can come out in about 10 days. All in all good news and I know it wasn’t my imagination that he seemed to be as relieved as I am to be moving on from this reconstruction nightmare.
I didn’t share with him that I’ve already been blessed by so many miracles in just six days.
have feeling, instead of numbness, in my chest region for the first time in
skin on my chest feels warm to the touch, instead of cold and icy.
I had to adjust the temperature on the shower to cooler as I could actually feel the hotness of the water on my chest region.
arm range of motion, while a bit limited due to the stiches and soreness, is
greater than it was pre-surgery. I don’t
feel like a marionette.
The lymphedema in my chest is limited and doesn’t appear to be much of an issue now.
crippling pain in my hip, legs, back is gone.
able to move from the floor, to the bed, using my legs and arms, on the first
try, without assistance.
I am tired, the brain fog, the depression, the lack of motivation, the complete
lack of energy is gone.
I am back to believing in blessings and miracles and God’s amazing power to comfort and heal.
This is my story and my story alone.
Lots of women have different, more positive reconstruction experiences, and I am truly grateful that they are not experiencing the issues that I have faced. I know some of these women and so my candor here is in no way designed to diminish their happiness. They have survived breast cancer and their reconstruction has been successful for them. Praise God!
However, my journey has been different and I felt it important to share with all of you who have been on this positivity journey with me, my struggles and my solutions, especially women in breast cancer recovery, those who have chosen reconstruction and those who haven’t and all who care for those with breast cancer.
Do not be afraid to make a bold choice and put “you” first when it comes to your health on all fronts. Ask the questions, demand the answers and if it doesn’t feel right, then go with your gut.
Instinct sometimes is all we have to go on when it comes to our health issues, especially when it comes to our breasts, cancer and reconstruction and it is important that a women trusts hers.
You have survived cancer, you are survivor and you will, as I have, survive this too.
I am here to support you. To pray for you and lift you up.
I sat in the car for a few moments before starting the engine, gathering my thoughts. I could literally feel my mind racing, like it actually had a heart beat and I started to laugh. I laughed and laughed. I must have looked like a loon to anyone driving by.
You see I was laughing at the fact that despite my intentional focus on positivity, it remains my truth that there are going to be things in my life that are beyond my control to change. Things I’m not necessarily meant to understand fully because, well, it’s pretty simple, I’m not meant to.
Lymphedema is one of those things.
Lymphedema has been on my radar since I underwent a bilateral mastectomy for breast cancer and was informed that there was a risk, a life-long risk, of my lymphatic system becoming painfully blocked in my arm, breast and/or hand due to the removal of lymph nodes from my under arm to test for rogue cancer cells. When and if, that happened, I would face the possibility of an unknown level of swelling, pain and risk of infection for the rest of my life. Whoopee! 😦
Last week my hubby and I were looking forward to packing our bags for a much needed New England getaway when I began to notice that my right breast hurt, was red and was very swollen. I knew exactly what it was. Lymphedema had arrived in my life.
I’d like to say I took immediate action, but I didn’t. I waited.
You see this trip to New England was a celebration of the completion of three years of surgeries, a delayed 30th anniversary trip and birthday celebrations for my hubby and I all rolled into one. Nothing, nothing was going to get in the way of our special time together, least of all lymphedema.
The God I love could not be that cruel.
But, as I said there are things that are beyond my control. Things I am not meant to fully understand and I knew deep down that God was in no way responsible for this latest health issue, so I set aside my pride, my need to control things and made the phone call to my surgeon.
He took one look at me and I just knew. No words needed to be exchanged.
After a moment of awkward silence I said, “Um, so my husband and I have a plane to catch and a romantic adventure awaiting, so I’ll deal with this little lymphedema issue when I get back, o.k.?”
“Sorry, no flying…not until you get fitted for a compression sleeve and see a physical therapist who specializes in lymphatic drainage. Oh, and by the way, it looks like you have an infection in the lymphatic fluid surrounding your new implant, thus the reason you are not feeling well, so we need to put you on strong antibiotics, remind me what you are allergic to again?”
“Allergic, me? How well do you know the good folks at the Center for Disease Control, cause they pretty much have me on speed dial!”
So, instead of cycling around Long Island with my favorite guy; or cheering on the Red Sox at Fenway while drinking one too many beers; or learning how to make cheese in Vermont, I sat there in the parking lot of my doctors office laughing like a loon and thinking how in the hell was I going to make this wonderful new game plan sound as fun and exciting to my husband as the vacation we had planned.
