The Rest of the Story

I’m tempted to put a lot of words around this story, but will try not to say too much. One thing I learned last year is that not everything has to be explained and dissected. Not everything can be. Sometimes, it is better to just sit with a feeling. Let it happen.

Last August I wrote a CaringBridge post about a little girl I met in an ice cream shop. Well, I recently learned a little more about that girl and heard the other side of the story. I’d like to share that with you. First, here is the post I wrote last year:

Quiet Child

Written Aug 6, 2011

The other night I went to Jeni’s ice cream on Eastland, after having dinner at the Silly Goose. Not that I need to go anywhere for ice cream - I have a stash of frozen treats in my freezer already. But it’s the new place and I wanted to try it out so do I really have to explain? There was a line, which surprised me for a Wednesday evening. And it was black and white and shiny on the inside - not really like East Nashville. I feel this neighborhood changing all the time.

Ahead of us in line were two couples together. One of the men was holding a small child. She had curly dark hair and big eyes and looked sleepy. She stared at me and I waved my fingers at her, then she just reached out her arms. She kept them out until the person holding her noticed. Well, look at that, he said, she really wants to go to you. Would you like to hold her? I thought about white cell counts and germs and children, then opened my arms and took her. She settled into my side and stared at my face and was perfectly quiet and content. I wondered if I reminded her of someone. Her eyes melted into me. Once or twice, the other people tried to get her attention or coax her back, but she ignored them, not making a sound, staring at me. I held her until they all had their ice cream and then handed her back. She went without complaint and we went on to order some amazing ice cream.

This is probably the point at which I should write something really profound. Maybe about the innocence of children, or unspoken communication, or the fundamentally peaceful influence of ice cream. Maybe there was something profound. Or maybe just the simplicity of a moment. All I know is, it felt good to be holding this child for a little while.

Back to today:
This week I did some random Googling for an illustrator in Nashville. I’ve got a little children’s book I’ve written about Eloise and it would be fun to get it illustrated - more about that another time. As sometimes happens with Google, I found myself going down the rabbit hole of barely related results. There was a link to a blog of a Nashville woman who was giving away an illustration done by an artist in Massachusetts. Not exactly what I needed, but I started reading the blog anyway because I liked the illustrator’s style.

Something about this blog made me think of the Quiet Child. I can’t explain it. There was a picture of a little girl the couple had adopted, but the age was wrong for it to be the Quiet Child. Still, there were references to East Nashville and Jeni’s Ice Cream and, after I dug a little deeper, another foster child that they had for a short time last year.

At the risk of appearing like a stalker or crazy person, I emailed the blogger and asked her if they might have been the people I met last year. The next day, I got a response. Holding my breath, I opened it and this is what it said [names redacted for privacy].

“Thanks for reaching out! It doesn't seem weird at all. In fact, my husband and I have thought about that experience many times. The little girl's name is L. She was with us last year from the end of July until the beginning of September. J. and I are foster parents and she was the first little girl placed with us. She totally changed our lives as we experienced love in a new, deeper way after getting to be her parents for 5 weeks. We became foster parents because we wanted to share the love we've felt through Christ with children in need, kids who have been hurt and known pain that kids shouldn't have to know. We hadn't expected that one of the kids might reach out and show someone else love, unrestrained and more freely than we know how to do as adults. L. was a sweet girl and not scared of strangers but that was the only time she ever reached out for someone she didn't know to hold her like that. It meant something to us as well. We guessed that you were probably going through chemo and an unpleasant time and after the fact suggested that maybe she had made your day. Your email brought tears to both J's and my eyes.”

The little girl had indeed made my day and this email, over a year later, made my day again. It makes me feel like we have some kind of bond - all of us going through something life changing and coming out the other side. I know it was heartbreaking for them to have to give up L., but here they are now with a lovely child they were able to adopt. And of course, for me, there were many challenges last year. But here I am now, feeling good and in love and grateful for all the small blessings.

Before and After

This past weekend, I spent a few hours in the yard. I’ve been slowly cleaning up the overgrowth and weeds that accumulated over the last year. Every time I do anything in the yard this year, I’ve thought about the friends who came last year to weed and mulch when I was sick. What an amazing gift.

The big task this weekend was pruning the Forsythia. It had grown over so completely that many of the branches were rooted back into the ground trying to make their own new little Forsythia bushes. This is a photo of what it looked like when I was done. The chopped up plant (on the left next to the bench), along with the pile of branches I cut off (on the tarp). I wish I had taken a “before” picture, but I suppose you get the idea. Anyway, this got me thinking about the power of Before and After pictures. Home improvement shows and makeover shows use them all the time. I suppose we just don’t remember the “befores” very well, so need the visual reminder.

This past year, I took a LOT of photos of myself. It started with a photo of my boobs before the mastectomy. I know. It sounds weird. And it was really weird taking that photo. But I felt like I was on this precipice and that I was going to become a different person after jumping off. I wanted to remember who that person had been and the photo was the only way I could think to record that. Then later, I began to take other photos of the reconstruction process. No, don’t worry, I’m not going to show you any of those! [Just an aside to say thank you for digital cameras.]

