Tag: blog

Dear Reader, 

I’m one week post-op and I’m going to be straight with you – today’s entry is a heavy one, so please skip if this isn’t the right day to read something weighty.  

I had my mastectomy on Tuesday, followed by some complications that required a hospital return, some new meds, an IV infusion, more meds, consults, then even more meds. It’s a far cry from what my life usually looks like, so as I write, my brain, body and heart are trying to square up with one another.  They’ve been fractured since early June, when I first heard a doctor say “I hate to have to tell you this…” Or maybe they caved in? That’s it. My heart sank, my lungs collapsed, my stomach clenched and my brain (for once in my life) fell silent.

In truth, I knew. I’d known the second the mammogram tech cocked her head to the side while my boob was squished between the plates. I knew when her voice went up half an octave as she asked me to wait a “quick sec” while she grabbed a doctor.  I knew when said doctor casually expressed wanting not one, but two biopsies from my right breast “just to rule things out.” I also knew I was bleeding pretty badly during the biopsies when the eyes of one of the nurses went half a millimeter wider before looking at me and faking a smile. On the results call, I knew before my doctor ever said a word because I heard his sharp intake of breath. 

I didn’t “know” because they’d misstepped; all of these people were great at their jobs and they did everything right. The thing is, I’m pretty good at my job too. I’m a people-studier with an emotional sonar I’d sometimes love to shut off, but can’t. It’s not something I choose, it’s something that just is. This can be a blessing and a curse. I tend to know when people are lying to me. Perhaps more painfully, I know when they’re lying to themselves. It’s a huge advantage in my line of work. While I’m not the kind of actor with a natural gift (meaning I don’t have a voice that sells everything it utters as if it’s truth) what I bring to the table is a deep appreciation for the complexity and nuance of human emotion. 

I LOVE psychology. If I’m a nerd for anything, it’s the way our brains bounce off our experiences and cause us to move through life affecting one another.  My office is lined with books about acting, psych, sociology, philosophy, theology, self help, history – and the occasional Nancy Drew mystery from a time in life when I was more fun. Heads up that if I enter your home, I’m looking at your bookcase to see who you are 😉 

So here I am at 42 years old, very used to knowing how I feel, why I feel it and how long I’ll likely feel it for. I’ve been through profound hardship in my life and found my way to better days. And I do mean true adversity, from holding my dying father to being choked on a cold, kitchen floor when trying to leave an abusive relationship. I know that’s heavy. But let’s not waste our precious time here with surface-level nonsense, shall we? The point is, I’m ok now (and I sincerely hope my ex is too.) I’ve grown and gained from the lessons of my life, plus the hundreds of others I’ve stepped into as an actor. It’s all grist for the mill. So why, oh why, is an older, wiser me grappling with today’s problems in such an uncharacteristic way? 

I suppose cancer and midlife are forcing me to face mortality like I never have before. The loss of my natural breasts is the source of my current, intense physical pain. When paired with the loss of understanding my own emotional terrain, I don’t know which hurts more. Many things have happened in rapid succession that put me on the wrong side of statistics. Perhaps that can only occur so many times before you realize that someone is in that 5% where really bad shit happens and oh, crap, it’s you again, but surely not next time, no wait, yes it is, then again and again before a deeply disturbing question starts to emerge….am I at midlife? Or could I be closer to the end than anyone would like to believe?

I’m not here to say I’m dying. Not today anyway. There’s much more info to gather and I suppose we’re all on the clock, aren’t we? But what to do with the knowledge that my timepiece may tick a little faster? I imagine I’ll do what I did when I got off the kitchen floor – process, learn, grieve, forgive, expand.  Surely, I’ll be getting some new books. 

Here’s what’s really weird. As I entered this season of “cancer patient” I retreated into myself in an incredibly unprecedented way. Never before have I drawn inward like this. It’ll come as no surprise that a people-studier like me thrives on connection. I’m hard-wired to be close to my loved ones, namely my husband, kids and inner circle. I’m not an extrovert exactly. I’m not fueled by surface-level contact the way a true extrovert is. Pleasantries have a time & place, but for my money, they’re nothing compared to emotional connection. We’re all wired differently, but performative presence is draining for me, while true engagement is fueling. So a Hollywood cocktail party is hell, but a cast dinner is heaven. I’ve been to the Golden Globes and it doesn’t hold a candle to a quality meet-up with my favorite writers at Carmine’s just a few blocks west.

So why, oh why, am I (a woman who keeps my best friend’s preferred vodka in my freezer just in case she swings by even though she lives 365 miles away) suddenly isolating? What season of life is this and why haven’t my many books or roles prepared me for it?? I look into the eyes of my beautiful boys and I can’t hold their gaze for long before the tears start to well up and I escape to another room.  I’m turning away from the pieces of my heart that live outside of my body. I went to hell and back to have these kids (wrong side of statistics again) yet I’m hiding so they don’t see how scared I am to – oh holy shit, there it is, I’m SCARED. 

I never know how these blog entries will end until the feeling that’s trying to be known finally reveals itself, as it just did. I’m scared. Of all the human emotions, fear is one I have a lesser relationship with. My genetic package is a combo of optimism, bullishness and stupidity – just enough of each to run brave. But all bets are off when you have little kids, while something grows in the cells of your body that you simply cannot control. Suddenly, some things about the last few months make sense; my inability to accept that this wouldn’t be ok, my fury at my sprained ankle & cancelled plans, my withdrawal from the safe harbor of home. In the face of fear, I’ve been grasping for control, even to the extent of escape. But control cannot be had here. Patience, time, acceptance, grief, and apparently 15 different medications – these are the orders of the day.

So we’ll leave this here for now, dear reader. Unfinished and unsettling, yes. But evolving and expanding evermore.

The clock simply must tick, no matter how many rotations are left on the dial.