But I needn’t have worried.
Oh, I’m not going to lie to you. A few tears were shed, a few choice curse words, some I’m ashamed to say aimed directly at God and my husband was sad. I was sad. Everyone in my family was sad.
Yet in this moment of sadness, I’m choosing to see this whole lymphedema thing through a positive lens. This set back is no different than every other hiccup I have been through health wise and I know it to be true that blessings are often not what we have planned, but what is revealed to us in our journey.
I have discovered that God has provided me with an amazing opportunity to define my life not by all the things I can’t do, all the things, for example, that lymphedema will temporarily impact, like travel plans. Instead my life can be powered into infinity by the “I Can Do It!” moments.
And there is so much comfort and joy in that revelation.
Four simple words…
“I Can Do It!”
Words that are considered high frequency use words and are a part of the first 100 words we learn as young children. Words that young children are quick to embrace and use often, without prompting and adults quickly forget.
“I can do it myself mommy!” “Let me try that daddy, I can do it!”
You see the older we get, we lose sight of the value and power those words “I Can Do It!” can have in propelling us forward through all the negative trials we face in our adult lives because we are constantly taken aback that adult hood doesn’t include morphing into a super-hero capable of keeping the “I Can’t” in our lives at bay.
Thus the reason I sat in my car, after my doctors appointment, laughing at the irony of being a positivity blogger and yet, this one stupid thing, this lymphedema thing, I couldn’t fix even with all of my positivity efforts.
I know it’s wrong to beat myself up, but I guess the older we get, the more seasoned we become at choosing the “I Can’t!” in our lives first, until it is on autopilot. I’m a grown-up damn it, this all should be so simple!
Maybe it’s not all our fault tho.
You only have to turn on the television, radio, your computer and promoting “I Can’t!” is nothing short of a global phenomenon, with billions and billions of dollars changing hands each day at the expense of our vulnerabilites.
Tell us whats wrong with us enough and we begin to believe it and we will pay to hear it over and over and over again.
Seriously, have you ever stopped to think just flipping through the cable channels how much messaging is geared to the “I Can’t” in us, then the “I Can?” Multiply that exponentially over the course of a life time and well, that’s a lot of “I Can’t!” At some point, we stop trying to think positively and focus on all the bad because it’s what we are conditioned to believe is of value. We promote it in our selves, we promote it in each other.
The irony is we are all banging the same drum. “I can’t!” “You can’t” “We can’t” and the song is so stale and old and tired we’ve become numb to it.
I get it. I’m ashamed to say that I’ve embraced the negative more times in my fifty six years than I can count. Honestly, the past three years it has been so tempting to just bathe in all of that negative vibe. I’m tired, I’m broken and done with all of the chaos my health issues have caused me and damn it, I wanted to go to New England with my husband, is that too much to ask?
There seems to be an unspoken kinship in us grown-ups, wrapping ourselves in that blanket of pain and sorrow and all that is lost? We take one for the team of “I Can’t!” time and time again because frankly it’s pretty easy to explain all that we can’t do and so damn hard to explain our possible, especially, if we haven’t a freakin clue what it all means.
But I’m discovering that if I/we wallow in our own pool of what is wrong with us, we totally miss out on the joys of what we are truly capable of.
We all have within us the ability to move the needle from “I Can’t!” to “I Can Do It!” and all we need to do is stop complicating it and remember the child in us.
When my children were small and the years I spent as an early childhood educator, I discovered that, “I Can Do It!” flowed freely from the lips of young children, but not so much from adults.
You see the difference between young children and adults when it comes to the eight simple letters of “I-C-A-N-D-O-I-T” is that young children don’t automatically reach for the “I Can’t” when things get tough. They haven’t been tainted by advertisers and media and the collective security blanket of negative images and thinking.
When they face a physical or mental challenge, you will hear words like, “I want to try again”, “I would like another turn to try”, “I want another chance.” All implying their possible.
When they don’t feel well, once recovered, they have little recollection that they were ever sick and instead quickly get back to all they can do.
Thinking back to when I was a kid, I remember I got a bad case of chicken pox and learned to tie my shoes and ride a bike in the backyard while I was recovering. What the heck happened to that drive and motivation of that little girl? What happened to that kid, who despite being covered in itchy chicken pox, saw only her possible?
