In Bad Spirits

“She’s in good spirits.”

How often have we heard that expression? It reminds me of the scene in “The Wizard of Oz” in which Glinda, floats in on her bubble, asking Dorothy a blunt question, “Are you a good witch or a bad witch?”

Those of us who are diagnosed are often met with the expectation we will be “in good spirits.”

We hear so much about a positive outlook, about how joy and laughter are healing for any recovery. We are shown countless stories of individuals who had such sunny perspectives, even though they were end stage this or that disease. We see heartwarming testimonies of how a person is determined to “beat the odds,” “to never give up,” and “to be an inspiration for the rest of us.”

Then, there’s usually some chronicling of this individual doing something impactful, to help others, to make people smile. Noble. Inspiring. Worthy of being labelled “in good spirits.” And, perhaps, making things ten times more difficult for the rest of us diagnosed, as the rest of us are struggling, feeling angry and depressed. We feel like we’re only draining people, not helping them, because of our circumstances. We, by comparison, are “in bad spirits.”

As part of my “Cancer Care,” I have regularly been in doctor’s offices and exam rooms. Part of my treatment and monitoring involves me filling out something called a distress test. It’s the add-on feature after answering a slew of questions about any new symptoms, like unusual pain and difficulty breathing. You know, fun things to think about. The distress test gets right to the anxiety and depression questions, probing about suicidal thoughts, feeling isolated, even getting into one’s own spirituality.

Indeed, like clockwork, I get flagged as I respond honestly to the question, “Are you experiencing anxiety or depression?”

“Yes, I’m scared; I’m depressed.”

And then I have to encounter a further interview from that nurse about my mental state.

“Do you feel like you are struggling with your spirituality?”

“Yes, I have faith and I pray about my situation, but I’m still scared and depressed.”

The nurse’s brow furrows a bit.

“Do you feel like people would be better off without you?”

And here’s where I’m expected to respond with something like…

 “Oh, no, of course not. My loved ones are there for me and are supporting me. Everything’s great. I’m blessed!”

But most of the time, I just respond with, “No,” and leave it at that.

“What kind of support do you have in your life?”

Get ready for some cliché responses, everyone…

“Well, I have a wonderful, loving husband, some great friends and I am in therapy.”

The nurse nods, conveying a sigh of relief.

I guess I answered correctly. Maybe I even passed the distress test with flying colors.

But, make no mistake about it, I’m still distressed.

I’m not ragging on the medical community for sheer ragging sake. I know everyone is just trying to do their jobs. Saving lives. But there still seems to be this built-in discomfort surrounding my diagnosed reality. They get uncomfortable with my uncomfortable truth. They want me to be Pollyanna Optimism when it comes to how I view “my cancer,” my life and my attitudes about mortality. They want me to “beat the disease” and “be a warrior.” Here’s a Breast cancer pink ribbon for you to wear and get more life- affirming for wearing it.

Medical community, your heart may be in a good place, but it’s still misguided.

You want me to respond a certain way because it makes you less uncomfortable. Yeah, sure, you want to save my life, but you’d rather not hear about my scary, two o’clock in the morning death thoughts as I lie awake in the dark. I have heard from you nurses just how inspiring my fight is, how courageous I am. But you’re not as inspired to know that, before my routine appointment with you, I cried for an hour, gauging exactly, when I should put on my makeup, so that I wouldn’t cry all of it off before I showed my face in public. How courageous am I now? How inspired are you by me now?

I am not “in good spirits.”

It feels like no one knows what to do with me, other than give me some more cliché responses like, “you’re a fighter,” “you’re a trooper,” “you are going to beat this!”

Are you sure? How can you be so sure?

You may be reading this and assert I’m choosing to think and feel negatively. I’m whining. I should make the choice to be positive about my plight. I should embrace life and focus less on death. I should count my blessings, be thankful for all of the good that surrounds me. I hear all of that, partly because its messages come from within, not just from other people’s suggestions. All of the “should’s”- yep they’re here for roll call.

But how, exactly, is all of this “shoulding” supposed to help me “beat cancer,” anyway?

