Dread locked

Dread locked
DATE: 07/28/2007 15:56:44 / MOOD: Determined

It was a chilly night last March when I became closely acquainted with Dread.

I sometimes feel that it has stalked me since then.

Don't get me wrong. I live--have always lived--a truly blessed life that I can never be thankful enough for. I have all that money can never buy: parents who loved and cherished me, healthy kids, work that I find stimulating. A body that did whatever I asked of it and required no maintanence. All the standard issue Great Stuff that you can arrogantly view as your due after a few decades.

In looking back, it lines up a little differently. Some great philosopher said, "Life can only be understood backwards. Unfortunately, it must be lived forwards." In looking over my shoulder, I notice that, over the past year, Dread began showing its pointed little head at me, popping up on the manholes I walked over, an evil little imp pointing a finger at me. I'll get you my pretty. And your little girl, too.

I'm pretty good at ignoring what I don't care to see, so I just stomped on the manhole covers and kept skipping along.

Despite my glorious husband, unincarcerated children and troupe of loyal friends, in the past year, I occasionally had an odd feeling that somebody, somewhere was stepping on a crack and trying to break my back.

There was the plumbing problem. The freaky impounding of my car over the mixup over my expired tabs. The return of the plumbing problem. The unpleasant gum disease diagnosis. My son's dramatic illness and tonsillectomy. Have I mentioned that we had persistent plumbing problems?

None of them much to worry about. Nothing tragic. Just a short run of Bad Luck, hardly worth noting compared to the long run of Good Luck I've experienced. Expensive but ultimately annoying hassles. No boo-hooing over this or you fear that God will say, just as Mom used to, "Dry up, sister, or I'll give ya something to cry about."

Then there was that night in March that changed that and gave me the gift that has helped me so much since then.

I was on my way out to a radio station event--hosting a Women's Wellness event at St Catherine's an evening about Menopause. We had 500 guests, the hall rented, food, wine, experts, a staff of people ready to pull it off. I had prepped for months and felt ready to host a two hour live broadcast.

I was ten blocks from home when my cell phone rang.

Oldest daughter, Five Footer, who is not given to panic or exaggeration and is cool in a crisis.

This time, thought, she was panicked. Her little sister, my four footer, had slipped on the ice in the driveway and sheared off her two front teeth.

"It's bad, Mom," Big Sister warned. "Really bad."

Big called it right. We met at our neighborhood dentist. When they got out of their car, Little was crying so hard that her face was swollen almost beyond recognition. (She's pretty tough, too.)

That night she had full mouth shots and her teeth capped. I was with her when the work began and the numbness set in; her sister and my niece stayed until the dentist completed his work and took her home. I did my broadcast and got through it knowing that no matter what I chose, I would be failing someone who was counting on me.

Next day, I took the day off and delivered Little Girl to her first appointment with an endodontist. For the second time in less than 24 hours, she had full mouth shots to numb her up as she received a temporary root canal in her two front teeth.

A few months later, she developed an abcess on one of the teeth and had to have the root canal replaced. More shots and another long session for both us--her in the chair, me averting my eyes and holding her hand.

Then two weeks ago, we had to do it again. The final root canal.

Each time the full mouth injections.

Oh, how she hated it. Oh, how she dreaded it. She knew she had to do it, but oh, the dread in opening her mouth to let the endodontist put his tools and hands in there so he could do his highly skilled healing work and give her two functional, attractive front teeth.

I knew there was no prize or bribe that would take away the pain, so I didn't offer her one. I thought that would only cheapen the experience, the reality of this little girl's mighty struggle. There's nothing for a mom to do but sit there, hold her hand and pomise it will all be over soon. Nothing to do but murmur from the bottom of your heart that this hurts, that I'm supposed to spare you pain, but you have to face this yourself. I'm proud of how hard you're trying. It will be over soon.

Really, as soon as the first injection went in, between her teeth and her upper lip, the hard, painful part was over. The Novacaine took over and there was nothing to feel--or fear.

She broke my heart afterward. We were walking to the car and she was thinking about how she had put up a big fuss with the dentist at first, so much so that he had to get very stern wth her to get her to open up.

She tentatively put her little hand in mine and quavered, in a halting voice, "Mommy....I'm--sorry."

She had nothing to be sorry about. She knew it would be painful, but she did it. She did it as best she could.

It is hard to watch your child in pain. Since then, there have been so many recent examples that remind me that losing your two front teeth beats a helluva lot of the problems that many families must face. Kids who need to be at Ronald McDonald house for months because of bone marrow transplants. Kids who get their intestines sucked out at a swimming pool. Kids who...oh, I'll stop now before we all start reaching for the noose or the knife. The pain of a child--truly, what is more troubling to contemplate?