When did what I am incapable of become of greater value in my life than what I am capable of?
It’s interesting that failure is an every day thing in the life of a young child and yet, it just isn’t innate in them to automatically go to the dark side.
In fact, it is often during those really difficult moments when their “I Can’t!” seems to be the only possible outcome, that young children rally around each other, lifting each other up.
“I can do it” becomes “We can do it” and it’s a marvel to witness.
You see, what we adults interpret as loss: of our health, our person, our God given right to control our destiny in every aspect; young children see as a forever opportunity to GET IT RIGHT! Whether that is by themselves or in a group, there is no negative drum beat, only:
“I can do it!” “You can do!” “We can do it!”
Sounds like a pretty wonderful way to live, right?
Imagine a world where adults are no longer fearful of the inevitable obstacles, forks in the road, and jaw dropping cliff dives of life for which we have no control.
“I CAN DO IT!”
Imagine a world where adults are no longer vulnerable to the advertisers and media and the “I Can’t” of their reality and instead dream, imagine, cultivate all of their possible in themselves and in each other.
“I CAN DO IT!”
Imagine a world where we no longer table our child like wonder and the blanket we wrap around ourselves is warm with love, hope and all of the possibilities of our together.
“I CAN DO IT!”
We don’t have to wait. We have the tools in each of us to make it so and we only have to look to our childhood for a reminder.
I am going to work hard in the coming months to make that my reality. I know with the help of God, my family and friends, medical team and yes, even you, my fellow positivity seekers, that I do not have to give lymphedema any more of an audience in my life story then it needs to be.
I truly am looking forward to discovering all of the “I Can Do It’s!” that have yet to be revealed in my life and share those wonderful stories with you.
I am excited. I am hopeful. I am blessed.
And I’m going to New England with my favorite guy as soon as I’m cleared to do so. My bags are still packed!
I hope you will Like and Follow me as we journey together to figure this positivity thing out. PositivelyAnne.com on WP and FB and PositivelyAnne on Instagram and Linked In.
One of my favorite verses from the bible is from Psalm 118:24:
This is the day the Lord has made; Let us rejoice and be glad in it.
In my humble opinion, the implications of this verse are
powerful, less in the literally interpretation of creation and more in the
subtext of opportunity…human opportunity.
As the sun rises and sets, we are given another chance
to get it right. To appreciate ourselves,
our lives and to be joyful and glad for who and what we are.
Now I’d like to ask you two simple questions and I am going to guess how you might answer them.
Are you glad, You, are you? YES OR NO? Do you rejoice in the You that is? YES or NO?
“What do you mean by glad exactly?” “I mean there are so many levels of gladness from extreme happiness to mild contentment and everything in between, so, can you further define the word “glad” for me?”
“What is there to be glad about, my life is in turmoil, period! “
“Of course, I’m glad! BUT there are hundreds of things I’m working on, so um, it’s hard to let others see the real me. I’d rather envision the images of the “me” I want to be. The perfect “me” I imagine myself to be. The “me”, I’d be glad to know, not this mess of a person that I see in the mirror before me. I can’t rejoice until I’m that person.”
“It’s selfish to be glad for ourselves when so many others are hurting.”
“People who are glad, are fake. No one is glad. Everyone is just going through the motions of life. Anyone who posts “glad” things about themselves, happy pictures, happy stories, IS just catering to the fakeness that is life on this planet.
If we say we are “glad” with ourselves, then we ignore all that is possible for us to be. We become stagnate, unable to move forward, past our own self-importance.
You may find my answers surprising, a bit bold, maybe even
brash. Maybe you are even uncomfortable with my cynicism. Isn’t this a positivity blog????
Well, if any or all of the above answers resonates with you,
then I’m doing my job as a positivity blogger because we can’t move forward in
our positivity journey until we accept the fact that we live in a world that
makes money off the fact that we don’t like ourselves. Lots
and lots of money. And we are being
conditioned to think this way about gladness, about joy, about life because it
lines the pockets of the few who don’t care whether we are glad or not as long
as the money keeps rolling in.
We’ve been led to believe that joy and gladness are counter
culture to what the world wants for us. So instead of rejoicing in the day the Lord
hath made, we spend our days “oohing and ahhing” over our foibles to the degree
that we give power to our own degradation.
