HER-2: an ongoing series
Deep Purple
Alison:
After hearing the news that Prince died, I sat in my office and cried while listening to “When You Were Mine” (one of my favs) on a loop. I wasn’t only crying about Prince. Um, duh. His death certainly saddened and shocked me. But, as the tears freely flowed and I had trouble pulling myself together, I had to come to terms with the fact that I was also crying about myself. About my own mortality. About cancer. And right there, in my office, I was back to WTF and “why me?” and I’m too healthy and too young for this shit. And as I cried I also thought: Prince was too young; He was only 10 years older than me.
And while Prince’s death is not about me, it kind of is. At least, if I’m being honest with myself.
I didn’t know Prince. Yes, his music was a fundamental part of the soundtrack of my teen years, but I never met him or even crossed his path. I have that distant yet close relationship we have with most celebrities. The academic in me that has researched, written, and taught about celebrity culture knows this relationship is part of a long-standing business model that goes back to the earliest fan magazines. These relationships have been carefully constructed so that we feel connected, intimately involved, and familiar (maybe they’re just like us, after all). In academic jargon, these kind of one-way relationships are called “parasocial.” And a celebrity’s death, not surprisingly, often intensifies the feelings.
I know all this, but I am no less susceptible to feeling connected. And clearly, I was due for a good (cancer) cry. I hadn’t had one since I learned that the breast cancer had metastasized and was in my liver. For the most part, since I started my treatment plan, I’ve been in tackle-the-problem mode. Sure there have been days when I’ve felt crappy and curled up in bed. But I haven’t cried. Really cried. Since Friday, February 26.
Right after that late February serious cry, I had visits from two sets of friends — a morning and an afternoon shift. They didn’t know I had been sobbing uncontrollably the night before. They just knew I had cancer. And that knowledge spurred collective shock, and a rush to see me, to sit with me and make sure I was okay. There was coffeecake and tea and conversation. It was great to see everyone, but it also overwhelmed me a bit. I wasn’t dying, yet somehow it felt like I was sitting shiva for myself.
There have been other times in the last month when I’ve had this kind of out-of-body, I’ve-left-the-party feeling. I got a giant card from my work colleagues (as did Judy) encouraging me to “kick cancer’s ass” and, in the USC spirit, to “fight on.” It was clear from the messages encouraging me to “come back soon” and telling me how much I was missed that many people didn’t realize I’ve been coming to work and teaching my classes for the past two months.
When I visited the post-chemo rehabilitation doctor a couple weeks ago, he asked me about my support network. I explained how, as a native Angeleno, my network is extensive. I have my family, friends from high school, neighbors, friends from work, parent friends (the ones you only know because of your kids), friends who have had breast cancer. He reminded me how lucky I am. Some patients, he said, have no one.
I am very lucky. Not only is my network wide, but it’s also very generous. Support has come in many forms. Food. Books. Music. Flowers. Comfy clothes (PJs, robes, sweatpants, t-shirts, socks). Bedding. Jewelry. Cosmetics. Scarves. Hats. I’m collectively calling it “cancer swag.”
Hands-down, the most coveted (and immaterial) “swag” revolves around my kids. Taking the 8 and 12 year-old boys out of the house so I can rest is a true gift. Driving them home from practices or school in LA traffic borders on saintly.
Aside from the material and useful stuff, I’ve also received many cards, emails, texts, Facebook messages, phone calls and visits. Some people seem to know exactly what to say. In response to the initial diagnosis, my favorite response — and one that was quite common — was the string of expletives. Beyond that visceral first response, however, people seem to wonder what they should say next, as if there’s a cancer handbook. They worry about saying the wrong thing. There are some interesting articles (see here and here and here) that I’ve read that attempt to give some direction, and rethink some of the cancer semantics.
There’s no right or wrong here. Well, maybe there are some wrongs. Generally, telling me (or any cancer patient) what to do probably won’t go over well. Even if it’s well-meaning, make sure any advice explicitly acknowledges that there are other options. Also, as I mentioned in an earlier post, don’t force the positivity. Let me be glass half-empty sometimes. It can get exhausting to be glass half-full all the time. The fact that I’m half-way through chemo or even that the chemo is actually working (which a PET scan just confirmed) doesn’t really feel like I’m almost (or half-way) done. I know that’s how the math works and maybe I should be celebrating the chemo’s potency, but as I wade through feeling crappy and knowing these side effects will last (and maybe worsen) until at least July, these are small comforts.
I’ve come to realize that people’s responses to my diagnosis and treatment largely say more about them than they do about me. Just as my response to Prince’s death says more about me. I’ve seen people’s awkwardness, their genuineness, their empathy, their sympathy. I’ve also seen their fears and self-centeredness.