How is not being honest with my real, true feelings, sublimating them under an inspirational script of stock answers, supposed to help me? Truth reveals itself, regardless.

Do you really want me to lie that much about my diagnosis, prognosis, life and death circumstances? And, if so, why? Is it because you feel better about the lies instead of the truth?

Most of us do, if we’re honest. Lies are comforting; truth is less so.

If I were Dorothy, responding to Glinda’s question, I guess, nine times out of ten, I’d have to honestly answer her with, “I’m a bad witch. Go ahead and drop a house on me.”

My diagnosis has taught me a lot about who I really am, cliché as it sounds. I know who I am not. I am not optimistic. Realistic, at best. I can go full-on pessimistic in the blink of an irritated eye. I have spent much of my life trying to override that, believing I was wrong, immoral, sinning, all because my feelings weren’t the stuff of “get well” cards. And, even though, as the medical community likes to say, “we don’t know why a person gets cancer,” what if, just what if, suppressing my less-than-inspirational emotions helped to create the disease? What if that suppression was carcinogenic? It’s possible, right?

So, couldn’t it, likewise, be possible that “getting real” about all of the fear and ugliness could help me feel better, even if it didn’t cure me? Healing is different than curing. Healing is deeper. And that’s what I’m about these days. I’m doing a deeper dive.

And, if it takes me being “in bad spirits” to do so, then, so be it.

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse

 

 

 

How To Put a Bra On

After my 2017 Breast cancer diagnosis, as I recovered from my bilateral mastectomy, I hadn’t counted on this particular problem. Putting a bra on.

I was once a large- busted woman, in double D territory. And, granted, I’ve never had a well-fitted bra, pre-mastectomy. In the past, whenever I tried to cope with an ill-fitting double D, the issue was more about finding non-ugly bras than finding ones that were large enough to house my bustline. When I finally managed to find one or two that didn’t make me cringe, I’d put them on over my head or step into them. Presto! I was in my bra.

Once I recovered from my breast surgery and radiation, however, the landscape changed. I was fitted, correctly so, with mastectomy bras. The firsts of their kind included one white garment, one black, both with cute little rosettes on them, for added sassiness. I was able to insert my chosen B cup breast forms into them. It was dramatic. I was no longer “top heavy,” as I had been most of my life.

And then, things really looked promising: “Coobie” bras. These “comfort bras” had a built-in shape already to them; there was no need, then, for my breast forms.  My husband actually bought these two for me, selected from the wider range of colors offered. One of them was even purple. Purple! Finally, some actual color in my life!

So, here I was, with an exciting reality of pretty and colorful bras, set before me. I should be feeling comfortable and feminine right about now, right?

Well, not quite. And here’s where old bra-festooned me collided with new, post- mastectomy, bra-festooned me. The former me was able to put my ill-fitting bras over my head or step into them, spinning the already- fastened garment around my midriff and slipping the straps over my shoulders. Because my pre-surgery bras were, indeed, larger and ill-fitting, there was enough room for these maneuvers.

But now, with these well-fitted bras, there was just room for, well, me.

I tried slipping them over my head. Nope, too restricted, not enough room. I tried stepping into them, hoping to do the midriff slide. No such luck there, either. I wound up ensnaring my legs with the bra halfway up my thighs; it was a wonder I didn’t trip myself, bonking my head on the corner of my dresser.

So, unless I wanted to learn the trade secrets of a Cirque du Soleil acrobat, I needed another plan.

The only way seemed to be the good old- fashioned way. I had to put them on, leading with my torso, slipping the straps up my arms and over my shoulders and fasten them by their hooks in the back. I tried a number of times; it wasn’t happening. The amount of fabric housing the two clasp options on these newer bras was only an inch. With my larger, pre-mastectomy options, I was accustomed to a three-to-four- inch swatch of material, accommodating at least four different clasps. I was stranded, fidgeting, attempting to get hooked already.

I finally had to resort to yelling for my husband, “Honey, please help me?”

With the more relaxed, Coobie bras, there was no such hook. These were strictly over the head bras. But, because they were a second skin fit, wriggling into these bras overhead was a greater challenge than I was used to experiencing.

