Chelsey Crisp Blog

Tag: life

  • The Truth

    The Truth

    Friends, family, readers… I’ve been lying to you.

    In your texts, emails, and messages, I’ve been answering “how are you feeling?” with something less than the truth.

    I’m aware that my last post scared the pants off everyone, so I tabled the writing and opted to process privately. In direct communication, I’ve found myself saying some truly ridiculous things when you ask how I am post mastectomy. I nab a reply from my roundtable of palatable lies: “I’m fine!” “Better every day!” And my favorite bit of lunacy: “Tits look great!”

    The truth is, the worst part of this recovery is how it affects everyone I love. In my effort to spare you worry, I inadvertently dodged connection. I’m sorry for that.  I assumed the days would get better and the news would begin to match my tone. When that didn’t happen, I felt a little trapped. So here we are — back to the page. My goal is to tell you how I really am – and still try to spare you worry. Let’s agree on that, ok?

    The short version is that things weren’t as straightforward as we’d hoped. For a while there, I was caught in a holding pattern without concrete news to give. I could (and may) write an entire blog about waiting. First, I had to wait for the surgery, then the results, then resultier results, then a game plan to deal with those results. I only could’ve offered you potential outcomes at that time (Ew, David.)

    My body was healing, my heart was hurting, my brain was…I mean, what wasn’t my brain doing?  Nobody wants to be “a unique case” that leaves doctors conferring and getting back to you. I suppose my poor brain was bracing for every possible outcome, while also reminding me worry doesn’t help, but also let’s prepare, but also we should rest, but also but also but also… 

    Meanwhile, my right arm was full of cording, a painful condition that left me unable to move it freely. I couldn’t hold a book, drive, or hug properly.  What a great time to be robbed of routes to distraction and soothing.

    But now we have the results, the resultier results, a game plan, and a physical therapist who punishes my arm every three days for daring to cord.

    So, what am I feeling?  Everything. Simply everything. I feel like Dorothy walking into Oz — everything around me is a color I’ve never seen, and I’m struggling to make sense of it all. In no specific order, I’ve felt:

    Confused
    Defiant
    Pensive
    Grateful
    Small
    Enraged
    Awakened
    Engulfed
    Afraid
    Hopeful
    Distressed
    Connected
    Exhausted
    Relieved
    Stripped
    Withdrawn
    Loved
    Awed
    Held
    Dropped
    Received
    Anxious
    Misled 

    I’ve had my first panic attack.
    I’ve laughed so hard my stitches ached.
    I’ve started and stopped shows because I can’t engage in escapism.
    I’ve smelled the roses in my garden.
    I’ve found immense solace in phone calls.
    I’ve hugged my children like it’s the only medicine worth a damn.
    I’ve marveled at my husband’s unshakeable steadiness.
    I’ve looked at my mom with a gratitude that only a kid with a parent like her can feel.
    I’ve wept as Arizona splashed pink, red, and orange across the sky so my dad can let me know he’s here.
    I’ve been well and truly disabused of the notion that my life is what I thought it was just a few short months ago.

    I knew I was having surgery. I wasn’t prepared for a reckoning.

    In my last blog entry, I tackled one particular emotion — fear. I don’t happen to run scared, so that feeling annoyed and confused me. It’s not that I’m unaware of scary things in life; it’s that I’ve already survived so many of them. As a teenager, I learned the hard way that the rug can be pulled from underneath you with frightening speed. And, as Taylor Swift would say, I learned: “I’m a real tough kid, I can handle my shit. They said, babe, you gotta fake it till you make it – and I did.”

    Like my hometown of Phoenix, I too was forged in fire.

    I went into the world with an open mind (thank you, Dad), a soft heart (thank you, Mom), and steel resolve (thank you, Fire). Because I entered a field of mask-wearers, I was tested and further formed. Hollywood isn’t just built on smoke and mirrors; it’s a playground of narcissism and fractured attachment styles. Since I’d lugged my own attachment wound across the I-10, I had to work out a way of toughening my skin while softening my heart. It took time, focus, therapy, many mistakes, and a dogged, metronomic questioning of my own mask.

    I can trace every moment of hard-won success to that teenage girl from the desert. Piece by piece, I grabbed that wayward rug and nailed it to the fucking floor. I carved out a place in the business that allows both expression and privacy. Most importantly, I built a home to raise a family – a home where my children would know a foundation that does not, cannot, will not move.

    Yet, here we are — ground shaking.

    The original diagnosis didn’t scare me because I can handle surgery. It’s a big one, but scars heal. My anger, my fear, my disbelief — they’d set in slowly as the picture shifted and the surgery was no longer the end. Each time a medical professional backtracked — when the thing they said wouldn’t happen did happen — a strand of the rug I’d woven felt as though it were fraying.

    Looking back now, my fear was completely appropriate. I was stubborn enough to think I’d brought children into a world I had control of. Friend drama? Got it. Broken heart? Pull up a chair. Global lockdowns? Hold my martini. Cancer? Shit. I hadn’t realized the call could come from inside the house.

    So… you ask if I’m ok — and I’m sorry for masking while I figured out a reply. The real answer is not yet.  The floor isn’t as steady as I like – it’s taped rather than nailed, stitched up like my healing skin. But I can tell you this: I’m on my way back to the person you know, because I no longer feel wounded. I feel scarred, which has only ever served me well in life and work. 