Thinking about it later, I’m not sure what I expected to get out of that series of photos. I believe I originally thought was that if I were stuck in some part of the process that did not look so good, it would help to see how far things had come. How much better it was compared to the beginning of reconstruction. It served that purpose somewhat. In the end, though, it seems that I appreciate this record more because it provides proof. On those days when I think to myself, “What just happened? Was that some kind of dream?”, those pictures help me to process it all. To remind me of what I have been through. They also remind me to be kind to myself. To not rush through the healing. That it really was a big deal.

I also took a whole series of photos of my hair growing back. Now, THAT I can show you. Here is a group of them - one of me after chemo was done and before any regrowth, one a few months later just before I started showing my head again, one a couple of months after that, and finally another that I took after I got my hair cut and colored a couple of weeks ago.

That was the second time I had gotten my hair cut since it started to grow back. The first time, I went to a Gilda’s Club event specifically for women who had cancer/chemo. A salon and stylists donated their time and space, which was a lovely thing to do. This time, I went back to Amanda at Cognito, where I’ve been going for years. The last time I had gone to her was to have my head shaved during chemo. It felt so wonderful to be back - happy, feeling strong and healthy. I also felt like I was finally choosing my hairstyle again, instead of just trying to make do. I’m keeping it short and have new highlights and I love it. I’m no longer letting chemo and cancer dictate my hairstyle. Yay!

Back to the picture of that Forsythia . . . it does not look so good. I know. I really chopped the hell out of it. But I’ve done that before and it grew back, bloomed, and looked great, so I have faith that it is headed in the right direction. Which kind of makes this “after” picture also a “before.” That is one notion I particularly like - that every “after” picture is actually a new beginning. The picture of me with my new hairstyle . . . well, that is just the Before picture of my life After cancer.

Breast Cancer - What's Art Got to do with it?

I spent many years working with clay - starting by making pots in high school and moving on to sculpture after college and then grad school. Initially, I absolutely loved working on the potter's wheel. I picked it up quickly and it was fun seeing what I could do with it. Pretty soon, though, I found myself frustrated by the smooth surface of the clay. I began to do a cutout technique that I used in one way or another for many years. I started out with geometric patterns and then moved on to more organic textures, eventually using a lot of different tools and techniques to alter the surface of the clay and reference a structure underneath the surface.

Eventually, to quote my own artist's statement: "I wanted to find a way to make the texture and pattern actually become the form and add greater depth to what was previously only implied. As a result, the form has been exploded, in a sense, into many small parts that are fired and then joined together afterwards."

It has been a couple of years since I made anything at all. The last pieces were a real struggle. I was pleased with the result, but bored by the process and did not see anywhere to go from there. I finally came to the conclusion that I had simply reached the end of the idea. I had been working, in some ways, with the same idea for almost 20 years and had taken it as far as I could. It was such a relief to get to that point and realize that there was no need to keep pushing myself to do something I no longer enjoyed.

What does all this have to do with breast cancer? Well, when Mom was diagnosed, I was a teenager, just about to start high school. I remember reading (where would I have read these things? Seventeen magazine?) that cancer can exist for many years before it is detected. I think that was the most disturbing thing to me at the time. That a disease could be inside of a person for so long without anyone knowing or being able to find it - even if they knew it was there.

So when I think about all those years working with clay, trying to get beyond the surface, to see what the structure was beneath, it is almost as if I was trying to see under my own skin. And those last pieces I made? One friend who bought one of them, and just happens to be a cancer researcher, told me apologetically that they actually reminded her a little bit of cancer cells. I recall not being offended in the least - it made sense to me and I know that people bring their own experiences and sensibilities to a piece of art. Now it makes sense on another level.

One of the downsides of having so many family members who have had breast cancer (mother, both grandmothers, a great aunt) is that I always assumed I would get it, too. It was just a question of when. I even had genetic testing done a couple of years ago and was shocked that it came back negative. As they explained to me, though, there is still a lot they don't know about genetics and a negative test does not mean there is no genetic component. Just perhaps one they have not identified yet.

I was officially diagnosed on 4/28/11, when I received a phone call from the nurse practitioner with the pathology report from my biopsy. She said, as I recall, "They did find a little cancer." I was not surprised. I think the first moment I "knew" was a week earlier, when I was having an ultrasound, after being called back for a follow-up mammogram. The room was very quiet and the technician was moving the ultrasound wand around and looking at the screen, taking pictures. I realized I could see the screen, too, so looked up to see the jagged gray oval on the screen. It looked huge. And I thought to myself, "So this is how it's going to happen."

All those years of trying to get below the surface of the clay, finally getting as close to that as I could, and now I know. I know what was beneath the surface.

I've posted a combined photo - one of the last pieces I made (right) next to a microscopic photo of Invasive Ductal Carcinoma - the kind of cancer I had (left). It is actually kind of pretty.