Fitting 911:

I couldn’t go on like this, contorting myself into a pretzel, just trying to get into my lingerie. And, unless my husband wanted to be on constant standby, I needed to figure out how to put my bra on all by myself.

Therefore, I called my Breast cancer supply store. This shop is a sorority of women having gone through their own Breast cancer experiences. They “get it.”

I asked about another fitting for my second pair (out of six) of mastectomy bras, allotted per year, via my insurance plan. I explained my predicament, asking for any front closure bras and strategies to help me get dressed. I was told there was one bra which had a front closure feature; we could order it in a 38 A, to compensate for the adjustments during my next bra fitting.

So, I showed up. I was met by the lovely Gail, who worked with me in an earlier session.

Brands of Bras:

Gail laid out my black 38 A bra, from the ABC brand of bras. This piqued my curiosity. I asked about the major brands available. Here are some offerings you should be able to go into any Breast cancer supply store and ask for by name.

Besides ABC, responsible for my front closure bra, there is Amoena (pronounced Ah-Mona, but looks like it’d be pronounced Amoeba). My first 36 B black and white rosette bras were from this company. You can also ask for my beloved Coobie brand “comfort bras” and Luisa Luisa, which provided the recovery garments I was given for my bandaged, post-surgery and pesky drain needs.

As I was fitted with my ABC black, front-closure bra, something immediately caught my attention. This bra had clasps in both the front and the back. Where had these wonderful creatures been all my life?

I’d never encountered this option with bras before my breast surgery. Gail told me she believed only mastectomy bras had this feature. The design and patent MUST have come from a woman.

The 38 A strategy worked great with my 36 B breast forms. I fastened the six front closure hooks and voilà! I was in my bra.

Strategies:

I also asked for additional strategies. Gail suggested the tactic of putting on the bra first, gathered around the midriff, while inserting the forms into the bra pockets, instead of fitting the forms in first before dressing.

I tried that maneuver with both my rosette Amoenas and my front-clasp ABC option. Not surprisingly, theses bras proved more of a contortionist challenge.

Again, with the close fit, there simply wasn’t as much room for sliding and shimmying. Trying to get my forms in still felt difficult. My wrists can only bend so far.

With my front-clasp ABC, I had better results. It’s difficult to say how much of that success was attributed to the midriff/breast form approach while on my body or how much of the ease was directly related to the fact that the bra was a 38, not a 36.

And that leads me to my next strategy. Go for getting a larger size if you need to do so. In my situation, the original measurements of my first bras simply added 4 ½ inches for the larger bras. It can feel a bit like a bad Algebra class, trying to size this math accurately. How a 38 A emanates from a 36 B, I’m not exactly sure. Which is why a professional fitting is a must. They know how to make the math happen.

No “Perfect Fit:”

I’m learning, overall, this entire mastectomy bra thing is trial and error. There is no perfect bra, Cinderella. You can try certain brands and maneuvers, but, as with our new bodies, it’s about adjustment, not perfection.

But hopefully, in these imperfect life changes, you and I can, at least, somehow, someway, put a bra on.

May you, in you own adventures, indeed, NOT BE, fit to be tied in the process!

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse

 

 

 

 

 

                

“How To Put a Bra On” discusses the bra challenges that come after Breast cancer surgery.

 

https://www.elephantjournal.com/2019/05/how-to-put-a-bra-on-discusses-the-bra-challenges-that-come-after-breast-cancer-surgery/

 

Kindness

 

All the Patience

 

Enough

 

When I was a college theatre major, I performed a monologue from Christopher Durang’s “'Denity Crisis” in my acting class.

“...You remember how, in the second act, Tinkerbell drinks some poison that Peter's about to drink, in order to save him? And then Peter turns to the audience and he says that Tinkerbell's going to die because not enough people believe in fairies, but that if everybody in the audience claps real hard to show that they do believe in fairies, then maybe Tinkerbell won't die…. and so then all the children started to clap…. we clapped very hard and very long…. my palms hurt and even started to bleed I clapped so hard…. then suddenly the actress playing Peter Pan turned to the audience and she said, ‘that wasn't enough. You didn't clap hard enough. Tinkerbell's dead.’  Uh…well, and… and then everyone started to cry. The actress stalked offstage and refused to continue with the play, and they finally had to bring down the curtain. No one could see anything through all the tears, and the ushers had to come help the children up the aisles and out into the street. I don't think I was ever the same after that.”