What I really want to blog about today is the strength and guts that my little girl showed and how that has come back to me time and time again as I have stared down my own pain and troubles. She showed me so clearly that there is no shame in fear. In fact, you're crazy not to fear what will be painful. But I also learned that sometimes the dread locks us in, the fear makes the pain all the worse.

I was afraid of my surgery, no doubt. And it hurt, the kind of pain morphine just spreads a little butter on. Then I was afraid of the chemo. Hey, guess what--not so bad. Hey, it's just an IV--and it will save my life. It's liquid chemical light to be embraced and welcomed, not feared. And what about the side effects? Little queasy, little tired. Odd smells put me off, like morning sickness. All of a sudden, it's gone. No problem,. Turns out, once again, I'm one of the lucky ones.

The last of this Breast Cancer Dread Trifecta--surgery, chemo, HAIR. How I dreaded losing my hair. The nurse assured me that, with the chemo drugs I'm getting, all my lovely, chemically treated locks will fall out 10-24 days after the first session. And it will all fall out ("release" they call it) in 48 hours. I would shed like a dog, my hair falling out in my bed, sink, brush, everywhere.

No thanks. Don't work to save what's beyond salvation.

And then, all of a sudden, I was ready to let it go. To take it off. It's never going feel good, I'm never going to be emotioanlly prepared for a buzz, a heinie, a skull. So let's go NOW. I sobbed like a child when I told the kids It Was Time.

We gathered on the back patio. I braided four braids and each of my children and my niece cut off one bread at the scalp and placed them reverently in a Zip Lock bag.

Then my 6 footer, my son, got out the clippers.

I see now that he had purchased them as soon as I got home from the hospital. He had taken them out of the box and placed them on the kitchen counter, to de-sensitize me, to let me know that he was ready to go whenever I was.

First he cut me a Mohawk, like the one he had etched into his own scalp. We posed for a fierce, once-in-a-lifetime Mother-Son-Mohawk portrait. You can find some of these pictures here on the website under my photos.

Then he started buzzing. The rest went. Down to the nub. Scattered there on the patio like a dead animal.

Who am I without my hair? I was born with hair, got the Toni perm in grandma's kitchen (PU!) then the pixie. Pigtail Heidi hair, Breck Girl, ponytails, long sit-on-it Cher hair, Sun-in, Protein 21, Dorothy Hamil hair, Farrah Fawcett hair, standup bangs, one bad curly perm after another. The Rachel. Brunette gives way to gray gives way to blonde streaks. The older I get, the Blonder. Take that, Father Time, you patriarchal Bastid!

Hair loss. This is no small thing, and nor would it be for many of us. I've been told that, with a breast cancer diagnosis, some women ask "Will I lose my hair?" before they ask "Will I live?"

At first, I think I look like an alien.

We all rub our hands over the shorn head. But the tears are gone now. I cried before, not during or after. The dread, like my little girl had shown me, it in the anticipation. The secret of handling this--It was all there. Why had I been unable to learn what she had already taught me? I had been dread-locked.

No more.

I'm much better now. I feel better than I did since this all started the day after Mother's Day. Now I have nothing else to dread. The surgery has healed and my new breast fits. Chemo has begun; now I know what that's about. And my hair--turns out I feel liberated without it. I don't look sick or pitiful, at least not to myself. I look strong, like a woman who has looked something dreadful in the face and decided to whistle.

That night, shsortly after I was shorn, my husband came home and as he parked his car in the garage, I sidled up beside the wall and called to him.

"I'm warning you," I said. "II'm bald."

I walked out and he examined me quickly. "You look beatufiul," he said, with utter sincerity. He held out his arms and I was home.

That night before bed, the four footer asked if she could kiss my head. She did, in a benediction that let me to know I had nothing more to dread.

I have written about my grandmothers on this blog, and a friend of mine who is acquainted with my girls reminded me that I'm part of a strong line...a line that comes both before and after me. That observation was a very sweet gift.

So now, for me, it seems there's nothing else to fear. More chemo, sure. The chemo may make me tired, but who can be afraid of tired? The cancer can come back, but I think it's already gone and I'm cured. Just buying an insurance poiicy with chemo and possible radiation. I've had a little bit of bad luck and an abundance of blessings.`

What are you dreading? I could be wrong, but in my experience, the buildup to whatever you're afraid of is worse than the reality. Don't waste time on dread and get to what you fear quickly. Life it too short...and too sweet...to waste it on things that may not be worth your fear.