BATTLES RAGE

Was a very difficult ‘phase’. Too much pride but no words. There are no shortcuts. In breast cancer’s game, I was a fucking pawn ♟.

I needed a Unilateral mastectomy (only one breast removed) so the good doctors left the other boob alone — what’s not broke, don’t try to fix I guess — the ‘recon’ process is called “symmetry”. It was the rest of me that needed fixed. And now we get to the not-so-nice s…

that May

— I’d been hypersensitive and sought a buddy’s brain to yak with. Bobby, a level-headed pro hunter and fisherman from Louisiana, was always giving me good bow hunting advice. His texts helped clear my confusion. He bought one of Ed’s handcrafted turkey spur knives he admired once he saw mine that Ed gave me.

I needed reassurance. Texting was an outlet for frustration, to gain insight about crappy worries.  One went like this:

Bobby: Hey what’s going on?

Me: Been a rough week here. Ed & I bickering all the time

Bobby: there are those times.

Me: I got so pissed at stupid stuff. he said yeah it’s wearing on me too and left the room. but it’s better now. so depressed. So pissed all the time. Writing is the only way I stay sane but it doesn’t make the anger go away.. Texting helps me feel better, I’d rather just talk. Now I’m rambling.

Bobby: I want to assure you, I never ignore or turn my back on a friend. And you are a sweet, caring friend. About anything and everything. You are someone “special”. Ed knows. Nobody to talk to here. I love your stories, your words. you need the communication.

Me: I get self-­conscious about if I’m wanted, look like a freak now so I retreat, like hiding. sometimes gets me in trouble. It’s confusing to Ed but I can’t seem to change it. Feels good to get a different guy’s point of view. I love him so much.

Bobby: You and Ed are going through the worst right now. But I know what you are going through. It will get better. I hope you feel better. You have been very good to me in my worst moments. Like my buddy in the hospital.

Me: Yeah, but u were so upset. I shut everyone out. Like a sick dog. I guess Ed felt it too. I don’t want to let him see this shitty side of me.

Bobby: I’m relieved you value my friendship. I was worried. You’ve been distant, depressed?

Me: it’s so scary. I know I’m being irrational lately, I feel out of sorts ­ I need a little space to focus on writing and myself. To heal. I am hot tempered and trying to cope with another surgery.

Bobby: Ed loves you, I’m sure he’s scared too.

Me: I know. We’re both moody. he’s getting tired, too much to do 24/7. I told him I can’t clock out at home and he really sees why but I didn’t think he did. there’s that communication thing again.

Bobby: We all need to try harder I guess.

Me: Guess so. I’m too sensitive. Like thinking you’re not mad anymore at someone then you snap and you know they know that anger is still just under the skin. I hope goes away. Soon.

Bobby: it will

Me: thanks buddy. Bbye

Bobby: ttyl

Feeling raw. Like a caged animal gone mad, so angry, intense and, felt kin to

Eminem – Survival (Explicit)-(of the fittest)

fighting for SURVIVAL  lyrics from The Marshall Mathers LP 2  if ya need them.– it isn’t all about being pissed offbreast cancer is do or die. IT IS survival of the fittest. This is winner takes all, so TAKE IT.


Okay, off the soapbox.

Being human is in itself emotional, and in the midst of reconstruction overcoming breast cancer, I had to own up to how even more emotional I had become, a difficult admission for a control freak like me. I felt out of control. I lost all control and I got downright cantankerous. I felt rough. Believe me, recovering from breast cancer will bring out the very worst before your very best. Only do or die could express my anger, hence his video. I wanted my life back to normal, dunno if that will ever be. I cannot bear the thought of more years of hospitals and battling more pain.

One week Ed got sick. I’m not a good nurse. He got better with his antibiotics and returned to work okay. Call me selfish, but I was exhausted, and too self­-absorbed, barely to heal myself, much less play nursemaid. I really couldn’t deal to be the nurturing wife. Wasn’t happening. So call me an evil woman — I was floundering. Just sayin’.

WHY ME??

I wasn’t begging God for an answer — just to live. But my patience had gotten thin with wintertime. I was sick and tired of our cold house and the longer and colder than normal winter. Restless — I was a tiger pacing in its cage. And goddamn awful sick and tired of being sick and tired!! Months ago I had had the feeling the winter would be harsh and cold.  I hated that I was right.

I felt healthier before the surgery. I was pissed. Simple as that. Conflicted from one day to the next, my soul was in the trench, in the mud. I felt self-loathing. Seeds out of 1971 vehemence and rebellion, ugly and wretchedness of Aqualung and  “Cross-eyed Mary” lyrics crowded in my nightmares.

By this time of my treatment, it didn’t feel like progress. My hair felt like straw, my fingernails were weak and splitting, and it was a battle to lie down in bed. A major battle. I was forced to grab the iron head rail to support my weight to maneuver my aching body under the sheets, even eight weeks after surgery. I had wrongly expected that to be easier to manage by this time. So how was I to know?? I was furious to feel so confined inside my frail body, inside my head, stuck to be just Ordinary People.


Yeahp, I dropped the f bomb a lot, especially while driving. I wasn’t coping well. Yet. It was actually sinking in my brain there are no shortcuts. My mind was in a very dark place. Disturbed, hauntingly… within the sounds of silence.

One small consolation, Dr. Korentager switched my meds. The Xanax took hold. Shortly. I wasn’t so devastated, bawling like a baby so much. After a couple of months those battles raging inside my psyche subsided more like a mere bad case of cabin fever.

Since my progress had begun I dreaded there were many months of more surgeries: the implant transfers, fat grafting and more recovery time that would take more months of rest and more rebuilding.

Hello darkness, my old friend, I’ve come to talk with you again

Because a vision softly creeping, Left its seeds while I was sleeping

And the vision that was planted in my brain, Still remains within the sound of silence

In restless dreams I walked alone, Narrow streets of cobblestone

‘Neath the halo of a street lamp, I turn my collar to the cold and damp

When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light

That split the night – And touched the sound of silence

And in the naked light I saw, Ten thousand people maybe more

People talking without speaking, People hearing without listening

People writing songs that voices never shared, No one dared

Disturb the sound of silence.

“Fools,” said I, “you do not know, Silence like a cancer grows

Hear my words that I might teach you, Take my arms that I might reach you”

But my words like silent raindrops fell And echoed in the wells of silence

And the people bowed and prayed, To the neon god they made

And the sign flashed out its warning, In the words that it was forming

And the sign said “The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls

And tenement halls- And whispered in the sound of silence.

I won’t be silent any more.

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