One word: enough.

This business of earning grace, love and worth can wreak havoc. It drives many of us, in some attempt to self-soothe. We reason no matter what we do or do not do in life, it’s not “enough.” We can find ourselves in a state of paralysis.

We come from a survival place of just getting through this thing called life. We believe the best we can hope for is, while paralyzed, is to numb and comfort ourselves with our beloved addiction.

We can call it multi-tasking, being goal- oriented or doing some trouble shooting. Still, we are bombarded by the demanding assessment…

“‘that wasn't enough. You didn't clap hard enough. Tinkerbell's dead.’”

There’s a popular self-esteem exercise which challenges us to rethink what it means to be on the adequacy/inadequacy spectrum. For those of us who are prone to black and white, all or nothing thinking, this confronts how, when we think the absolute worst of ourselves, we tend to see ourselves as being complete failures, as being inherently worthless, talentless, stupid and incompetent.

The other end of this oppressive spectrum, in our minds, is complete and total perfection and competence. It means we have reached an “enough” status. We are smart enough, pretty enough, rich enough, talented enough, lovable enough, on and on… You get the picture.

Until we are that, we are nothing, again, according to our harsh and mistaken minds.

But really, the more accurate, more human, perspective is our placement on the continuum of skills and capabilities. We are somewhere in the middle.

Our harsh inner critic often doesn’t take kindly to that assertion. Perfection is a demanding taskmaster, promising fulfilled dreams and a pain-less existence. We set ourselves up for devastation when we expect that promise to be thoroughly realized in our lives.

But it’s not hopeless. For, along with the realistic approach to the adequacy spectrum exists one important antidote word: Nevertheless.

Here’s a few statements to shout down that inner critic’s inaccurate and harmful self-assessment:

Harsh Inner Critic Assessment: “I can’t do anything right.”

Nevertheless Antidote: “I have failed at something. Something has not worked out. Nevertheless, I am still here, still breathing, still a person of value, even though I cannot quite experience it in this moment.”

Harsh Inner Critic Assessment: “I keep screwing up.”

Nevertheless Antidote: “I have had successes in my life. I have done a number of things well. I may have failed here, nevertheless, things are not over for me. I will succeed again.”

Harsh Inner Critic Assessment: “It’s over.”

Nevertheless Antidote: “It feels over. Nevertheless, it is not. My perception in this moment is not the end-all, be-all of reality.”

Yes, life, inevitably, deals us some trauma, pain or negative experiences which reinforce how, indeed, we did not clap hard enough.

Perhaps our marriage failed...

Perhaps someone died...

Perhaps we lost our career, our financial stability or our reputation...

Maybe we’re given a particular diagnosis or health challenge…

So now, our personal Tinkerbell, because of imperfect life and self, can feel dead.

All the more reason, within these moments, to embrace and execute a countering assertion in the face of the notorious demand…

Enough is enough.

We need to challenge our definition of what “enough” means.

Is it perfection?

Is it pain-free?

Is it consequence-less?

Just what are we expecting when we place “enough” as a demand, upon ourselves?

Human beings are flawed and fragile. We need to recognize and honor that. To demand superhuman of our human condition is abusive.

And it doesn’t work.

Even if/when we achieve some measure of an elusive “enough” status, inevitably, something will break down. “Enough,” especially within the realm of perfection, and “all- needs- completely- met” expectation, is not sustainable. Being human will trump that. Just wait.

I love a quote uttered from the late, great tennis phenomenon, Arthur Ashe:

“Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can.”

Notice, there was no utterance of perfection or unrealistic promise. Instead, his statement exudes…

“Enough is enough.”

That always applies to you and I. Tinkerbell may live; she may die. But our inherent “enough” status exists and remains.

Nothing can ever kill that.

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse

 

Keep Going

 

Hug Your Inner Child