We strip ourselves bare of any chance at happiness because it’s
cooler to keep our happiness hidden, and more profitable if we are downright
Hate of ourselves is a profitable business, it has been for a long time and we, the people, are its’ willing fuel.
Countless advertising dollars are spent pumping our brains
full of round the clock negativity. Social media sites programmed to “push” our vulnerability
to the forefront.
Seriously, I can tell you it is nothing short of an uphill
battle to be a positivity blogger in a world where likes and follows are freely
given for negative content and positivity has become a pay per view
Those of us attempting to stoke the fires of glad tidings are
left with the crumbs. Crumbs that are
readily available to multiply, but for which we are conditioned to think
ourselves unworthy of the fight.
Life’s algorithm seems to favor an economy where gladness is
a four- letter word. We are constantly
looking in the mirror, both literally and figuratively, impressed not by what
is good about ourselves, but by what is flawed.
Now before I lose you to the doom and gloom, I have a quick
fix for all of this. The answer is
WE DON’T HAVE TO LIVE THIS WAY. I repeat.
WE DON’T HAVE TO LIVE THIS WAY. For those of you who do not like
contractions, here it is again:
WE DO NOT HAVE
TO LIVE THIS WAY.
Nope, WE DO NOT. We
can choose to be glad for ourselves. We
can choose to post our gladness. We can
choose to promote positivity, in all its forms.
We can choose to say “HELL NO!” to the negativity machine.
But to do that we have to arm ourselves with a new attitude. An attitude that stops expecting the world to change for us and instead we change ourselves.
As I stated, we do live in a world where we are rewarded for
being negative and that world encourages us to push gladness, true gladness in
our human selves, to the back burner. Now the way this succeeds is it plays into our
vulnerability that true gladness in ourselves is all about perfection.
And guess what people.
None of us is perfect. Nope, not
me, not you, not anyone.
So, first things first. Say to yourself:
I AM NOT PERFECT and THAT IS 100 PERCENT OK.
Simply put, Let Perfection Go!
O.k., so none of us is perfect. What’s next?
Well now we need to open our eyes to what we like about
ourselves internally. Notice, I’m not
talking about physical beauty.
I hate to burst your ego, but physical beauty is truly
subjective and it’s virtually impossible to get consensus on what is physically
beautiful and it’s the reason companies and their advertisers, since time
immortal, have spent billions of dollars trying to convince us that physical
beauty is important because no one can agree on exactly what that benchmark is.
So, forget your outside and focus on your inner beauty. Most everyone has something they like about
themselves internally. Are you kind,
considerate, compassionate, a quick study, a good listener, a good speaker, a
motivator, focused, driven, energetic, positive, creative, romantic, resourceful,
thoughtful, gentle, quiet, reserved, introvert, extrovert, comedic,
entertaining…you get the idea!
Pick something, one thing.
My inner beauty is my intuition.
I can read a situation, a room, pretty quickly. I wasn’t always aware I had this skill or
aware of how valuable it would be in my life. When I was an intern in my first job after
college, a colleague of mine pointed out the importance of learning how to read
the dynamics of a situation before jumping in with both feet to resolve it. She told me intuition was an important skill.
I quickly realized it was a skill that
came naturally to me, intuitively, and it is a skill that has served me well in
every aspect of my life.
My intuition has enabled me to see the blessings in almost
every situation. I quickly understand that
“drama” in my life can also be the stepping stone to something even
better. Be it tools to help me manage
the situation or critical information that keeps me moving forward. So, I’m less reactive to change and more proactive
about looking for the blessings.
So, let your inner beauty have a voice and rejoice in it!
Third, we live in a world where we have access to “the
world” in real time. Anything we want to
see and anywhere we want to experience is pretty much at our fingertips. But, as I stated before, life’s algorithms
push us to seek out the negative and feel guilty when we don’t.
A couple examples:
How many of you spend time looking at all the negative comments about a movie,
a concert, a place you want to visit or eat at before you decide to go there? How many of you stress about all the negative
things that can happen when visiting family and friends, instead of focusing on
all the joyful possibilities?
Again, the push for us to choose the negative has us automatically
second guessing everything. Maybe the
restaurant isn’t as good as we imagine.
