~ perhaps you have stopped here because you too are considering the lilies and the view from where you are. Maybe you don’t know why or how you arrived at this particular corner of the blogosphere; you just took the road less traveled to get here.
Whatever the reason, I’m glad you found Considering the Lilies & Lessons from the Field and hope you’ll stay a while. Myself, I am taking a break from writing here for a while. I’m not sure for how long.
Four months ago Ken died. I don’t know when I stopped measuring the time in days (it would be 129) but I think that is a good thing. I can almost hear the clocks ticking again, and with that comes a realization that I cannot waste any more time. Life is short, and it is for living.
There are fences to mend and bridges to burn, walls to erect and barriers to tear down, stories to tell and secrets to reveal, loose ends to tie up and elephants in the living room that can no longer be ignored. There are places to go. There is a book to write. Why worry? Why?
The book is important to me, and I am excited to have finally committed to it as a creative project and grateful to have found a collaborator with the time management and organization skills I lack.
Until it’s finished, you can find me at IrishCentral.com where I’m sharing opinions that you may not agree with, but that’s what keeps the conversation going. I will also continue to contribute to The Antrim Guardian as long as the editor reminds me that I have a deadline. You can also find me on Facebook.
Until then, the blog stays up, a reminder to me that it is a living, breathing document of my life (in other words, it needs some serious editing) with its 182 reminders to heed Anna Quindlen’s good advice every day . . .
Thanks for stopping by ~
Y
Consider the lilies of the field. Look at the fuzz on a baby’s ear. Read in the backyard with the sun on your face. Learn to be happy. And think of life as a terminal illness because if you do you will live it with joy and passion, as it ought to be lived …
No man ever said on his deathbed I wish I had spent more time at the office. I found one of my best teachers on the boardwalk at Coney Island maybe 15 years ago. It was December, and I was doing a story about how the homeless survive in the winter months. He and I sat on the edge of the wooden supports, dangling our feet over the side, and he told me about his schedule; panhandling the boulevard when the summer crowds were gone, sleeping in a church when the temperature went below freezing, hiding from the police amidst the Tilt a Whirl and the Cyclone and some of the other seasonal rides. But he told me that most of the time he stayed on the boardwalk, facing the water, just the way we were sitting now even when it got cold and he had to wear his newspapers after he read them.And I asked him why. Why didn’t he go to one of the shelters? Why didn’t he check himself into the hospital for detox? And he just stared out at the ocean and said, “Look at the view, young lady. Look at the view.” And every day, in some little way, I try to do what he said. I try to look at the view. And that’s the last thing I have to tell you today, words of wisdom from a man with not a dime in his pocket, no place to go, nowhere to be. Look at the view. You’ll never be disappointed.
This post includes a 1930 video of the Radical Amputation of A Left Breast. Viewer Discretion Advised.
I discovered the elegance of Lois Hjelmstad‘s poetry and prose in March 2012. Tentatively broaching the subject of my return to work, having undergone a mastectomy just 47 days earlier, I wrote in Resuming Old Ways of the final pre-operative surgical procedure – the administration of the nuclear medicine for a sentinel node biopsy to be performed the next day at some point between the removal and reconstruction of my right breast.
The pre-op procedure had been conveniently reduced to a specious “X” next to “Nuclear medicine” on the Surgery Scheduling Information sheet in my Cancer 101 notebook that is always at hand. Highly probable that my surgeon had already discussed the procedure with me and answered all my questions, but even at this late hour, I had not moved much farther beyond “You. Have. Cancer.” Thus, I showed up. Obedient and vaguely prepared with a stack of paperwork and disclaimers and a half-understanding that this nuclear medicine, a blue dye, would enable my surgeon to see if there was any cancer in the lymph nodes. If so, she would remove them all. Just like that.
Following the obligatory mix-up with the out-patient registration department, I proceeded into Nuclear Medicine, pausing to wonder about those who had preceded me through those double doors. A cheery nurse, diagnosed with breast cancer some years ago, told me it would be all over before I knew it. Encouraged and unaware that she had omitted the part about the procedure necessitating three injections of radioactive dye directly into and around the nipple of my right breast, I settled in. How I wince, even now, as I write of it. But more powerful than the sting of his injections, was the kindness of the radiologist who, right before he administered the medicine, said my name and told me:
I am so sorry you’re here.