Some of the most compelling responses have been from the least expected pockets of my past. Former students. Former teachers. Friends I haven’t seen since elementary school. People reaching out not only to say, “I’m sorry cancer sucks,” but also to tell me I was important in their lives — as a teacher, as a student, as a friend.
These responses, while meaningful, also feel like part of some eulogy in-the-making. Again, I’m back to sitting shiva for myself. And thinking about Prince. And dying too soon. And the fact that my oncologist is “optimistic” because she’s had other patients with my diagnosis and treatment protocol who are doing well 10 years out. Ten years out. That’s great! That would put me at Prince’s age. But what happens after that? I have a feeling I’ll be toggling between cancer glass half-empty and half-full for the rest of my life.
Judy:
The jacaranda trees are blooming in Los Angeles, reminding me of that T.S. Eliot line about April being the cruelest month, “mixing memory with desire.” The purple blossoms are everywhere, and last week you could see them floating into the Twittersphere, Snapchatting up a storm, all in honor of Prince.
I have to admit I do not think of Prince when I see the jacaranda trees, despite the obvious metaphor for Purple Rain. I have felt a bit left out of the national mourning for this gifted musician, because –while I certainly know of his career and his music — it is not MY music, not the sound that reduces me to tears, makes me think of a first kiss, makes me yearn for my youth. I’m too old. The music of my adolescence was the Beatles, the Stones, Jefferson Airplane, James Brown, Bob Dylan, et.al. Not to mention all those blues artists whose music did –and still can — reduce me to tears. Just a few bars of Etta James belting out “At Last,” and I am done for. Prince, not so much. In the 80s, I was busy dealing with a divorce, raising two daughters alone, and moving us across the country to start a new job. But I certainly do understand the power of music to up-end one’s equilibrium, with no warning whatsoever.
And the up-ending seems to be happening all the time now, something I attribute to the cancer thing. And the radiation thing. And the medication thing. A veritable Bermuda Triangle of emotional side-effects. Driving west on the 10 Freeway recently, listening to a jazz station, I heard Frank Sinatra singing, “All The Way“ — and all the way to the West Side, I was a blubbering mess. This had nothing to do with Sinatra or the song. As Alison said to me in a recent message, after she found herself crying over the death of Prince, “I clearly wasn’t crying over Prince.”
Exactly. That kind of news –especially when it’s connected to music that touches someplace deep inside — strips off the delusional exterior of stiff-upper-lip-ness and leaves us defenseless against all our fears. My biggest fear sounds something like this: “You’re all alone! You’re going to die alone!” Add a bluesy tune, stir in a dash of self-pity, then blend with a modicum of mindfulness and you’ve got a recipe for your Basic Epiphany.
I’ve had quite a few of those bittersweet moments in the last few months, courtesy of that cancer diagnosis back in November. And I would have to say those epiphanies have spurred me into some very positive actions. I have decided, for example, to retire after the next school year and pursue all the things I haven’t had time to do. More travel, more writing, some community theater, more time with the most important men in my life — Sam and Jack.
I mentioned my decision to leave USC and start writing my next “chapter” to my Oncologist during my appointment last week. She responded that she thought there was something “lighter” about me. Resisting the temptation to mention that my right breast was certainly lighter, thank you very much, I just smiled at the compliment, for that is certainly how she intended it.
Alison and I have noted all the various ways people respond to the news of our cancer diagnosis. Since my case was caught early (stage one, lumpectomy, no chemo), the primary response has been a hug. I like that. I could use more of those. Now and then, someone asks if I had considered having both breasts and my uterus removed, like Angelina Jolie, and I am somewhat gobsmacked (one of my very favorite words, by the way) at the suggestion. But once I explain that I do not have the same gene that prompted such a decision, we get past it. And then I get my hug. Getting to the hug is my primary purpose, so I let unsolicited advice roll right off me, like so many jacaranda petals.
So back to those jacaranda trees. They bloom in April, make me sneeze and remind me of testimony from the preliminary hearing in the O.J. Simpson murder case. You weren’t expecting that, I’ll bet. But yes, dear reader, some reporters’ memories are so permanently scarred from covering that case that we actually recall testimony from the preliminary hearing. In this case, a friend of Nicole Brown Simpson (the deceased) was remembering that a certain incident of domestic violence involving O.J. and Nicole had occurred in late April. “How can you be sure,” asked the prosecutor. “The jacarandas were in bloom,” she answered. Only in Brentwood. I love my memories. And when they mix with desire, leavened with a new awareness of mortality, then yes — April is the cruelest month, “stirring dull roots with spring rain.” Consider me stirred.