Maybe travelling to Europe isn’t as safe as we hope it would be. Maybe my dream job isn’t going to be so
dreamy if what I’m reading on-line is true. Maybe my grandma will be crabby or my
And…maybe you will get cancer or divorced or struck by lightning. Yep, bad stuff happens to all of us. That is a fact. So, rewire yourself to seek out the positive without hesitation. Don’t let the advertisers, the influencers, the negativity peddlers rob you of your joy. And forget the guilt. We can’t predict every negative thing in life. And to be honest, if we could, life would be boring.
I recently planned a trip to Chicago with my daughter and when
planning for the trip, instead of just entering into the internet search
engine, “Things to do in Chicago”, where I was guaranteed to see a plethora of
negative feedback, I instead input the following:
“Fun and Positive Only” things to Do in Chicago.
Sounds silly I know, but…
Over 100 different activities popped up, all FUN and AFFORDABLE and there was not a single negative comment on any of the activities! The exciting thing was that these activities led us to discover other positive experiences (impromptu salsa dancing in Millennium Park comes to mind) and all told, it was one of the best vacations I have ever had.
So, my point is this, you can be glad. You really can. You can ignore the negative and seek out the positive EVERY SINGLE TIME! See that movie you want. Enjoy new restaurants. Visit family and friends without worry.
Let the world see the real you…your inner gladness.
Do not hesitate to post to your Facebook or Instagram the
fun you are having. So, what if someone
What an ego! What a self-absorbed narcissist! What a phony!
cares what they think, because you will know the positive truth because you are
You are the living embodiment of gladness and what Psalm 118:24 is all about.
REJOICE. OWN IT. SHARE IT. Life is too short not to SHOUT IT TO
I AM GLAD!!!
This is the day the Lord has made; Let us rejoice and be glad in it.
All are welcome to like and follow PositivelyAnne. Let me know what brings you joy and gladness? How do you push back on the negative in life?
worked so hard to build a beautiful life for my husband and kids, dedicating
myself to creating a home environment that is warm and inviting and welcoming
spent years crafting a career that I felt was worthy and purposeful, going
above and beyond in my education so that I modeled for my children the benefits
of a lifetime invested in continuous learning and self-improvement. For thirty years, I have been a dedicated
volunteer in my church and community, devoted to sharing Jesus message of
shalom and inclusion and helping all those in need. I have cultivated friendships I treasure and
enjoyed travel, dining and cultural and sporting experiences with my husband,
family and friends.
been a good life, a happy life, a positive life by all accounts that I’ve had a
large hand in creating.
But a small, barely detectible, cancer tumor in my right breast forced me to reckon with the fact that no matter how hard I try, I am never going to be 100 percent the architect of my own destiny.
Why? Because life, by its’ very nature is
spontaneous, and we humans spend a whole lot of time trying to figure out ways
to sabotage that spontaneity. Without
thinking, we all work tirelessly to reign spontaneity in, so that we can
control it, manipulate it for our own purposes, and get angry at it for
disrupting our plans. I am a master at
I love to fight with spontaneity.
dare you trample on my life’s blue print! It’s my life spontaneity, not yours!!!
my own defense, it is not that I am closed to spontaneity. Far from it. A lot of people tell me I adapt well to
changes and can catch a curve ball better than most. I like “different” and enjoy the mix of
planned and unplanned in my life so spontaneity isn’t such a foreign concept.
that being said, going off-script can still bring on a case of the tummy
butterflies. It sometimes seems
unnatural, against the grain of how I was conditioned by this world to view a well-planned,
guess it would be understandable if that logic was applicable only to something
as serious as cancer. But truth be told,
despite wanting to embrace the “idea” of spontaneity, I can only take impromptu
“go with the flow” for so long before I am rounding up the cattle and putting
them back in the pen. Spontaneity
scares the hell out of me because the world doesn’t like it. No
wandering little doggies running roughshod over our master plan.
wired by this world to take all of the loose ends of life and create some
semblance of order and balance I can comfortably live with. When the pendulum swings too far out of the
norm, I’m anxious. When the pendulum
stops swinging, I’m anxious. It’s hard
to find a happy medium in the spontaneity game when all we do is fight it.
not alone in this. Embracing spontaneity sounds great and all, but if social
media has anything to say about it, spontaneity is just a buzz word for flaky,
unmotivated, undisciplined chaos?
least that’s what we are force fed to believe. Oh, not necessarily by our parents or even by
anyone related to us, but everything from schools, to employers, to just about
every aspect of marketing in this world leads us to believe that success is
akin to having our lives planned out, every “I” dotted and “t” crossed, and
failure is akin to leaving life up to chance.