I will never forget him for making enough time to make that connection with me as a human being who did not deserve to be there. No one does.
I published the post and was subsequently introduced to Lois J. Hjelmstad, who remarked:
“Along those same lines, I’d like to share a journal entry from my book, Fine Black Lines: April 19, 1991 – The doctor was gentle and thorough as he put the needle into my nipple, threaded in the tiny tubing and took x-rays. …The nurse kept her eyes on my breast. She said she couldn’t bear to look at my face. The ductogram was excruciating–but it was not conclusive. We will have to repeat the procedure next Friday.
And even though I haven’t had nipples for over twenty years, they still hurt when I typed that. I’m sorry you had to go through that procedure.
The irony is: that nurse has since died of breast cancer and I’m still here.”
Since then, it has been my privilege to learn more about Lois through her evocative prose and poetry. Finally, I bought her book, Fine Black Lines, yesterday. Another gift of poetry to myself. This 50th birthday celebration may just go on indefinitely.
In November, I asked Lois if she would write a guest post for my blog. She agreed. In breast cancer culture and in the medical community, there is a collective willingness to use language designed to soften the blow and a preference for words that sanitize and trivialize. Made-up words and euphemisms are flung around in myriad ways to minimize the savagery of the disease. “Mastectomy” is code for “amputation.” The latter makes me shudder.
Why are euphemisms so acceptable in the cancer conversation? Medical euphemisms, like “lumpectomy” I used to toss around as though it were like lancing an inconsequential wart, instead of what it really is – a partial amputation. The surgery to remove my breast and reconstruct would be trickier than the “simple” lumpectomy I had anticipated. In fact, as her meticulous notes would later confirm, “dissection was very difficult given the very small circumareolar incision used for the skin-sparing mastectomy.” Because it required additional time and effort, not to mention skill and patience, my surgeon recommended (and I nodded sagely as though I knew what she was talking about) a skin-sparing mastectomy which entailed removing only the skin of the nipple, areola, and the original biopsy scar to create an opening through which she would remove the breast tissue. Duly spared – spared, no less – the skin would then accomodate a reconstruction using my own tissue. Simple.
Reading through the details of my surgery, you’d never know cancer and its treatment could be ugly, savage, or even that it might hurt. At times it sounds downright regal, befitting a fanfare of trumpets, especially that climactic moment when my breast tissue is “elevated off the pectoralis and delivered from the wound.” Amputated.
******
GUEST POST: DAY 14 WEGO HEALTH ACTIVIST MONTHLY WRITING CHALLENGE
“Well, yes, Lois Hjelmstad had written an occasional poem when life got intense, but she planned to continue teaching piano until she was 96. And she definitely planned to reach 96.
Life changed her plans. The night before her first mastectomy, Lois wept as she wrote the poem, “Goodbye, Beloved Breast.” She did not know, of course, that the poem would lead to an award-winning book, Fine Black Lines, or that the book would lead to a national and international speaking career and to two other award-winning books.”
Perspective of a Double Amputee
There seems to be renewed discussion in the blogosphere about the language of breast cancer, specifically comparing “mastectomy” with “amputation.” The recent Sarcastic Boob blogand comments are especially succinct.
At the end of this blog, Scorchy posts a black and white film from the UK in 1930 depicting a breast removal surgery.
Viewer Discretion Advised: “Radical Amputation of the Left Breast.”
P
As I was born in 1930, it particularly caught my eye. Scorchy did advise viewer discretion, but, curious as I am, I decided to watch it anyway. I made it to the end, past the stitches, but I could not eat dinner.
My editor looked at me over her reading glasses and said, “I sense your feelings about all of this might be deeper than you are expressing. ‘Second Surgery?’ This poem should be called ‘Double Amputee.’”
Double amputee?! I was shocked. It had never occurred to me that my mastectomies were actually amputations. I didn’t feel comfortable with the word. It sounded way more serious than what I perceived I had endured, although I have to admit that my perception changed when I watched that damn film yesterday.
I rushed to the dictionary to learn that amputate means to cut or lop off, but that amputee means one who has had a limb amputated. In discussing the definitions, my editor and I thought about the historical reasons such a distinction might exist. Amputee seemed to reflect men’s experiences.