    Is it unfair that I made you agree not to worry, only to deny my immediate okayness?  Well, here’s the thing: no one in your life knows how precious your days are the way I do right now. Instead of wasting time on concern, I’d prefer you pay your energy forward and do something kind for yourself. That’s the purest way for you to show me love, because (think of it) connection is all we have in this life. It doesn’t matter if you know me in real life or from TV; what matters is how we’re tied together by this very sentence you’re reading. If my pain brings you some joy rather than worry, imagine what we’ve just accomplished. A thread pulled from my unraveling rug weaves into and strengthens yours – what a beautiful gift we’ll have given each other.

    I assure you, better days are ahead for me. 

    And the tits look great. 

    [Photo credit: Paul Smith Photography]

  • The Clock

    The Clock

    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. 

  • Because of you

    Because of you

    It’s 1:30am and my bilateral mastectomy is in a few hours. Interestingly, I’m not awake because of anxiety tonight; it’s gratitude this time. 

    I stayed in bed for a while, watching my husband sleep. Seeing his chest rise and fall, I felt overwhelmed with appreciation for his strong shoulders, finally relaxed after carrying the heavy burden of our new reality for all these months. 

    Next, I tip-toed into to my kids’ room and listened to that heavy breathing every parent knows as ultimate peace. I wondered what they’re dreaming about. I hope it’s the two months’ worth of big hugs we gave each other last night. We’d squeezed in as many as possible before bed, because they know Mama’s “heart area” is the focus of the surgery.

    I then crossed to the guest room where my Mom is sleeping. She got here last night so she can help with my recovery. She came in all smiles, arms full of things she brought from my childhood. She spent the evening laughing, playing with my kids, hugging me as much as possible and asking what she could do.  She went to bed early, saying she was tired from the journey, but I knew better. She’d cried when she closed her door, because no mother is supposed to see her kid sick. She’s resting now, thankfully.

    Finally, I hesitantly walked to the dining room, where the table is covered with so many flowers and care packages it looks like a funeral home. I’ve had a hard time with this one. I wanted so badly to not be sick, that I’d put the boxes here thinking maybe I wouldn’t need them. Grief makes us do weird things. Just a few hours away from the surgery, I opened one, then another and another. I read the cards, smelled the candles, felt the pajamas, laughed at the jokes, set the chocolate aside for later today, and cried at the thoughtfulness of the drain holders/pillows/face masks/lotion/grip socks.

    I don’t know how to measure a life if not by the people it’s filled with, so I’m here in the middle of the night marveling at the show of support I’ve been the lucky recipient of. Last time I had cancer, only our very inner circle knew.  I didn’t want to be known as sick; hell, I don’t think I even comprehended that I was. I’d had 5 surgeries over the course of 8 months and I only remember crying 3 times. I had a 6 month old baby and a 3 year old toddler, so I did what I had to do without much complaint. As my grandma used to say, I’m a “resilient little cuss.”  I’ve never encountered a storm I couldn’t weather with humor, grit and a decent glass of wine. 

    I suppose I thought this time would be the same. Immediately after the diagnosis, I had a job to do so I headed overseas. I’ll admit it took a few more glasses of wine than usual, but I hunkered down and got it done. As that show drew to a close, I knew my next chapter was cancer…and that’s when the cracks started showing. I was very far away from my real life and it became obvious to me that the suppression I’d been using was no longer serving me or my relationships there. So I told that cast, which was a relief. 

    Shortly thereafter, I came home. As the pressure mounted in my chest, I turned to writing and released a blog announcing my diagnosis. It wasn’t a choice I feel like I made, as much as it was something I just did. It was a very unusual act for me, because I have a bit of a fortress built around my personal life. The blog was a midnight rambling (such as this) and I don’t really know what my goal was. I thought it might resonate with people since it wasn’t written by someone on the other side who’d learned her lessons and survived. I was in the messy middle. I was confused, apprehensive and afraid – nothing like what I felt last time. I figured it might make someone feel less alone if they were in the same boat – and if I drove one woman to the link in my bio that detailed self checks, it would be worth it.

    But what I got back out-weighed my wildest expectations of what I could give. The incoming messages of support and camaraderie bowled me over.  While the world feels like it’s falling apart around us, I’m having this private experience of feeling loved, seen and held by so many. I want to say something grand about how we translate that to a larger scale, but it’s the middle of the night and that’s probably asking too much of my tired brain.

    Overarching statements about saving our society aside, what’s truly on my mind tonight is how you all quite possibly saved me. Truth be told, this resilient little cuss lost her grit this past month and with it, some sense of herself. Brass tacks – I will leave parts of my body behind in the operating room today and as it turns out, that may have been the limit of what my heart could handle.

    You made me feel a sense of wholeness at a time when I was breaking apart. That is no small act of love; it’s a monumental one that made a real difference and I’m sincerely grateful for it. 

    I meant it when I said I don’t know how to measure a life if not by the people who fill it. Thanks to all of you, this life of mine feels beautiful, cancer and all. I don’t feel scared tonight. I only feel peace.