our lives so full of “must do’s” that there is no time for discovery,
possibilities, opportunities. We have
forgotten that while spontaneity can bring on such things as cancer, it can
also bring the cure, in the form of unexpected blessings, things we never
showed up spontaneously one February in my life and I discovered that my
constant mapping and remapping of my life plan was not a match for good ol’
spontaneous cancer. If I was going to
beat this disease, oh not physically beat it, the medical professionals were on
top of that, but emotionally beat it, I was going to have to rewire my mind to
think differently about what it means to be absorbed with controlling my life
path and leaving nothing to chance.
had to think of spontaneity in new and different ways. I had to stop fighting it and do two specific
Spontaneity doesn’t just happen without a lot of hard work
I was going through a boatload of pencil lead crafting my life plan, I never
once thought about how spontaneity would fit into my narrative. The blanks on my calendar made me nervous,
less self-important, less everything. So,
I filled them in. That is why
spontaneity requires a lot of hard work. Hard work because we are hard wired to over
plan, over schedule. Open spaces on a
calendar equals vulnerability. Vulnerability
equals the possibility of failure and well, as I said earlier, failure isn’t a popular
choice these days. But it doesn’t have to be that way.
reality is that spontaneity isn’t calendar driven. It doesn’t wait around for those days when we
have nothing to do. In fact, more often
than not, it shows up when we are at our busiest.
the funny thing about spontaneity is that when it doesn’t work out, somehow, someone
or something comes into our lives spontaneously to help us through it. You and
I both know it’s true. The internet
knows it’s true and it’s why we all scour and search for those feel good stories
everyday where we can click “like” because deep- down we really want to believe.
Maybe that’s a God thing, some sort of
divine intervention or better yet, maybe it doesn’t need a label. But I can tell you people keep coming into my
life spontaneously over and over again that make a difference and I’m betting
it’s happening to you too!
didn’t have to do anything to “get cancer.”
One day I didn’t have it and the next day I did. It was the reality of my world. A spontaneous blotch and initially I fought
fought it with everything I had emotionally.
I had unrealistic expectations about spontaneity being only good things,
and suddenly waking up one day with cancer fueled my anger and frustration and
disappointment in all things impromptu. For
those initial first months, it was like being on a never-ending emotional
treadmill and I was losing steam.
spontaneity took over my life. I closed
myself off from everyone. Went internal,
self- absorbed with my own importance and control. My behavior was stifling my ability to move
forward, to take new paths, and caused me to spend an inordinate amount of time
wallowing in my problems and in a lot of ways, gaslighting new
a bit, I grew sick of my own self-importance.
I became curious if the pendulum of my life only swung one way. Negative!
My calendar was full, but my life was
if, I opened myself up to being blessed spontaneously in a positive way? What if, I had no idea in what form or from
whom those blessings would come, but I would remain open to it?
was time to take the boxing gloves off and let spontaneity have its’ way with
start, I focused my energy and attention on people, places and things that
brought me joy. I made a conscious
effort to not make plans, but be open to plans, spontaneous plans. I had to push aside the fear that something
would go wrong. I had a lot of blanks on my calendar.
over-night, so many doors opened for me.
Invitations to do all sorts of
things just materialized. Impromptu fun
with friends, trying new restaurants with my hubby, opening the front door to a
neighbor with an extra loaf of the best fresh baked bread I’ve ever had.
I booked a vacation to Texas, a place my husband and I had never been, to attend
HGTV’s, Chip and Joanna Gaines, “Silobration” in Waco. It turned out to be one of the best unscripted
vacations my husband and I have ever had and was a beautiful reminder that one
of the things that drew us to each other back in college was our mutual love
for unplanned adventure. Without much
thought, I agreed to visit an Indian Mission in Oaks, Oklahoma with an acquaintance
from church and this morphed into a beautiful friendship between us that I will
always treasure and a new opportunity for me to make a difference in the lives
of children half way across the country.
and again, I challenged myself to see both sides of the spontaneity coin. Bad stuff was going to happen, but good stuff
was happening too…a whole lotta good stuff. I had to keep my heart open and stay out of
the boxing ring.
began to meet people, almost daily, in my cancer journey that inspired me. People who helped me see the best in me and
who seemed overjoyed that I was in their life.