Undoubtedly, men have suffered more loss of limbs than women, if for no other reason than men have been involved more directly in war. [That has changed, of course.] And men have had more accidents because they have been allowed and expected to be more active. But the restriction of the termamputee to limbs belies not only the broader use of amputate but also the psychological truth of cutting off a breast.
I took the idea to my breast cancer support group for discussion. Most of the women were horrified to even consider that their mastectomies were amputations.
Then we talked about how our culture has viewed breasts and how form has replaced function in much of Western Civilization. And even as we argued that losing a breast could not be compared to losing an arm or a leg, some interesting questions arose:
How long did women have to fight for the right to choose a modified radical mastectomy over a complete radical mastectomy, let alone a lumpectomy over either of those?
How many women walked around disfigured or with a falsie on the loose before an adequate prosthesis was invented, let alone breast reconstruction?
How important is it to have our bountiful bosoms restored?
There are obviously different levels of amputation. Losing an arm or a leg generally has far greater consequences than losing a finger. But an amputated limb can be replaced with a prosthesis that allows some functioning. In fact, people have been fitted with artificial limbs that allow them to ski, bicycle, or even climb rocks. [And there is much more sophistication now in 2013.]
A breast, of course, can also be replaced with a prosthesis or reconstruction. However, neither of these simulates any natural functioning. If you are young when you lose a breast, you lose the ability to nurse a child. [If indeed you are lucky enough to have a child after breast cancer.] If you are past menopause, you lose the artifact of that experience. In either case, you lose the contentment of cradling a child to your bosom and the pleasure a breast brings to you and your mate during sex.
A prosthesis or reconstruction is only superficial. It looks good—score one for beauty pageants—and fills a void in your clothes.
If I had to choose between losing a breast and losing an arm or a leg, I would sacrifice the breast. But that awareness does not contradict the fact that I am an amputee.
I wrote that passage TWENTY YEARS AGO and people are still using the term “mastectomy” to cover up the truth. Everyone should watch the old black and white film from the UK.
*********
Lois Hjelmstad is an international speaker and the author of three award-winning books:
Lois has spoken more than 600 times in all fifty states, England, and Canada, in many venues including CEU and CME for healthcare professionals.
Hjelmstad was featured in the October 2001 issue of Rosie Magazine and appeared on The Rosie O’Donnell Show.
She and her husband of sixty-four-plus years, Les, live in Englewood, Colorado, where she taught music for forty years. They have four grown children, eleven grandchildren, and eight great-grandchildren.
~ perhaps you have stopped here because you too are considering the lilies and the view from where you are. Maybe you don’t know why or how you arrived at my little corner of the blogosphere; you just took the road less traveled to get here. Whatever the reason, I’m glad you found Time to Consider the Lilies and hope you’ll stay a while. As for me, I will be taking a break from writing for a while. I’m not sure for how long but hope to resume normal activity with more ‘lessons from the field’ very soon. Until then, the blog will still be here, with eighty-eight reminders to take Anna Quindlen’s very good advice every day . . .
Thanks for stopping by,
Y
Consider the lilies of the field. Look at the fuzz on a baby’s ear. Read in the backyard with the sun on your face. Learn to be happy. And think of life as a terminal illness because if you do you will live it with joy and passion, as it ought to be lived …
No man ever said on his deathbed I wish I had spent more time at the office. I found one of my best teachers on the boardwalk at Coney Island maybe 15 years ago. It was December, and I was doing a story about how the homeless survive in the winter months. He and I sat on the edge of the wooden supports, dangling our feet over the side, and he told me about his schedule; panhandling the boulevard when the summer crowds were gone, sleeping in a church when the temperature went below freezing, hiding from the police amidst the Tilt a Whirl and the Cyclone and some of the other seasonal rides. But he told me that most of the time he stayed on the boardwalk, facing the water, just the way we were sitting now even when it got cold and he had to wear his newspapers after he read them.And I asked him why. Why didn’t he go to one of the shelters? Why didn’t he check himself into the hospital for detox? And he just stared out at the ocean and said, “Look at the view, young lady. Look at the view.” And every day, in some little way, I try to do what he said. I try to look at the view. And that’s the last thing I have to tell you today, words of wisdom from a man with not a dime in his pocket, no place to go, nowhere to be. Look at the view. You’ll never be disappointed.
