An improvised life

Alder and I had a rockin’ dance party in the living room this afternoon. I looked and felt like a cross between the Tin Man and a shy sixth grader at her first dance [i] , but it felt great. We blasted CDs made by Brian and Nell and, when those ran out, we blasted top-40 on the radio. I got so sweaty I had to take a break on the balcony. When I got tired, I laid on the floor and danced with my legs in the air. Then I sat and accompanied Katy Perry on our new garage-sale drum.     I’m sure we looked ridiculous, Alder doing running flips onto the couch and showing off his “moves,” me needing my hips oiled, but my body and soul rejoiced. I thought of Deborah Cohan, whose video went viral after she and her surgical team danced in the operating room (OR) before she hopped on the table for her double mastectomy. I don’t know Deborah, but she’s my age and had surgery about the same time I did (and it turns out we have mutual friends). Several people sent me a link to the video of

I don’t spend a lot of time wondering how I got breast cancer. I basically believe we encounter a lot of non-point-source carcinogens throughout our lives, and cancer’s genesis in a person largely remains a medical mystery. We know that certain factors are correlated with an increased risk of breast cancer, including: -sedentary lifestyle -obesity -smoking -moderate alcohol consumption (3 drinks/week or more) -early-onset menses -family history/breast cancer gene -diet high in animal fat -not bearing children or bearing first child after age 30 -not breastfeeding -advanced age I don’t have a single one of these risk factors, and two years ago a life insurance company examined me inside and out and deemed me fit for the ultra-healthy rock-bottom rate (ha, fooled them!). But that doesn’t mean I couldn’t or shouldn’t have gotten cancer, just that it was statistically less likely. Overall, a woman’s lifetime risk of developing breast cancer is about 12 percent

I just read the number-two-most emailed article in the New York Times, “The Trauma of Being Alive,” by psychiatrist Mark Epstein. He argues that grief and trauma are real and enduring, and we do ourselves a disservice by suppressing our emotions. In his words:  “In resisting trauma and in defending ourselves from feeling its full impact, we deprive ourselves of its truth. As a therapist, I can testify to how difficult it can be to acknowledge one’s distress and to admit one’s vulnerability. My mother’s knee-jerk reaction, ‘Shouldn’t I be over this by now?’ is very common. There is a rush to normal in many of us that closes us off, not only to the depth of our own suffering but also, as a consequence, to the suffering of others.”   His words are a relief, a sort of balm in themselves, offering the soothing reassurance that it’s ok to not be ok. The trauma of John’s sudden death, followed a year later by Ali’s sudden death, followed lately by the shock of breast cancer, has