I wrote a poem to my radiation team as a thank you for their kindness
and it now hangs on the wall of the radiation center. I opened up about my cancer with family,
friends, my church, not in a Debbie Downer kind of way, but in sharing all of
the positive, unplanned things that kept happening to me spontaneously despite my
It was as if spontaneity was a fuel that was propelling me forward. Past all of the angst of surgery after surgery. Past all of the negative side effects and uncomfortable days. Opportunity after opportunity to be blessed.
Sunday, Father’s Day, was my three- year anniversary of my bi-lateral mastectomy. It could have been a depressing day, a reminder of all I had spontaneously lost. Instead, I went out and played an impromptu game of frisbee golf with my family and damn, my muscles are sore as hell, but I didn’t suck at it. Not at all.
decided to permanently hang up my boxing gloves and make peace with
spontaneity. It is welcome in my life.
fight is over.
won. You can too!
All Are Welcome to like and follow my blog either here or on Facebook. I also have an Instagram where I post daily positive photo reminders.
heard that you died today at the age of 97.
A long life by any stretch of the
say you will be cremated, as you wished, without any fanfare. I’m sorry if I’m intruding on your final
wishes, but I can’t let you go like that.
Day, you were an amazing actress, singer and advocate. You were a complicated woman whose existence deserves
to be more than a footnote gracing the pages of a dust covered history book or an
inaccurate page in Wikipedia. You deserve
more than an annual birthday celebration on Turner Classic Movies, a birthdate
that my daughter proudly shares with you by the way, or the occasional chuckle
I get when I’m in the mood to wear one
of my many hats and remember that it was you who taught me how a silly hat
could take the stuffiness out of a room full of business suits.
we never met, you have been this unwavering role model of positivity in the
recesses of my existence for over half my life.
for one thing, you never let tragedy, heartbreak, or disappointments stop you
from moving forward. You were this picture-perfect screen image of the
all-American woman and yet, your private life was a complicated series of
twists and turns and more than the occasional cliff dive. You
could have shouted from the roof tops how unfair it all was and no one would
have blamed you. Wolves in sheep’s
clothing and all of that. Instead you chose
to see the good in people. Find the
blessings, the positive lessons to be learned and without insulting your fans,
you enlightened them that “perfect” is not at all what we ultimately should
strive for as human beings.
Sera, Sera, whatever will be, will be.
were born Doris Mary Kappelhoff of Cincinatti, but Hollywood changed your name
to “Doris Day” after the song “Day after Day” became a hit. The name Doris Day sounded so much sunnier
and happier, less German (remember we were heading into WWII) than Doris Kappelhoff. I
imagine it might have been a relief for you to discard your heritage, after all
your father discarded his family for another woman and left your mom to care
for you and your brother at a time when divorce was a four-letter word. Then you
had to quickly reinvent yourself to the public after a car accident cut short
your meteoric rise as part of a dancing duo.
Set-backs, always set-backs.
like the song, Que Sera, Sera, and your new name, you took whatever life had to
offer you day by day. The twists and
turns and complications a minor roadblock to all life had in store.
Que Sera, Sera, whatever will be, will be.
you had these twinkly blue eyes that ignited with mischief and knowing, above a
spray of freckles that started on one cheekbone, paraded across your nose and
landed on the other side of your face. In
an era of glamorous leading ladies, you stood out like a country girl at a
have always had freckles, I can relate.
movie and television executives didn’t much care for your freckles and would
layer pancake make up on your face to try to hide them. But somehow, some way, those freckles would
make an appearance in each and every movie and television program you made,
blinking brightly as if to say, “Hey America, this is me!” ‘
Que Sera, Sera, whatever will be, will be.
connection to you began when I first heard you sing, “Que Sera Sera.” I think
it was the theme song to your television show, but I might have heard it from
one of your movies. I don’t remember
which, but the lyrics always resonated with me.
I was just a little girl, I ask my mother what will I be?” “Will I be pretty, will I be rich, here’s
what she said to me. Que Sera, Sera,
whatever will be, will be, the futures not ours to see, Que Sera, Sera…what
will be will be.”
read that you didn’t really like the song.
You thought it a children’s song compared to the other songs you were
blessed to sing in your lifetime and figured it would fade quickly if you
ignored it. But over time, the song took
on a life of its own. Representing
women, men, all those seeking acceptance.
