I turned 50 today. I’ve been getting used to the idea for a few months, watching my classmates “turn” (like vampires). It still seems unreal. Improbable. I feel like I’m 50 as much as I feel like I have cancer. Next you’ll tell me Donald Trump was elected President. It’s all so far-fetched. It’s ridiculous, really. I was stressed out about what I would do for my 50th, and even late this afternoon my family was pushing me to make a decision. Ultimately, I decided to do nothing. Or I made no effort to make a plan, and look, now there’s only five minutes left, so I’ve effectively run out the clock.
We’ll get through Thanksgiving tomorrow and then there will be nothing competing for my attention and I’ll be able to focus entirely on Monday’s surgery. Yay. A friend recommended a pre-surgery guided meditation, which I immediately downloaded and have run through once already.
How does one say goodbye to their breasts? I’m actually really happy that the surgery is so close to my 50th birthday. It’s a demarcation, not the line between young and old, exactly, but I’m definitely stepping into another phase. An opportunity, maybe.
I’ve been mentally distancing myself from my breasts since I got the diagnosis. Focusing on their faults, all the ways they irritate me. Bob has been wary of how quickly I arrived at the decision to do a double mastectomy. I’m a hoarder. I’ve mentioned we’ve been working with an organizer to help de-hoard our house. Bob finally said to me, “There’s a glass paperweight you got for $4 at an estate sale, and you can’t let that go, but you’re willing to just lop off your breasts?” But I’ve worked it out. They’re past their prime, and won’t improve with age. Going through old photos does remind me that I’ve been blessed with a nice rack. I have no complaints. Any melancholy I’m feeling now is about aging, even though I wouldn’t go back. It just all goes so fast. Even at this advanced age, I still don’t have all the answers, I’m winging my way through life, and the only thing that really changed is that I’ve stopped caring about what other people think. We don’t get older and wiser, we get older and “don’t give a fuck”-er. I can’t waste energy on caring, when I need to spend that time finding things I’ve lost and looking up stuff I can’t think of the name of right now.
And I would say that with age, my body hurts all the time, but since my diagnosis I’ve stopped eating gluten and really tried to limit dairy and sugar. A couple weeks into it, I realized that I didn’t feel like I’d been hit by a truck by the end of the evening. Instead of lurching around like Frankenstein when I get off the couch, I’m leaping like a gazelle. Various rashes have cleared up. (I note that losing my breasts might not harm my sex appeal as much as “various rashes.”) This is fantastic news, of course, but it’s also bullshit. Bullshit that I can’t eat what I want and expect to remain pain and rash free.
So I’m wallowing in it a little today. I’m entirely fine, really, but crabby about many realities. It’s time to turn that around, though, as it’s now Thanksgiving! And I am thankful for my fantastic life, cancer and rashes and all. Every single day I appreciate my handsome and supportive husband, and his sense of humor that keeps me from smothering him while he sleeps. I look forward to whiling away our days, congratulating each other on various pieces of genius cabin design. My family is amazing, and I know my mom really did want to do something to celebrate my birthday today, even if she said she “didn’t think it’d make sense for us all to go out to eat, because we’re having a big meal tomorrow.” (I did point out that people typically eat every day.)
But the fact that I get to know all of you weirdos is truly my life’s delight. I love and appreciate you all. Thanks for being there, and thanks for inviting me to stuff that I never attend. I feel you all with me, even as I sit alone, watching the fire.
I’m 50. Fuck.