You understood the song stood for our need as human beings to be loved
and wanted and appreciated. But more
than that, you understood that despite your own personal dislike of the tune,
the song served as a reminder that the human narrative isn’t necessarily all
our own doing. We can all make a
difference. So, you unselfishly let your
musical legacy be defined by this song.
Que Sera, Sera, whatever will be, will be.
Doris, you had this voice that took on a lyric and drew us in. It would start soft as a whisper. Notes melodically floating through air over mind and skin and then building, carefully building until those beautiful notes would be set free to soar magnificently into the great beyond.
it was how you learned to sing that way that impressed me the most. At a time when segregation was common place
in America, you proudly stated to all that your vocal inspiration was the great
African American jazz singer, Ella Fitzgerald. You said Ella had a keen understanding of how
to master not only the melody, but create clean, relatable connections to the
lyric and that you would practice singing to her over and over to get the
nuances of a song just right.
the time of those comments, it would be thirty years until the Civil Rights
Movement, but here you were a white girl from Ohio openly promoting a person of
color as their singing inspiration.
America didn’t blink because you didn’t.
Sera, Sera, whatever will be, will be.
the movies Doris, you were (and are) one of the few actors, man or woman, to
show that human beings are multi-dimensional and capable of shape shifting
between the silly absurdities of day to day life and corresponding gut punches of
chaotic drama. You also proved that women
could hold their own with a man in a script and on-screen.
once did I think you were miscast in any of the thirty-nine films you made. Some I liked better than others, some I can
quote every line, but you owned every scene you were in.
musical comedies that provided a welcome respite from a war weary nation; satirical
movies that made fun of gender stereotypes and romance in a way that allowed us
to laugh at the absurdity of the mating dance, and powerful dramas that
showcased the physical and emotional abuse of women in a way that shed light on
the complexities of human relationships.
role you played left a footprint on celluloid that resonates today because you got
that life on film wasn’t much different than real life. Your own life. Our lives. My life.
We watched you not so much to escape, as to be reminded that if Doris
Day can handle all the silly, absurd and horrible crap of life, then so can we!
Que Sera, Sera, whatever will be, will be.
You made three iconic movies with Rock Hudson. America believed you as a couple. You even had pet names for each other, Ernie and Eunice. Years after your movie career ended, you invited Rock to be the first guest on your new television show for the Christian Broadcast Network called, “Doris Day’s Friends”. Rock was quietly suffering in silence from Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome (AIDS) and for which the public had been subjected to endless rumors as to how you could “catch AIDS”. You somehow knew your interview with Rock would be your last time together and on camera, you gave him a big hug and planted a huge kiss on him. A simple and kind gesture friend to friend. But when it became known that Rock had AIDS, the media went nuts.
you afraid of getting AIDS?” the reporters asked. “Did you swap spit?”
my friend is sick and what he needed from me was kindness and empathy. I gave
my dear friend a hug and a kiss, end of story.”
The public response was immediate.
If America’s sweetheart said AIDS was something to fight, not to fear,
then so be it. Funding for research came pouring in, and
compassion became the order of the day for victims.
Que Sera, Sera, whatever will be, will be.
when your small dog was run over by a car, out of your sorrow you were inspired
to create the Doris Day Animal League (DDAL)to reduce pain, suffering and
cruelty to all animals. When the DDAL merged in 2006 with the Humane
Society of the United States it became the single biggest advocate for animal
rights in the nation.
of your first major national initiatives, that continues to this day, was to
create an annual “Spay and Neuter your Pets Day” to prevent shelters filling up
with unwanted animals. You then created
one of the first “pet friendly” inn’s in America in Carmel, California that has
served as a role model for the integration of humans and people in recreational
and entertainment spaces.
wonder if you ever comprehended how your simple act of compassion for your own pet
set a course for this country to appreciate and value all of God’s creatures?
Que Sera, Sera, whatever will be, will be.
how you lived your life taught me that every individual has the power to be a
positive role model. We must remember that
the song each of us sings is of value, but is not something everyone
appreciates. We must cultivate that
understanding by modeling empathy and love. We need not fear our different, or
the different in others. It’s ok. to disagree, to fight, even to argue, but in
a way that promotes dialogue, diversity of opinion and not discord.
We must invite others to our table.
For in the end, Doris your legacy is that our journey on this planet is going to be paved with a whole lot of “Que Sera, Sera’s” and it is up to each of us as individuals what we do with it.
you for your positive example of a life well lived.
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